The street was a mess of pulp. Not the kind from square containers of not-from-concentrate orange juice, but the stuff that once belonged on the inside of someone. Now it was on the outside, all over the pavement and the sidewalk and the storefront windows.
Inky bent down to touch a smudge of the ooze. The gloves he wore were made of polyester--cheap dollar-store black ones designed to expand to fit your hand then shrink down to easily tuck in a pocket. He wasn't a cop, so he didn't wear latex to prevent crime scene contamination. Inky was a simple bystander, nothing more.
Except for the part where he killed the guy.
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