The lieutenant hands him a thin sheaf of twenty-by-twenty-five centimeter 
photos, which Ohara looks at one at a time. He has the time to do Kirkland the 
favor of pretending to be interested, more than that, cooperative. Time 
is his to spend as he desires. There are seven snaps in all. Each one focuses on 
a single individual. The quality of the shots varies. Some are blurred, 
variously distorted. The only one that stands out is a photo of a woman in 
crimson mirrorshades, red and black facepaint, and matching synthleather. She 
stands behind a man who kneels on a bare white floor. In one hand, she holds 
something, perhaps a strip of wire, wrapped tightly around the man’s throat. In
her other hand, she holds a gun, a huge automatic, which points straight out 
from the center of the picture.