I began looking for defense injuries. Concentrating on getting out of the way of his lines, I was unaware I was holding his hand until he startled me by squeezing mine. Such reflex movements are not uncommon in people who are cortically dead. It is the equivalent of a baby grabbing your finger, a reflex involving no thought process at all. I gently released his hand and took a deep breath, waiting for the ache in my heart to subside.

“Did you find anything?” the nurse asked.

“It’s hard to look with all these lines,” I said.

She replaced his dressings and pulled the sheet up to his chin. I took off my gloves and dropped them in the trash as Detective Trent returned, his eyes a little wild.

“No tattoos,” he said breathlessly, as if he had sprinted to the cafeteria and back. “No birthmarks or scars, either.”

Moments later we were walking to the parking deck. The sun slipped in and out, and tiny snowflakes were blowing. I squinted as I stared into the wind at heavy traffic on Forest Avenue. A number of cars had Christmas wreaths affixed to their grilles.

“I think you’d better prepare for the eventuality of his death,” I said.

“If I’d known that, I wouldn’t have bothered you to come out. Damn, it’s cold.”

“You did exactly the right thing. In several days his wounds would have changed.”

“They say all of December’s going to be like this. Cold as hell and a lot of snow.”

He stared down at the pavement. “You have kids?”

“I have a niece,” I said.

“I’ve got two boys. One of ‘em’s thirteen.”

I got out my keys. “I’m over here,” I said.

Trent nodded, following me. He watched in silence as I unlocked my gray Mercedes. His eyes took in the details of the leather interior as I got in and fastened my seat belt. He looked the car up and down as if appraising a gorgeous woman.

“What about the missing skin?” he asked. “You ever seen anything like that?”

“It’s possible we’re dealing with someone predisposed to cannibalism,” I said.

I returned to the office and checked my mailbox, initialed a stack of lab reports, filled a mug with the liquid tar left in the bottom of the coffeepot, and spoke to no one. Rose appeared so quietly as I seated myself behind my desk that I would not have noticed her immediately had she not placed a newspaper clipping on top of several others centering the blotter.

“You look tired,” she said. “What time did you come in this morning? I got here and found coffee made and you had already gone out somewhere.”

“Henrico’s got a tough one,” I said. “A boy who probably will be coming in.”

‘Eddie Heath.”

“Yes,” I said, perplexed. “How did you know?”

“He’s in the paper, too,” Rose replied, and I noticed that she had gotten new glasses that made her patrician face less haughty.