He looked pissed—pretty much his natural state—and none too pleased that I’d brought the ghoul along. Nobody could quite figure out who or what Mo’Lock was. He definitely made humans uneasy, but he always wore a suit and tie, so they assumed he was okay. Funny what you can pull off with a decent suit.

Blout stood up and looked straight into my eyes. Mo’Lock was ignored with clear, obvious disdain.

“What’d you bring him for?” Blout asked in his low, rumbling voice. He stood close. I could smell the minty stink of his menthol shaving cream and the fast food taco he’d had for lunch.

I shrugged. “He’s my assistant. Might be able to help.”

Blout shoved a big finger close to my nose. “Just keep him the fuck away from me. Got it?”

I showed him two palms. “Okay, no sweat. What’ve you got?”

Blout bobbed his head sideways, indicating the door of the coroner’s lab.

“In here.”

The lab was cramped, bare of equipment, and dark. There were only two lights—a small desk lamp and a bare bulb dangling above the examination table in the center of the room.

There was a body on the table, head and chest cut open. The scalp had been sliced, and the flesh from the top of the head peeled like an orange. The face of the dead man was wrinkled and folded down over itself. It would have been comical if it weren’t so disgusting. The ribs were sawed clean away so there was a tidy viewing window to examine the cavity. I could see the internal organs had already been removed for examination. The heart and liver were in steel trays and next to them was an array of bloody saws and surgical tools. An autopsy had recently been completed.

I stepped up to the table. The body was male. By the looks of his overgrown hair and the haggard, leathery look of his skin, I assumed he was homeless. That is, of course, when he was alive. He was dead now. Homeless and lifeless, what a raw deal.

Mo’Lock stayed behind me, close to the exit, but slowly edged toward the corner where there was the least amount of light. Blout moved to the other side of the table. He looked down at the body and sighed. He didn’t have much of a stomach for an experienced cop. When he looked up at me I was screwing a cigarette into my mouth. His expression went from disgust to irritation.

“Don’t smoke in here, Cal. Christ, you know better.”

I put my lighter back, leaving the unlit cigarette in my mouth. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to give the stiff cancer,” I said. “What’s the story?”

“John Doe, homeless. He was found last night stuffed in a drainage pipe that used to dump into the old reservoir near the D.C./Maryland border.”

I could see no reason why I was needed. Dead bums weren’t my forté, and not the least bit strange. I chewed on the unlit cigarette like a piece of beef jerky. “What’s the cause of death?”