“Body’s still warm.” Decker looked at his glove. Wet with blood. He’d have to change it before he touched anything else. He checked his watch. Nine-twenty. “Anyone call up the ME?”

“Yo.” Oliver ran his hands through a mound of dark hair. His brown eyes flitted through the scene. “Called the coroner’s office, called Forensics as well. They should be here any moment.”

“What about Captain Strapp?”

Marge said, “I left a message for him, Pete…er, Loo.”

Oliver flashed Marge a white, toothy smile. She ignored it and him. Pity because Scott was well built and good-looking. He even had moments that could be roughly defined as charming. Just too few of them and way too far between.

Out of the corner of his eye, Decker saw a stoop-shouldered man wrapped in a cardigan sweater, inching toward them. Marge followed Decker’s stare, shook her head. “I think you woke him up from his nap.”

Decker waved Gaynor forward. The man attempted a trot but gave up. His belly was too big, his legs too spindly to carry that much weight while running. Oliver said, “I thought he retired. He should be retired.”

“C’mon,” Martinez whispered impatiently. He twirled the ends of his Brillo mustache. “Guy’s an antique. Don’t know why the department keeps him on. He doesn’t even help it out with affirmative action.”

Oliver said, “You know, this team would fail even the most liberal affirmative action qualifications. Too many white males. Not enough minorities. No blacks, Indians, Asians, women—”

Marge said, “Uh, excuse me—”

“Hispanics—”

“A-hem,” Martinez broke in.

“No deaf-blind paraplegics, no midget cretins, no mentally deranged or morally handicapped—”

“Look in the mirror, Scott,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “I don’t know where you fit in, Webster. Man, they don’t make ’em any WASPier.”

“Enough, Scott,” Marge said. But he did have a point. Tom was Mr. Perma-Prest with his perfect chip of blond hair falling in front of sleepy, bluebell eyes. Most detectives exuded an excitement when starting a case. Webster seemed injected with ennui, as if forced to put up with another hot and humid August day in Biloxi, Mississippi.

Oliver went on. “Actually, you’re more than WASP, Tommy Boy. You are down-home DWM.”

“Beg your pardon?” Webster drawled.

“Dead White Male,” Marge said.

“Don’t hate me ’cause ahm beautiful,” Webster said dryly.

Oliver smiled, started whistling “Here Comes Santa Claus” as Gaynor arrived, sweaty and winded.

“Hey, gentlemen.” Farrell looked at Marge. “And ladies.”

Oliver said, “We were all wondering why the department hasn’t put you to pasture since you don’t help them with affirmative action.”

Gaynor said, “I’m elderly. Gray power.” He held his fist in the air. “God, it smells awful.”

“It is awful,” Marge said.

“Take a look for yourself, Farrell,” Oliver stated. “If your heart can take it.”