Porter Henning’s unofficial nickname is “Portly,” and, widthwise, he makes “Man Mountain” Sampson look practically dainty. I’ve never been sure how Porter squeezes into some of those tighter crime scenes, but he’s also one of the most insightful MEs I’ve worked with.

“Alex Cross. Gracing us with your presence,” he said as I walked up.

“Blame this guy.” I thumbed at Sampson but then stopped short when I saw the victim.

People say the extreme stuff is my specialty, which it kind of is, but there is no getting used to human mutilation. The victim had been left faceup in a clump of bushes. The multiple layers of dirty clothes marked him as homeless, maybe even someone who slept right there in the park. And while there were signs of a severe beating, it was the numbers carved into his forehead that made the biggest impression. As in the previous murder, it was almost too bizarre.

2^30402457-1

“Are those the same numbers as the last time?” I asked.

“Similar,” Sampson told me, “but no, not the same.”

“And we don’t know who the victim is?”

John shook his head. “I’ve got guys asking around, but most of the bench crashers made themselves scarce as soon as we showed up. It’s not exactly a trust fest around here, you know?”

I knew, I knew. This was part of what made homeless deaths so hard to trace.

“There’s also the shelter just a few blocks up on Thirteenth Street,” John went on. “I’m going to head up there after this, see if anyone knows anything about this man.”

The scene itself was hard to interpret. There were fresh footprints in the dirt, flat soles as opposed to boots or sneakers. Also, some kind of grooved tracks, maybe a shopping cart, but that could have been completely unrelated. Homeless folks rolled through here all day, every day. All night, too.

“What else?” I asked. “Porter? You find out anything yet?”

“Yeah. Found out I’m not getting any younger. Other than that, I’d say cause of death is tension pneumothorax, although the first strikes were probably here, here, and here.”

He pointed at the crushed side of the dead man’s head, where a pink ooze had filled his ear. “Basal skull fracture, jawbone, zygomatic arch, the whole frickin’ works. If there’s any silver lining, the poor guy was probably out cold when it happened. There’s track marks all over him.”

“All just like the last time,” Sampson said. “Has to be the same perp.”

“What about the cutting on the forehead?” It was the cleanest knife work I’d ever seen. The digits were easily readable, the cuts shallow and precise. “Any initial thoughts about the cuts, Porter?”

“This is nothing,” he said. “Check out the real masterpiece.”

He reached down and rolled the young man onto his side, then lifted up the back of his shirt.