“Probable cause for what? You’re going inside?”

“I’m going to try.” Decker took out a credit card, worked it between the door frame and the lock.

“What if the guy’s still there?”

The lock snapped open. Decker took out his gun. “This is basic police work, McAdams. Stay here and guard my ass.” The kid had turned ashen. “You’re not going to pass out on me, right?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” A forced smile. “I don’t have a weapon on me, Old Man.”

“You’ve got the best weapon in the world, McAdams. Your vocal cords. You see anything hinky, just let out a scream.”

Decker took out a single latex glove and sheathed his left hand, keeping his right hand bare and firmly on the grip of his gun. He pushed open the door with the barrel of his gun. Stepping inside chaos, his nose was assaulted with bad news as he took in the sight of a recent struggle, not unlike the one that had taken place in Angeline’s apartment.

Upturned furniture, items pitched everywhere. He didn’t see any stereo receiver, but there was a TV and a dock for an iPad. The TV was off and cold and the dock was empty. It was hard to walk without disturbing something, including the blood on the floor and area rug. Distinct circles and ovals . . . drip blood from an injury, not splatter from an artery. He tiptoed very carefully across the room and into the kitchen.

There was more mess—overturned canisters, broken glasses, cutlery on the floor. More drips, but still no splatter, which meant no massive amount of blood loss. There were two wineglasses in the sink, and an open bottle of pinot on the counter that somehow remained intact. An empty knife block, its contents scattered on the floor. He couldn’t tell if anything was missing, but strewn knives were never good signs of anything. He tiptoed out of the kitchen and down the small hallway. The bathroom door was open. More drips on the floor, bloody towels in the sink and bathtub. The smell was getting stronger and stronger, not just metallic but putrid—discarded feces, decay . . . fetid rot. When he opened the door to the bedroom, he found the source.

The nude body on the bed: multiple stab wounds, which often meant not only rage but up close and personal. This time the fury was overt because the man’s penis and testicles had been severed and placed on his stomach. In addition to the stab wounds and the genital mutilation, his throat had been slashed.

“Decker?” McAdams called out. “You okay?”

“Don’t move, McAdams. Stay where you are.”

“Are you okay?”