“Oh for goodness…” Bram was taut and angry. “Is there no privacy even in grief?”

Decker was quiet.

“What a crazy town,” the priest said. “Bare your soul to the world for your ten minutes of fame.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you through. You might want to duck just in case someone gets pushy.”

Bram slid down into his seat. Quickly, Decker drove up to the barricades, flashed ID to the uniforms who kept watch over the scene. Before Decker could roll up the window, a microphone was jammed into his face. Holding it was a woman crowned with an oversprayed hive of blond hair. Decker pressed the accelerator to the floor, almost taking the mike with him as the Volare thrust forward. In the distance, he could hear the blonde swearing.

Bram sat back up, his complexion wan. “It’s not that I haven’t seen bodies…or haven’t seen people die as a matter of fact.”

“It’s different when it’s your own.”

The priest said nothing. As they closed in on the Buick, a gasp escaped from his lips. In stark view was the meat wagon. Bold letters holding nothing back-LOS ANGELES COUNTY MORGUE.

Bram looked at his lap. Decker felt for him. Welcome to hell, buddy. How long will you be staying?

Two white-coated lab assistants gleamed like headlights under the back alley illumination. They were hunched over, peering inside the Buick, one of them holding the body bag. Next to them was the police photographer who was making lightning with her Nikon. Jay Craine’s car was parked a few stores down. Decker couldn’t see the Medical Examiner. Probably kneeling, examining the body.

Decker shut the motor. Bram started to open the door, but Decker held his arm. “Wait here.”

The priest had turned gray.

Decker said, “Do you feel sick?”

“Just the stench,” Bram said. “It’s okay. I’ll get used to it.”

“Give me a moment, Father, to clear things. You’re sure you’re not sick?”

“I’ll survive.”

Decker got out of the car. Farrell Gaynor met him in front of the Buick’s grille.

“Sparks is still in the car?” Decker asked.

“Yep. Craine’s just about done. Ready to load him on the wagon.” Gaynor scratched his nose. “Who you got in the car?”

“Sparks’s son. One of his sons. He’s a priest.”

“So the son is actually the father.”

Despite the grimness, Decker smiled. “I don’t want him to see his father sprawled out like that. We’ll bag him first, put him on a stretcher. Then I’ll bring the son over to make the ID.”

“Will do.”

Decker went over to the car. Craine stood up from his knees, took a step back when he saw Decker, and brought a hand to his chest. “Do you always sneak up on people, Lieutenant?”

“Sorry, Jay. What do you have?”

Craine appeared pensive. “Body’s still warm, no rigor evident. The homicide’s quite recent. But you don’t need me to tell you that.”

Gaynor said, “Yeah, Loo, I meant to tell you. Scott Oliver called while you were gone. Sparks was at the hospital today. Last anyone remembers, he finished up a meeting with a bunch of doctors around eight. Nobody seems to know what Sparks was doing here. At Tracadero’s, that is. Because he had dinner at the hospital. At least, that’s what his secretary said. Her name is Heather Manley.”

“Is she still at the hospital?”

“I don’t know where Scotty talked to her. On the phone or at the hospital.”

“So the great man was last seen about eight.” Craine snapped up his black bag. “It’s now quarter to eleven. You have an accurate time frame. Better than the one that science could have provided.”

“Did you know him, Jay?”

“I knew of him, Lieutenant. Everyone knew about Dr. Sparks.” Craine turned away. “This is very difficult. Seeing such a man as he…butchered like this.”

“Tell me about the murder.”

“Shots to the head and neck. Severed his brain stem. Most likely that was the primary cause of death. The other savagery…the chest wounds. I’d say they were postmortem. Someone was very strong and very angry. To crack the sternum and rib cage and expose his heart. A long knife with a big blade. I found some pulverized bone matter. Anything might have been used to smash the chest cavity. A crowbar, a baseball bat. A hammer or a mallet.”

“Things easily found in any car or toolbox or kitchen,” Decker said.

“Yes,” Craine agreed. “Whoever did this was a strong person.”

“Male, then.”

“I would think. Even a strong woman…to do this much damage…” Craine furrowed his brow in concentration. “If I were you, I’d be looking for someone with a penis.”

Gaynor held back a smile. “Smashing up the chest and exposing the heart. Sounds like someone was making a statement.”

“Indubitably.” Craine took off his gloves. “We’ll take him to the morgue now. Autopsy will be done first thing tomorrow.”

Decker said, “I have one of Dr. Sparks’s sons in the car. He’s come down to make the ID.”

“It’s Azor,” Craine said. “I’ll state it formally, if you’d like. Save the man some agony.”

“I think he knows it’s his father. I think he just wants to see it for himself.”

“Good gracious why?”

“He’s a priest,” Gaynor said. “Maybe he wants to perform last rites on him.”

“Can you do last rites on someone who’s deceased?” Decker asked. “Besides Azor Sparks wasn’t Catholic.”

“He was very religious,” Craine said. “Everyone knew about Azor Sparks, his Fundamentalist beliefs, and his commitment to God.” The ME paused. “Perhaps he did have a hot line to the Supreme Being. He certainly saved a lot of lives.”

Decker said, “I’ll bring the priest over as soon as your men put him in the bag and on the stretcher. I don’t want him to see the crime scene.”

“Very considerate of you, Lieutenant,” Craine muttered. “Very considerate. Copious amounts of spatter. The image is haunting even for the most professional of us. Good night.”

Gaynor watched as Craine got into his car and drove away. “He seemed upset. Well, maybe not upset. More like…affected.”

“Aren’t we all.” Decker shook his head. “Where’re Webster and Martinez?”

“On Dumpster patrol.” Gaynor pointed into the darkness. “See those blips of light?”

“I don’t see anything.”

“Good thing about getting old,” Gaynor said. “You become very farsighted. I see the flashlights. Maybe they’re about a block and a half, two blocks down. Want me to get them on the walkie-talkie?”

Decker peered down the empty space, trying to make out light. “No, I’ll talk to them later. Let me get the identification over with.” He turned his eyes back to the scene. They had loaded Sparks onto a stretcher. “Clear the decks for me, Farrell. Give the son some breathing room.”

Decker walked back to the Volare, opened the passenger door. Bram got out, balancing his weight on the car before he stood up.

“You need help?”

“No.”

“Over here.” Decker led the priest to the stretcher, the body encased in a vinyl bag. He nodded to an attendant who unzipped a portion of the plastic sheath.

The priest glanced downward, quickly averted his eyes, then stepped backward. “Dear God!”

Decker peeked. Dead eyes stared upward at the foggy moon. He took the priest’s arm, but Bram shook him off.

“I’m all right.” He covered his mouth, then let his hands drop. “I’m all right. I want to see him again.”

Decker stared at him.

“Please,” Bram said quietly. “Please, I need to see him again. Have them unzip the bag.”

Decker nodded to the attendants. Again, they opened the vinyl casket. The priest came forward, forced his eyes downward. Without warning, he dropped to his knees and crossed himself. Closed his eyes and clasped his hands. He brought his fists to his forehead and prayed, his mouth incanting a slurry of what sounded like Latin. Decker crooked his finger, beckoning the lab men away from the stretcher.

Give the man his illusion of privacy.