3. Follow Up

Travis Osanu pushed the door to the hotel room open with the butt of his gun. His eyes widened behind his sunglasses.
“Well, shit,” he said, as if announcing himself to the room.
There was a corpse on the floor, a fat, middle-aged man. Travis approached it, wrinkling his nose at the smell of blood and excrement and filth. Though it was past sundown, the room was still warm; flies buzzed over the body and the rotting food that had somehow wound up on the floor, though Travis did not think the murder could have happened more than a few hours ago.

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