A yard from the corpse, Kim Hyeok stopped. He studied the body. At the corner of his sight was a displaced strand of hair, bobbing over his temple. Unconsciously he smoothed it back, blending it with the jet-black skullcap of hair pasted to his scalp. He let his hand slide over the curve of his head to the nape of his neck, where he felt the hard bony knobs of spinal vertebrae. He massaged them slowly.
With a small start he became aware of what he was doing. Irritated, he thrust both hands into his jacket pockets, then briskly closed the distance between himself and death. He squatted, leaning over the corpse. His stomach twisted.
No doubt a youngster like Yang Hyun thought the veteran cops took this kind of thing with placidness. They did not. Nobody could. Nor did Kim Hyeok want to. A man who could look at this horror and feel nothing was a man capable of murder himself.
