Padilla drew his flashlight, trying to recall how many times he had tapped on doors and windows all hours of the night, usually checking on old people someone feared had passed away, and twice they had, but only twice.

"Officers here! Coming inside, knock knock."

Padilla pulled open the screen. He and Bigelow snapped on their flashlights at the same time, just as Bigelow said, "I smell something."

Their lights fell to the woman's body, early to mid-thirties, facedown on the living room floor, most of her hidden behind an ottoman that had been pushed to the center of the floor.

Bigelow said, "Oh, man."

"Watch where you step."

"Man, this is nasty."

Outside, the woman called from the street.

"What do you see? Is it a body?"

Padilla drew his gun. His heart was suddenly so loud he had difficulty hearing. He felt sick to his stomach and scared that Bigelow was going to shoot him. He was more afraid of Bigelow than the murderer.

"Don't shoot me, goddamnit. You watch what you shoot."

Bigelow said, "Jesus, look at the walls."

"Watch the goddamned doors and where you point that gun. The walls can't kill you."

The woman was wearing frayed cutoff jean shorts and a Frank Zappa T-shirt torn at the neck. Her shirt and legs were streaked with crusted blood. The back of her head was crushed, leaving her hair spiked with red gel. Another body lay between the living room and the dining room, this one a man. His head, like the woman's, was misshapen, and his blood had pooled in an irregular pattern reminding Padilla of a birthmark on his youngest daughter's foot. The floor was smudged as if they had tried to escape their attacker and splatter patterns ribboned the walls and ceiling. The weapon used to kill these people rose and fell many times, the blood it picked up splashing the walls. The smell of voided bowels was strong.

Padilla waved his pistol toward the hall leading to the bedrooms, then toward the kitchen.

"I'll clear the kitchen. You wait here watching the hall, then we'll do the rooms back there together."

"I ain't moving."

Padilla said it all louder than necessary, hoping if someone heard him they'd jump out the window and run. He moved past the man's body, then into the kitchen. The body of a twelve-year-old boy was on the kitchen floor, partially beneath a small dinette table as if he had been trying to escape. Padilla forced himself to look away. All he thought about now was securing the damned house so they could call in the dicks.

Bigelow called from the living room, "Hey, Frank-"

Padilla stepped back through the door. The rooms were bright now because Bigelow had turned on the lights.

"Frank, look at this."

Bigelow pointed to the floor.