Butters got on his computer. "No," he said, after a moment's reading and key thumping. "Wait. Here's a guy who got knifed, but it happened way up in the northwest corner of the state."

"No good," I said. "It would have to be local. Within a county or three of Chicago."

"Hmph," Butters said. "You investigative types are always so picky about this kind of thing." He scanned over the screen. "Drive-by shooting victim?"

"Definitely no," I said. "For a ritual killing it would be a lot more intimate."

"Think you're out of luck then, Harry," he said. "There were some high-profile stiffs that came in, and the day crew took them all."

"Hmm."

"Tell me about it. I got stuck with a wino and some poor bastard who got caught under a tractor and had to be tested for drugs and booze earlier tonight, but that's…" He paused. "Hello."

"Hello?"

" That’s odd."

That perked up my ears, metaphorically speaking. "What's odd?"

"My boss, Dr. Brioche, passed over one of his subjects. It got moved to my docket, but I didn't get a memo about it. Not even an e-mail, the bastard."

I frowned. "That happen a lot?"

"Attempts to make it look like I'm neglecting my job so he can fire me?" Butters said. "That one's new, but it's in the spirit of my whole history here."

"Maybe he was just busy today."

"And maybe Liv Tyler is waiting in my bedroom to rub my feet," Butters responded.

"Heh. Who's the stiff?"

"A Mr. Eduardo Anthony Mendoza," Butters read. "He was in a head-on collision with a Buick on the expressway. Only he was a pedestrian." Butters scrunched up his nose. "Looks like it will be a nasty one. No wonder high-and-mighty Brioche didn't want to handle it."

I mused. It wasn't what I was looking for, but there was something about the situation around that corpse that set off my internal alarm bells. "Mind if I ask you to indulge an intuition?"

"Sure. I'm as polka empowered as I'm going to get, anyway. Lemme break out my gear and we'll take a look-see at the late Eddie Mendoza."

"Cool," I said. I leaned against the wall and folded my arms, preparing to settle in for a while.

The door to the examination room slammed open, and Phil the security guard walked in with a businesslike stride.

Except Phil's throat had been slit open from ear to ear, and blood covered his upper body in a sheet of ugly splatters. His face was absolutely white. There was no chance whatsoever that poor Phil was alive.

That didn't stop him from striding into the room, seizing Butters's desk, and throwing it, computer, heavy file cabinet, and all, into the far wall of the room, where it shattered with a thunderous sound of impact. Butters stared at Phil with horror, then let out a somewhat rabbit like shriek and scurried back from him.