Dawson was staring at me, his head turned toward the door. His eyes were wide open. He was as dead as Reyes had told me on the phone. More ropes tied to his wrists pulled his arms away from his body. Someone had looped the ropes under the bed frame and tied them off. He had a gag stuffed inside his mouth. The piece of silver duct tape that covered Dawson's mouth didn't quite hide it.
I looked his body over for bullet or stab wounds, not finding any. There wasn’t any blood at all. But, there seemed a peculiar angle to his head and neck that didn’t look natural. The white sheet beneath the body was wet between Dawson’s legs. That accounted for the smell of urine. He must have lost control of his bladder during the ordeal he had suffered. Dawson hadn’t been a big man, but he looked even smaller than he had seemed yesterday. He wasn’t anything to see. He was just a little man who was dead, with a crooked neck. Death had a way of doing that to people.
“Broken neck?” I said, as much to myself as to Reyes.
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