The rain falls hard. A brick building is faintly lit by street lamps. Two detectives enter a room. One grizzled, stout, cigar in hand. One freshly shaven, glasses, and pressed slacks.
Glasses recoils, covering his mouth. "Jesus."
"What's the mada, kid? Never seen a minus 45?"
Glasses can't believe what he's hearing, "This? This is the work of minus 45? How can you tell?"
Cigar makes a lazy gesture with his hand to the corner of the room. There it is, clear as day. The perps signature calling card. "Kid, you forgot the -1."