“It’s a long shot, but I’ll ask. Right now, let’s concentrate on the Rousseau brothers and their friends. I’d also like to know the whereabouts of Rob Butterfield, her manager, and his little enforcer friend Jason Durang last night. If they don’ have a good alibi, I’ll be wantin’ to talk to them as well. And, Gage . . .” Remy waited until his brother turned back to face him. “If they alibi each other, and no one else can corroborate, that doesn’t count as a decent alibi.”

Gage sighed. “I was hopin’ this would never happen again. Especially on our turf.”

“I’m with you there, Gage,” Remy admitted. “This is one sick man. I thought it was bad enough when his victims were nothin’ but meat to him, but he stayed cold as ice, even through the butcherin’ of Cooper alive. Nothin’ else changed. His hands weren’t shakin’. He didn’t leave prints or any other evidence behind. But he knew Cooper. And he had some kind of grudge against him.”

“Or maybe Cooper decided he didn’t like bein’ told to break into old folks’ homes and beat them up. Maybe he’d had enough and was goin’ to start talkin’ to us,” Gage suggested.

“Or he was drunk and was talkin’ smack,” Remy said. “That’s more likely. If you’re right about the Rousseau brothers, they’d take action.”

“Or kill him for kicks,” Gage suggested.

LeBrun shook his head. “This wasn’t for kicks. Whoever carves those bones wasn’t doin’ it for the fun of it.”

“Is there a possibility that there are two of them?” Remy asked LeBrun. He respected the man. Louis LeBrun wasn’t leopard, but he was very good at his job and he didn’t miss much.

“Of course,” LeBrun said, “but whoever harvested the bones is an expert. It has to be the same man every time. One could be doin’ the hangin’ while the other does the carvin’, but believe me, Remy, the carver is the same every single time. There’s no mistakin’ his work.”

“The murder itself is messy and careless,” Remy said, “but the harvester is meticulous. If you look at that altar, I’d have to say the same man put that together, payin’ special attention to every detail. There’s never one single drop of blood on his altar other than the bowl of blood provided by his victim, and if you look at the bowl, that’s not even messy.”

LeBrun nodded. “I don’ know how you’re goin’ to solve this one, Remy.” He swept his hand toward the body. “With all this every time he kills, you’d think he’d leave some forensic evidence behind, but the crime scene, in spite of the blood everywhere, is pristine, isn’t it?”