The lower portion of the face was gone, leaving only the skull, the eye sockets, and a few scattered teeth. The cranium still had the hair attached—rich, brown, frizzy hair that now looked like a clown wig. The torso had been devoured down to the ribs, the body cavity completely eviscerated, leaving the hips and legs detached from the thorax. One leg had been eaten to the bone, the large femur still whole. The other leg, sitting a few feet away from the torso, was untouched, the limb still wrapped in denim pants, a high-back sneaker still on the foot. The ground was damp and sticky, but there wasn’t much blood left in what once had been a body. The cat had slaked its thirst.

Decker inched backward, his nostrils assaulted by the strong stench of urine. Beside the pile of bone, flesh, and shredded fabric was a mound of feces, still warm and sending up condensation in the cooler night air—a wretched, fetid stink. Decker’s throat gurgled. He moved several feet to the right and puked. Then he picked up his radio and connected through to Martinez. “Found him.”

“Where?” The detective’s voice was animated. “Loo, where are you? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “I’m not sure of my exact location…somewhere northeast of the original grid. I’ll wave my flashlight’s blinking beam up in the air. Tell the choppers to look for it. They’ll zero in on the site.”

“Do you need backup?”

“Nope. He’s dead.”

“Dead?”

“Very much so.”

“Should I call the shooting team?”

“Not necessary. All I need is the coroner. Tell the doc to bring a body bag…and a small one at that.”

37

He wasn’t sure what hurt more, his bones or his head, but it really didn’t matter. Advil was all he had for relief, so it would have to do, although the pain was way beyond anything offered OTC. Decker was dirty and tired and sick to his stomach, and all he wanted to do was crawl into bed. On his desk were piles of paperwork. He told himself it could wait until morning, except now, it was the morning. As he slogged through sheaf after sheaf, writing until his hand cramped, he tried to sort out the salient data. But he was too spent to think.

Marge came in a little after seven. “I’d like to see Vega off to school.”

Decker attempted to focus on her face. She came out as a blur of ash-colored flesh. “Good idea. We’ll talk later. Or even tomorrow if you want.”

“No, I’ll come back around two. Will you be here?”

“I’ll be here.”

She regarded his red and watery eyes. “Maybe you shouldn’t be here, Pete. Maybe you should go home, too. You’re looking so bedraggled, you make Skid Row Sam look stylish.”