Cooked Goose

dull. Rigor mortis was well-established, insect infestation had begun.
    Cause of death had to be related to the small, black perfectly round hole right in the center of his forehead, Savannah thought as she deliberately put her grief and anger on hold and mentally clicked into analytical mode. The starshaped pattern of splits in the skin surrounding the hole showed that the muzzle of the gun had probably been held directly against his forehead when the trigger had been pulled.
    His badge had been ripped off the front of his uniform, making a jagged tear in the fabric. Half the badge protruded from his mouth, as though his killer had been forcing him to eat it.
    “Shit,” Dirk said as he sat down hard on the dirt near the body.
    Savannah felt her own knees go weak. “Exactly.”
    After a long moment of silence, Dirk said in a husky voice, “It’s always bad. But it’s different... you know... when it’s a cop.”
    Resting her hand on his shoulder, she said, “Of course it is.”
    “Now, why the hell do you suppose they did that?” He pointed to the badge.
    “Who knows? It’s one sick individual.”
    “Well, I’m not going to leave him like that.”
    Dirk reached down, but Savannah grabbed his wrist and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You have to, buddy. You can’t move anything like that until Dr. Jennifer sees it, photographs it; you know that.”
    Dirk shuddered and wiped his other hand across his eyes. Savannah knew it wouldn’t help. They would both be seeing this—awake and in their dreams—for a long time.
    “Are you all right?” she asked, slipping her hand into his, a gesture more familiar and intimate than they were accustomed to with each other. To her surprise, his fingers clasped hers tightly, and that told her more than any words.
    No, Dirk wasn’t all right.
    He was a tough guy. An overgrown street kid. And tough guys didn’t hold hands at a time like this if they were all right.
    In all the years they had been partners, then friends, Savannah had known that Dirk liked her, trusted her, relied on her, maybe on a good day even loved her. But there hadn’t been many times when she had felt this tough guy needed her... or anyone else for that matter.
    She was very glad she was there.

    Two hours later, the now-all-too-familiar crowd had assembled: Dr. Liu and her team, the media, the spectators, a brigade of cops.
    Someone had finally removed the badge from Joe McGivney’s mouth and covered his body with a cloth.
    Bloss had arrived, even before the coroner’s wagon, and Savannah knew he was deeply distressed by this development; he hadn’t even harassed her for being present at a crime scene.
    She was sitting on the fender of her Camaro, keeping a low profile when he finally approached her and asked in a flat, subdued monotone, “Where is my daughter?” He actually looked too tired for hostility.
    “She’s at my place, eating barbecue and playing hearts with my assistant, Tammy. In other words, she’s safe and she’s having fun.”
    “That’s good. Thanks.”
    It was all Savannah could do not to reach over and place her hand on his forehead to check for a fever. Since when did Harvey Bloss converse with her like a normal human being?
    He did look a bit “peaked around the gills,” as Gran would say. He had deep, dark circles under his eyes, and his usually overly ruddy complexion had an unhealthy gray cast to it.
    Nope. Captain Bloss didn’t look so good these days.
    He looked like he was going to say something else, but one of his flunkies came running up to him, a worried and urgent look on his face. They spoke in low tones for a moment, then Bloss hurried to his dark, cop-boss, generic sedan, and they both climbed inside.
    Through the open window, Bloss called out to Dirk, who was conversing with Dr. Jennifer. Dirk joined them in the car for a few minutes.
    When Dirk emerged, he looked as upset as Bloss. He walked over to Savannah , practically dragging his tracks out— from fatigue, or discouragement, or a combination of both, she didn’t know.
    “What is it?” she asked.
    “Not what,” he said. “Who. We’ve got another one missing.”
    She had a feeling, but she had to ask. “Who?”
    “Donald DeCianni.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

    December 16 — 1:18 p.m.

    “ Y ou sure find out who your friends are when something like this happens,” Christy Melleby said as she twisted the soggy tissue around her forefinger, then dabbed at the end of her nose. “It’s like