The Ferry Street slaughterhouse ran day and night, its stink clinging to the air. Vic used to work the killing floor before taking photos for divorce lawyers—same job, different victims. When Lorraine Lindstrom walked into his office, he knew trouble had his address. Her husband, Karl, owned the slaughterhouse. She thought he was stepping out. Vic followed him, camera ready.
But Karl wasn’t meeting a woman. He was dumping a body behind the plant. The face was familiar—Tommy Russo, a union man who swore he’d prove Karl was skimming wages. Vic took the shot.
Lorraine called that night. “Did you find what I needed?”
Vic hesitated. She wasn’t looking for proof of infidelity. She wanted an out. He imagined her running the slaughterhouse herself.
“You’ll get your pictures,” he said, hanging up. Then he burned the negatives.
Everyone’s guilty, but not everyone gets caught. Vic had learned that much.
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