Most of the head had been turned into something unthinkable, the mouth kissed by a smear of blood, the upper lip split diagonally. Yet the overall structure remained somewhat recognizable. Familiar... freckles across the nose and forehead. The ear that hadn't been hacked to confetti, an ashen seashell.

I peeled back the sheet. Plaid blouse. Blue jeans. Even in death the body retained a trim, tight shape. Something protruded from the breast pocket of the blouse. Half a loop of white elastic. Ponytail band.

"I think I know who this is," I said.

Milo wheeled on me.

I said, "Hedy Haupt, Heidi Ott. The age fits, the hair's the right color, the body's the right length-look at the right jaw, that same strong line. I'm sure of it. This is her."

Milo's face was next to mine, exuding sweat and cigar residue.

"Oh, man," he said. "Another cast member?"

"Remember what big Chet kept shouting at us?" I said. "Both in group, and as we walked across the yard? 'Cherchez la femme.' Search for the woman. Maybe he was trying to tell us something. Maybe maniacs are worth listening to."

Chapter 36

Milo wanted to examine the body closely and to go over the paperwork in detail. Figuring I could do without either, I left, bought scalding, poisonous coffee from a machine, and drank it out in the waiting area facing the autopsy room. The coffee didn't do much for my stomach, but the chill that had taken hold of my legs started to dissipate.

I sat there, thinking about Heidi, executed and mutilated on the 1-5.

Everyone associated with Peake and Crimmins was being discarded like garbage. It stank of a special malevolence.

Monsters.

No; Peake's moniker notwithstanding, these were people, it always came down to people.

I pictured the two of them, bound together by something I was really no closer to understanding, stalking, severing, hacking, shooting.

Crimmins's production, the worst kind of documentary. For the sake of what? How many other victims lay buried around the city?

Crisp, rapid footsteps made me look up. A perfectly groomed Indian in his forties passed me wordlessly and entered the autopsy room. Dr. Patel, I assumed. I found a pay phone, called Robin, got the answering machine. She was asleep. Good. I told the machine I'd be back in a few hours, not to worry. I finished the coffee. Cooler, but it still tasted like toasted cardboard sauteed in chicory gravy.

Heidi. A narcotics record. That started me off in a whole new direction.

Viewing life through a new set of glasses ... The door swung open and Milo shot out, wiping his forehead and waving a sheet of paper full of his cramped, urgent handwriting. Body-outline logo at the top. Coroner's gift-shop stationery.

"Heidi's home address," he said. "Let's go."

We headed for the elevator.

"Where'd she live?"I said.

"West Hollywood, thirteen hundred block of Orange Grove."

"Not far from Plummer Park, where we met with her."