“It didn’t look like that much blood. Like a little puddle.”

“Splatter marks around the puddle?”

“No … just an amoebic blob.”

“Drip marks to the Dumpster?”

Eureka. I had an answer for that one. “Yes, I noticed them. I showed them to Detective Van Horn.”

“Good job.”

I bit my lower lip, holding back a smile. “Still have a ways to go, but I’m trying to keep up with the experts.”

“Good Lord, I hope you don’t mean me,” Decker retorted. “Saving a baby’s life is quite an impressive feat. I’m just throwing out a few observations because you like when I do that.”

“You’re right. I do like it. Your questions hone my brain, when they’re not driving me crazy.”

“Too bad. I’m a complete package. You can’t pick and choose.”

I chuckled. A twenty-something waitress came to our table. Judging from the shadows under her washed-out eyes, she, like me, didn’t get much sleep. Neither Dad nor I was particularly hungry. The Loo ordered a half cantaloupe and asked for a refill of his coffee. I settled on coffee, a large orange juice, and rye toast with butter and jam, if you please. I may like the underfed look, but dieting was for chumps.

Decker said, “I bet you could tell if the blood was from a birthing mother. Because the puddle might contain some of the baby’s blood as well. The hospital lab could help you out with that one. Now tell me your line of reasoning … why you think it was someone local.”

Anticipating this discussion, I had organized my thinking. “Why would someone choose to have a baby in that particular back alley? So this tells me a couple of things. One, she was scared and wanted to get rid of the kid ASAP without anyone seeing. Second, if she had any kind of resources—like a car—she wouldn’t have delivered in an alley. So maybe the girl is below driving age, or doesn’t have a car. So she walked to the spot. Meaning I’m looking for a postpartum girl who lives within walking distance to the alley.”

“Or … ,” Decker prompted.

“Or possibly a homeless person.”

“There you go,” Decker answered. “What’s the skin tone of the baby?”

“Medium brown. From the looks of her, she could be just about any race except for maybe Nordic. My district is a real polyglot of races.”

The sullen waitress with the baggy eyes brought over our meager order. Her disposition would improve when the meal was over. Today was my treat and I was a big tipper.

After she left, Decker said, “The blood work might help you out with the baby’s race, too. If I were on the case, I’d call up the hospital lab.”

“Don’t I need some kind of court order to do that?”

“Probably. But sometimes, if you just go down and make an appearance, you can persuade the technicians to talk to you.”

Koby came to mind. I wondered if he was working today. “Right. Good idea.” I warmed my fingers on my coffee mug. “Things okay with you, Dad?”