He saw something and dropped to his knees. Another piece of gut. He hailed a tech, and the lab man dropped the coil of innards in an evidence bag. The scene was swarming with people—a doc from the ME’s office, print men, lab men, a photographer, and the uniforms who fielded the call, their faces colored like overcooked peas. From behind him, he heard someone call his name. He stood—turned around, surprised to find himself looking squarely into another man’s eyes. The guy was as big as he was.

“Help you, sir?”

Decker introduced himself.

Cleveland shook Decker’s hand and looked him over. Without thinking, he said, “You ever play for the pros, Pete?”

“No. Why? Did you?”

“No, but I wish I did. Matter-of-fact, I’d like to do anything except what I’m doing now.” Cleveland caught the stunned expression on Decker’s face. He wiped a band of sweat from his broad mocha-colored forehead. “This is not our usual killing. That’s why we have so many people out.”

“Man, this is just horrible,” Decker said.

His eyes swept over the alley. A slaughterhouse. It smelled like a slaughterhouse. Thank God there was a cold breeze blowing, providing a bit of aeration.

Decker forced himself to look at the body. The photographer was snapping pictures. The corpse was on its back as if prepped for a grotesque operation. The face was intact, no knife marks, no gunshots. Harrow’s eyes were still open, still electrified with shock. Brown eyes. Big round brown eyes. Harrow had had full cheeks and no upper teeth. His spine was straight, his arms had been placed neatly at his sides, his unbent legs had been pressed together.

Decker continued to study the corpse. The throat had been slashed, the chest a gaping hole filled with brown clotted blood. His belly had been eviscerated—completely emptied. Decker could see the man’s kidneys—perfectly intact kidneys. He jerked his head away.

The killing had occurred in the back alley of one of the most exclusive restaurants in West Hollywood—a trendy night spot known for movie-star patrons and a high-priced menu. While the good folk up front dined on salmon carpaccio and goat-cheese mousse, this poor man was out here being dissected by a friggin’ psycho. The thought made him sick.

Decker wished to God he could turn around and go home. He was ten feet from the body, and even at this distance, there was a mammoth inkblot of blood spray. The monster must have sliced Harrow’s aorta while he was still alive. Nothing else would make blood spurt so far.