The dank odor of blood and raw meat enveloped him. Pike moved through the storage room, but stopped by the counter as soon as he entered the dining room. Lumbering bottle flies had already homed on the scent and buzzed in slow loops past his head. The counter was red with a viscous pool of drying blood that traced darker red paths to the floor. Long thick pieces of what was probably beef liver, kidneys, and intestines floated in the blood like blue islands. More pieces were draped over the cash register and prep area, and what appeared to be a large gray beef heart was nailed to the New Orleans Saints poster. The skinless heads of three goats hung from the ceiling lights, their lidless eyes dull and bulging. Bottle flies fed on their eyes.

Behind him, McIntosh whispered.

“What if it’s people?”

“It’s not.”

“I know these are animal heads, but this could be human blood. These organs could be from people.”

“They aren’t. Butchered people smell different.”

McIntosh studied Pike as if wondering how Pike knew that, then pointed out the wall behind the counter.

“Check it. Your boys left a message.”

Three words were written in blood on the wall above the prep counter.

I AM HERE.

I, not We. Singular. Pike wondered what it meant.

Hydeck came up beside them.

“C’mon, it’s time to go. I got some snaps for the report. All we’re doing is letting in flies.”

Pike said, “Have you called Button?”

Hydeck’s irritation turned to annoyance.

“Yes, Pike, I put in a call. I’m waiting to hear back from him, too. Right now I’m more interested in getting the owners out here so they can get this place cleaned up and secure.”

Pike stepped around the goat heads to the front door. He studied the gas station and buildings across the street, and wondered if Straw’s people had seen anything, and whether they had stood by and watched this happen.

Hydeck said, “Let’s go, Pike. I mean it. You shouldn’t even be in here.”

Pike followed them out.

Betsy Harmon still had her arms locked across her chest.

“Are we going to have the CSIs out here and all of that?”

McIntosh said, “That’s on TV. Our people are SIDs.”

Hydeck pushed the door closed. The bent frame made it difficult, so McIntosh leaned in to help. It still didn’t close all the way.

“Those are animal parts, Ms. Harmon. The people who did this probably robbed a Latin market. Latin butchers sell a lot of goat meat. What time does Mr. Smith usually get here?”

“Wilson is always here by nine, every day but Sunday. If they get a food delivery, he’ll come in earlier, but one of them should have been here. They’re always here by now.”