“Correct me if I’m mistaken,” Vince said, “but I don’t think either one of you has direct experience with this kind of killer. I have more than most people could ever stomach in three lifetimes. I have access to every resource and contact ISU has. I’m just not here in an official capacity.

“So, if you’re worried about me attracting attention,” he said specifically to Dixon, “trying to take over your case, you can relax.”

“Good to know,” Dixon said, holding back questions and skepti cism. Vince could feel it. He could see it in Dixon’s body language. But the sheriff would put it aside for now. He had an autopsy to go to. He turned and headed for the building.

Vince and Mendez fell in half a dozen paces behind.

“So, what’s the long story?” Mendez asked. “You look a little rough, Vince.”

Vince laughed. He had seen himself in the men’s room mirror. “I look like shit, kid. I’ve got an ulcer.” Which was true. He had an ulcer from eating painkillers instead of food.

“Airplane food,” he said, rolling his eyes. “It’s nothing to worry about. God knows how I managed not to have one until now.”

Mendez looked suspicious. “You’re okay?”

“Perfect.”

“You grew a mustache,” Mendez said meaningfully.

“Just trying to blend in with you local boys,” Vince said. “Let’s go look at your stiff.”

Chapter 19

19

The first impression of the LA County morgue was the smell. The ventilation system wasn’t great, but the amount of dead bodies processed through was. No one in the receiving area seemed bothered by it.

Dixon was shooting the breeze with a group of coroner’s assistants sitting at a long white table as they waited for their next delivery. When it arrived, the body would be measured, fingerprinted, photographed, wrapped in plastic, and put in cold storage, where it would wait its turn for an autopsy if an autopsy was deemed necessary. In the meantime, they took a little break to chat, drink coffee, and listen to the bug zapper sizzle.

“Busy day?” Dixon asked, helping himself to the carton of malted milk balls on the table.

“The usual,” said a burly assistant, a bald man the size of a bear, with blue tattoos up and down arms as thick as small tree trunks. He had the demeanor of a man who had been around the morgue for a long time. The kind of guy who could roll in a maggot-riddled corpse, then sit down and eat an egg-salad sandwich.

The lone female assistant, a cute brunette twentysomething, said, “Fourteen field calls, three homicides, four suicides, and six accidental deaths.”

“And a partridge in a pear tree?” Vince asked.

The girl laughed.