The unidentified body lay hacked in chicken mcnugget pieces on the cold, steel factory floor.

“Count,” ordered Detective Graff.
“Pardon?” asked Officer Blake.
“Her.” He pointed at the pieces of female flesh. “Every number is a clue.”

Detective Graff turned and headed toward the open delivery gate. He fumbled in his pocket for a black bic lighter. The night was dark and still.

“Panzy fascist bastard,” he mumbled.

He stood at the edge of suburban reason and lit a filterless cigarette.

“Panzy fascist bastards!” he screamed, suddenly aware of plurality.

The mocking glow of letters obscured the starry sky. There was a FEDEx warehouse on the other side of the street. The oversized FEDEx symbol stared down at him.

“You saw it all, didn’t you?”

He could have sworn that the neon arrow winked at him.

“Damn right.”