Curran shook his head and went out. Leland, with Schoenstein in tow, went around to the master bedroom. The body had been moved, slumped down and twisted on its side. The eyes bulged and the jaw hung ajar. On the wall against which it had rested was a smear of brownish red and dirty gray, surrounded by a spotted outline of Curran’s chalk. The medical examiner, on one knee beside the corpse, looked up with his mouth twisted unpleasantly. “He’s been dead about two hours, perhaps two and a half. Figure eleven-thirty to midnight. There are chips of china in his skull, so that fixes that crockery you have there. The blows on the head did kill him, very little doubt of that. He was hit a dozen, fifteen, maybe twenty times. Needless to say, the man who did this is capable of practically anything. The mutilations—well, I slept through my psych courses.” He stood up, looking down at the corpse. “Junior, here, was a homosexual. He had a liaison shortly before his death. He’s wearing some kind of fruity perfume, but it doesn’t solve his problem.” He began to pull off his rubber gloves. “The mutilations were done with a dull knife—dull edge. That kind of home surgery really requires a razor. I didn’t see the fingers. I’ll just take smears of the matter on that piece of pottery.” He coughed. “The contents of his stomach will be analyzed—that goes without saying. I’ll call my boss now, so you’ll have your report early tomorrow morning.” He sighed. “Ever have a fairy sneer at you? They do it all the time. The next one who does it I’ll kill myself.”

“An interesting attitude, Doctor,” Leland said, deadpan.

“Sure. I checked the fingernails he has left. They’re clean, no foreign matter under them. They’ve been professionally manicured and painted with clear polish. Is there anything else I can help you with? If not, I’ll call the office. I have to go down to the wagon for a jar and some slides. What a mess. It’s so uplifting to learn about the way other people live.” He stepped between them to get out.