The face was gray, surprisingly intact except for a thatch of lacerations on the left cheek. Ash gray, because in life Ellroy Beatty had been black. White lint of kinky beard stubble, maybe four, five days' worth. Untrimmed mass of gray hair. The eyes were open, dull, dry, the lips caked with pinkish crust. That vacant look common to all dead faces. No matter what your IQ in life, when the soul flies, you look stupid.

Below the neck was empty space. Clean decapitation except for a few fringes of trachea and jugular, meaty muscle fibers protruding. Two feet down the table was a white-wrapped package that Martinez needlessly explained was "the lower extremities."

Milo stared at the ashen chunk that had once borne the consciousness of Ellroy Beatty. Not blinking, not moving. I wondered how many times he'd been down here.

Just as Martinez said, "Okay?" the door opened and a man strode in. He wore scrubs, a hairnet, paper slippers, a loose mask around his neck. About Beatty's age, tall, stoop-shouldered with a deeply tanned face and a thick black beard.

He glanced at us, read the index card in his right hand, and headed for one of the steel lockers, two rows away.

Then he saw Ellroy Beatty's head and flushed with anger. "What the hell's going on here?"

Martinez said, "Some kind of problem, Dr. Friedman?"

"I'd sure as hell say so. Who cut up my D.B.?"

"Your D.B.?" said Martinez.

"That's what I said. Are you deaf, Albert?" Friedman turned to Milo. "And who the hell are you?"

"LAPD."

"I thought Willis Hooks was on this one."

"No," said Milo. "Hooks is Central. This is a Newton case, the detective's Robert Aguilar."

"What?" said Friedman, jabbing the card. "The paperwork says Central, Hooks. How long have you been doing this, Mr. Aguilar?"

Milo said, "I'm Sturgis, Doctor. West L.A."

Friedman blinked. "What the hell-" He stepped closer to Ellroy Beatty's head. "Let me tell you, Detective, someone's in deep dirt. I had this D.B. scheduled for a post and someone cut his goddamn head off! And what's he doing in that drawer when he's supposed to be over here?" Friedman waved the card.

"No one moved him, Dr. Friedman," said Martinez. "He got put here right away. And no one cut him, this is the-"

Bullshit, Albert! Bullshit on toast-bullets don't sever your damn head! Bullets don't-"

"This is D.B. Beatty," said Martinez. "The one who was hit by a-"

"I know who he is, Albert!" Another wave of the card. "Beatty, Leroy. Gunshot wound to the head, brought in last night-"

"Beatty, Ellroy," said Martinez.

"Leroy, Albert. Says so right here." The card was thrust at Martinez's face. "Case number 971132; Time of Delivery: three-sixteen A.M."

Martinez rolled up some of the sheeting covering Beatty's legs. Pulling out a toe tag, he read, "Ellroy Beatty, hit by a train. TOD three-forty-two A.M., case number 971135."