Three uniforms have to crawl into the dumpster to get the vic out. He’s huge.
Probably froze to death. It’s been a long winter. They call it a ‘polar vortex.’
Huge, tangled beard suggests hobo, but I see a glint of silver: a Rolex around the wrist of a prosthetic. Not a hobo. War vet? The tailored suit is torn, clawed. If the cold got him, it had help from something with teeth.
I find the wallet. No ID, just cash and a dozen business cards: “Tyr Wodensen, Aesir Investments.” It lists an office at World-Tree Plaza. I’m on my way.
Image Credit: Jack Lyons