Had Noam been an active partner in this gruesome killing? Decker just wouldn’t let himself believe that. It was Hersh who liked to play with knives, Hersh who loved to gut fish while they were still alive. Noam just couldn’t have been a willing participant in such savage butchery. What had Noam been thinking when Hersh did this thing to this unfortunate man? Decker felt a wave of fright, felt what he hoped had been the boy’s terror.

Hersh had finally shown what he really was. Noam had to be in fear for his life.

If Noam still had a life.

Because psychos were solo creatures.

Decker swallowed back a wave of nausea, choosing to assume that Noam was still around to need help. He’d have to call the family, tell them to hire legal counsel immediately. He turned to Cleveland and said, “I’ve seen corpses in worse shape—victims exposed to the elements. They’re hard to look at, but that’s nature. Even though the face is whole, I’m having a lot of trouble with this one. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a homicide this cold. Someone enjoyed the surgery.”

“My thoughts to a T, Pete,” Cleveland said. “From the distance of the arterial spatter, the victim was probably stabbed in the throat and chest first, then died from blood loss. Hit the carotid or the aorta, don’t take more than a couple of minutes to bleed out. He was probably gutted afterward.” He shook his head in disgust.

Decker said, “Where’s the witness? The bartender?”

“In the patrol car,” Cleveland said. “I’ll take you to him.”

Decker followed the black detective through the throng of technicians. The bartender was sitting on the backseat of a black and white sheriff’s deputy patrol car. Even though the man was swathed in a blanket, he was shivering. His unsteady hand was holding a flashlight, illuminating a series of mouths spread out on the backseat by a female sketch artist who sat beside him. He had a mustache, gaunt cheeks, and a pointy chin. His eyes squinted with concentration as he stared at the mouths and shook his head.

“None of them are right,” he said.

“Ritchie?” Cleveland said.

The blanketed man looked up.

Cleveland introduced, “Ritchie Parker, this is Detective Decker.”

Parker stuck out his hand, Decker took it. It was wet and cold.

“Detective Decker wants to show you a few pictures, ask you a few questions,” Cleveland said.

“Uh, excuse me,” the sketch artist said. “Can’t this wait until we’re through?”

Decker said, “I might have a picture of the perp. It would make your job a lot easier.”

“Go ahead,” the artist said. She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest.