From the cloth fibers Oscar noticed stuck to Kara’s teeth, and the lack of blood Devin found in the nail holes that bored through the frozen dirt under her hands and feet, they assumed the following: She’d been killed at another location after the killer had shoved a handkerchief or piece of shirt in her mouth, then made an incision in the base of her throat with either a stiletto or a very sharp ice pick to demobilize her larynx. He’d then been free to watch her die from either severe shock trauma, a heart attack, or slow suffocation due to drowning in her own blood. For whatever reason, the killer had then transported the body to Meeting House Hill and crucified Kara to the frozen dirt.

“He’s a sweetheart, this guy,” Devin said.

“Probably just needs a good hug,” Oscar said. “Straighten him right out.”

“No such thing as a bad boy,” Devin said.

“You’re damn skippy,” Oscar said.

I hadn’t said much since I’d seen her body. Unlike Oscar and Devin, I’m no pro when it comes to violent death. I’ve seen my share, but not on a level even remotely comparable with either of these guys.

I said, “I can’t handle this.”

“Yes,” Devin said, “you can.”

“Drink more,” Oscar said. He nodded in the direction of Gerry Glynn. Gerry’d owned the Black Emerald since the days when he was a cop, and even though he usually shuts down at one, he never closes his doors to people on the Job. He had our drinks in front of us before Oscar finished his nod, and he was back at the other end of the bar before we even realized he’d been by. The definition of a good bartender.

“Crucified,” I said for the twentieth time that night as Devin placed a fresh beer in my hand.

“I think we’re all agreed on that point, Patrick.”

“Devin,” I said, trying to focus on him, pissed off that he wouldn’t remain still, “the girl was barely twenty-two years old. I’ve known her since she was two.”

Devin’s eyes remained still and blank. I looked at Oscar. He chewed a half-smoked, unlit cigar and looked back at me like I was a piece of furniture he hadn’t decided where to place.

“Fuck,” I said.

“Patrick,” Devin said. “Patrick. You listening?”

I turned in his direction. For a brief moment, his head stopped moving. “What?”

“She was twenty-two. Yes. A baby. And if she’d been fifteen or forty, it wouldn’t be any better. Death is death and murder’s murder. Don’t make it worse by getting sentimental about her age, Patrick. She was murdered. Atrociously. No argument. But…” He leaned haphazardly on the bar, closed one eye. “Partner? What was my but?”

“But,” Oscar said, “don’t matter if she was male or female, rich or poor, young or old—”

“Black or white,” Devin said.

“—black or white,” Oscar said, scowling at Devin, “she was still murdered, Kenzie. Murdered bad.”

I looked at him. “You ever seen anything that bad?”