He showered, shaved, dressed, and davened hurriedly. Today the prayers held little meaning—words without content. And for the first time in over three months, he ate breakfast at a nonkosher restaurant. Nothing definable as traif—no ham or bacon—but he didn’t give a flying fuck if the eggs were fried in lard or the bread was baked with animal shortening. He wolfed down three over easy, four pieces of toast, double hash browns, a large orange juice, and three cups of coffee. Afterwards, stomach full, he felt much better and was surprised that his conscience didn’t bother him.

Off to the station.

At his desk, he cleaned up the last bits of paperwork, checked his watch, and headed for the viewing room.

The captain shut off the projector and flicked on the lights. Neither he nor Decker spoke. It hadn’t been any easier for Decker the second time around. If anything, it had been harder to witness Lindsey’s destruction. The scene would be fixed in his memory forever. A curse. But he had to concentrate now on what needed to be done.

The end of the film was the giveaway that Clementine had been right. Something had gone awry. The last few seconds showed a look of horror on the Countess’s face and the widening eyes of the painted man. A moment later the Countess clutched her breast and the film ended. Although Decker saw no firearm, no blast of gunfire, and no blood, he knew what had happened. She had been shot. The terror in her eyes was no act.

“Who’s the man in the film?” Morrison asked Decker.

“I don’t know. I think it’s the Countess’s accomplice. He goes by the street name Blade, but no one I’ve talked to knows a thing about him. Only this pimp Clementine.”

“Then find Clementine and squeeze him,” Morrison said. “Although I doubt if we could make a positive ID based on that film. The guy was painted like an Indian.”

“Captain?”

“What?”

“I think the guy’s dead.”

Morrison sighed heavily.

“It goes like this,” said Decker. “The Countess was whacked at the end of the movie. A last-minute thing, not part of the script. The guy looked just as surprised as she did. Both of them were probably ripped off and burnt just like the Bates girl, then dumped in the mountains.”

“So there should be another bag of bones up there.”

“I think so,” Decker said.

Morrison digested that.

“Was Pode the film maker?”

“He distributed. He kidnapped Lindsey. But I doubt if he was the brains. Probably a minnow and we’re missing the big catch. Goddam nuisance, Pode dying last night.” Decker paused. “When’s the burial for Officer Lessing?”

“Three o’clock.”

“Kids?”

“Two.”

“I’ll try to make it over,” Decker said, looking at his watch.

The room was silent.