Dodie nodded at the food in Louis’s hand. “I’d forget about that if I was you.”

Louis looked at the bacon sandwich in his hand, then put it back on the plate.

It was past eleven by the time Louis got to the Lee County morgue, a squat municipal building on the edge of the Page Field airport. He found his way down the yellow-tiled hallway to the autopsy room. There was a large black man leaning against the wall outside, dressed in green medical scrubs. He took a sip from his Star Trek coffee mug and eyed Louis as he approached.

“Wainwright’s in there,” he said in a flat voice, jerking his head toward the door.

Louis looked through the glass to the autopsy room. He could see Wainwright’s broad back in its black uniform. There was another man in green scrubs and a white apron on the opposite side of the waist-high fiberglass table, his face hidden behind what looked like a large grocery scale. On the table between them was the body, though Louis could see only the corpse’s legs sticking out. He noticed a small sign above the door: MORTUI VIVOS DOCENT. Pulling in a breath, he went in.

The smell hit him square in the face, a nostril-numbing brew that immediately conjured up things and places that he couldn’t quite remember. He resisted the urge to cover his nose and mouth.

Wainwright turned. “Kincaid. You’re just in time for the fun part,” he said.

Louis slowly approached the table. The corpse’s chest had already been cut open, the Y-shaped incision running from the front of each shoulder to the bottom of the breastbone and down to the genitals. The skin, muscles, and tissue had already been peeled back, the largest flap of skin pulled upward, hiding the face.

Louis stared at the red cavity of the rib cage. A memory bubbled up from childhood, a woman’s back to him as she worked at a chipped white sink and the sight of freshly skinned rabbit. And the smell . . . he could suddenly place that. Dead rats in summer, caught in the walls of their house.

He looked up and saw Wainwright staring at him with a slightly bemused look.

“First time?” Wainwright asked.

“Yes,” Louis said.

“Breathe through your mouth,” Wainwright said. He nodded to the man in scrubs. “This is Vince Carissimi, the ME. Doc, this is Louis Kincaid. He’s working private.”

Vince Carissimi was about thirty-five, tall and blue-eyed with shaggy salt-and-pepper hair. A pair of earphones hung from his neck attached to the Walkman on his belt. Louis could hear the tinny music. It was Jimi Hendrix.

“Welcome to my realm,” Vince said. “Call me Vince. It’s Vincenzo, actually, but only my mother is allowed to call me that. Call me Vince. Please.”

Louis glanced around. The room looked unnervingly like a kitchen. He noticed a sign on the wall. HOUSE RULE NO. 1: IF IT IS WET AND STICKY AND NOT YOURS, DON’T TOUCH IT!

Louis’s gaze returned to the corpse. He had seen dead people before, but not like this. The man’s limbs were bloated and mottled, like smooth pale marble. There was a gaping black hole in the left thigh just below the groin.

“How could you tell he was black?” Louis asked, without looking up.

“The anatomic position of the mandible relative to the zygomatic bones indicates a Negroid skull structure,” Vince said.

Wainwright sighed. “He’s bullshitting you. We found the guy’s wallet.” He pulled a paper from his pocket. “His name is Anthony Quick. He’s from Toledo, Ohio. Forty years old. Wife and two kids.” He paused. “I called Toledo PD. They’re sending someone out to the house this morning.”

Louis nodded. He had pulled “messenger duty” often as a rookie with the Ann Arbor force. He knew the drill: We have some bad news, ma’am. Your husband is dead. We’re sorry for your loss.... Gentle but direct was the best way. But it never made it easier for them or you.

Wainwright handed Louis a file. Louis scanned the dossier and then looked at the copy of the license picture. Anthony Quick was a good-looking man, light-skinned with close-cropped black hair and dark eyes that stared out with the slightly irritated look of a man who had waited a long time in line to get his renewal. Louis had a sudden image of two kids waiting at the window for Dad’s car to pull up.

“We found a Holiday Inn key in his pocket. Sheriff’s guys are checking it out.”

“Sheriff?” Louis asked.

“It was from the hotel over in Fort Myers Beach. Separate city, so it’s county jurisdiction,” Wainwright said flatly.

Louis watched Vince use what looked like pruning shears to cut away the rib cage. “The newspaper said he was a tourist,” Louis said.

Wainwright shook his head. “Not really. A computer software salesman. In town for a convention. Had a schedule in his pocket.”

Vince was now carefully cutting away the last of the tissue holding the chest plate. The organs lay exposed now, an amorphic mass of pink and white. Louis stared at it, fascinated.

“Where’s his heart?” he asked.

Vince pointed with his scalpel. “It’s covered by the pericardial sac.” He smiled. “Doesn’t look like you thought it would, does it?”

“You said the MO was the same as Tatum?” Louis asked.

Wainwright nodded. “Shot in the leg, stabbed, then beaten. Show him, Doc.”

Vince pulled the flap of skin off the face. Louis almost gagged. The face was bloated from being in the water but the right side was completely flattened.

“Horribile dictu,” Vince said.

“We figure he was thrown in the water right after that,” Wainwright said.

“So he died of the stabbing, like Tatum?” Louis asked.

“Actually, it was asphyxia,” Vince said. “The guy drowned.”

“Doc thinks he was still alive when he was dumped in the water,” Wainwright said.

“Barely,” Vince said. “If he hadn’t been thrown in the water, he would have bled to death.”

“Was he killed on the shore of this reserve?” Louis asked.

Wainwright shook his head. “There is no shore, no beach. Out there, just mangroves. Bakers Point is pretty isolated. There’s one entrance road and no other way in except by boat. Not much of a tide there, kind of swamplike.”

“Who found him?” Louis asked.

“Fishermen. He was in the water for a couple of days.”

“Probably two,” Vince said. “Skin and fingernails separate after about eight days.” He held up one of the hands. “He had defense wounds on his hands. I suspect he was cut trying to ward off the knife. He might have even tried to grab the blade at one point.”

Louis was staring at the gashes on the bloated left hand. He could see an indentation on the ring finger where Vince Carissimi had apparently cut off a wedding band.

“You match the knife yet on Tatum?” Wainwright asked, from behind Louis.

“Nope,” Vince answered. “I thought at first it was one of your garden-variety kitchen Henckels. Found a butcher knife in my catalog with the same twelve-inch blade. But Tatum’s wounds indicate the blade has an upward curve to it. It looks like these wounds are similar.”

“So it’s not your run-of-the-mill switchblade or pocketknife?” Louis asked.

Vince shook his head. “Not even close.”

Wainwright sighed. “Shit. Well, keep looking.”

Louis’s eyes traveled the body, coming to rest on the wound on the thigh. “Do you know what gauge shotgun he used?” he asked.

“The shooter used blanks,” Vince said.

Louis felt Wainwright come up behind him. “Blanks?” he said. “Damn. It looks like a real gunshot.”

“The explosion of gases leaves a wound just like pellets,” Vince said. “Tatum was the same, by the way. No pellets. Just the hole.”

“Why the hell would he use blanks?” Wainwright murmured.

“Maybe he just wanted to disable him first,” Louis offered.

Wainwright looked at him and nodded.

Vince was slicing open a thin membrane in the chest. “Oh, by the way, I found something else strange. He had minute traces of paint on him. In the pores on the neck and face.”