“What now?” McAdams asked.

“We leave a card, then we drive over to the morgue and see if they’ve started Angeline’s autopsy. I’d like to get a blood sample for DNA. See if we can get a match from her toothbrush. If that doesn’t work, we’ll do a match with Mom. Anything’s better than a visual identity. No parent should have to see a son or a daughter in that condition.”

“Don’t you need both parents for a profile match?”

“The lab can do a mitochondrial match. Unless there are other sisters missing, it’s good enough for an ID.” Decker took out his card and stuck it into the doorway. As he turned to leave, a neighbor came out. She lived two doors down and was wearing a housecoat. She was dark complexioned with gray hair: midsixties to early seventies.

“Finally!”

“Excuse me?” Decker said.

“You’re the police, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, it took you long enough to come down.”

Decker smoothed his mustache. Then he took out a notebook. “When did you call?”

“Around ten last night. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Remind me of the complaint. I just got a notice to come down and talk to the man in this unit . . . I believe his name is John Latham.”

“It’s John. I don’t know his last name. He wasn’t very friendly.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “And you are . . .”

“Inez Camero.”

“How long have you lived in the building?”

“Ten years.”

“How long has John been here?”

“Under a year. And like I said, he’s not very friendly. But at least he was quiet . . . until last night. Music was blasting so loud, my other ear nearly went deaf. You could have probably heard it in Cambridge.”

“It was blasting all last night?”

“It started around nine-thirty. I know because my favorite show, Real Estate Buddies, was on the television. I had my tea, I had my biscotti, all set to enjoy a nice quiet evening, but nooooo. I called the police at ten during the commercial break. When nothing happened, I finally went over myself and banged on the door. That musta been around ten-thirty right after my show. Leslie Avila saw me. She was getting ready to do the same thing. Finally the jerk turned down the volume.”

“Inconsiderate neighbors can be a real problem,” Decker said.

“What’s a real problem is an apathetic police department. What good are you if I have to do it myself because you don’t show up until the next morning?”

Decker nodded. “I understand your frustration.”

“Sure you do.” Inez was actively glaring by this time. “Sorry to have disturbed you. I’m sure you have important stuff to deal with like where to get your doughnuts.” With her parting shot, Inez marched back into her apartment and slammed the door.

McAdams said, “She wasn’t very nice.”

“She’s frustrated.” Decker swirled his tongue inside his cheek and thought a moment. He squatted down and sniffed underneath the door. While he was down there, he saw the tip of a small white card. With deft hands, he pulled it out and read. “Officer James Marx.”

“The police did come out.”

“Apparently.” Decker stood up and turned it around to the back side. “No time on the card. Maybe when Marx showed up, the music had stopped.” He handed McAdams the card. “Give him a call. Find out when he came out.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.” Decker bit his lower lip. “Someone was here last night inside Latham’s apartment because someone turned down the music. But the card was still there under the door in the morning.”

“Maybe he didn’t see it when he left the apart— Uh, hello, can I talk to Officer James Marx, please?”

“Identify yourself first, Tyler.”

“Right.”

Decker dropped to a squat, once again sniffing under the door.

McAdams said, “Could you please have him call Detective Tyler McAdams of the Greenbury Police Department. We’re in the area investigating a crime that occurred south of here. I’ll give you my cell number.”

Decker stood up. “I definitely smell something.”

“Like what?” Tyler stowed his cell in his pocket. “Decay?”

“More metallic—like blood.”

McAdams started to bend down. Decker pulled him up by his collar before his hands and knees touched the ground. “If there was a murder, everything on the floor is possible forensic evidence—”

“I know. Don’t kneel, squat. My quads leave something to be desired.”

Decker pointed to the floor. “Go on. Take a whiff.”

The kid complied. “Yeah, it does smell a little funky in there. Can you help me up?”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

McAdams took in a deep breath and managed to hoist himself back up on his feet. “If I get a leg cramp, can I apply for workman’s comp?” When Decker didn’t answer, he said, “I’m just trying to add a little levity in an otherwise grave situation . . . no pun intended.”

But Decker was lost in thought. “There was a report of unusually loud music, which could have been used to mask criminal activity. The police card wasn’t taken off the floor. And I think I smell blood.” He looked at Tyler. “I’d say we have probable cause.”

“Probable cause for what? You’re going inside?”

“I’m going to try.” Decker took out a credit card, worked it between the door frame and the lock.

“What if the guy’s still there?”

The lock snapped open. Decker took out his gun. “This is basic police work, McAdams. Stay here and guard my ass.” The kid had turned ashen. “You’re not going to pass out on me, right?”

“No, no, I’m fine.” A forced smile. “I don’t have a weapon on me, Old Man.”

“You’ve got the best weapon in the world, McAdams. Your vocal cords. You see anything hinky, just let out a scream.”

Decker took out a single latex glove and sheathed his left hand, keeping his right hand bare and firmly on the grip of his gun. He pushed open the door with the barrel of his gun. Stepping inside chaos, his nose was assaulted with bad news as he took in the sight of a recent struggle, not unlike the one that had taken place in Angeline’s apartment.

Upturned furniture, items pitched everywhere. He didn’t see any stereo receiver, but there was a TV and a dock for an iPad. The TV was off and cold and the dock was empty. It was hard to walk without disturbing something, including the blood on the floor and area rug. Distinct circles and ovals . . . drip blood from an injury, not splatter from an artery. He tiptoed very carefully across the room and into the kitchen.

There was more mess—overturned canisters, broken glasses, cutlery on the floor. More drips, but still no splatter, which meant no massive amount of blood loss. There were two wineglasses in the sink, and an open bottle of pinot on the counter that somehow remained intact. An empty knife block, its contents scattered on the floor. He couldn’t tell if anything was missing, but strewn knives were never good signs of anything. He tiptoed out of the kitchen and down the small hallway. The bathroom door was open. More drips on the floor, bloody towels in the sink and bathtub. The smell was getting stronger and stronger, not just metallic but putrid—discarded feces, decay . . . fetid rot. When he opened the door to the bedroom, he found the source.

The nude body on the bed: multiple stab wounds, which often meant not only rage but up close and personal. This time the fury was overt because the man’s penis and testicles had been severed and placed on his stomach. In addition to the stab wounds and the genital mutilation, his throat had been slashed.

“Decker?” McAdams called out. “You okay?”

“Don’t move, McAdams. Stay where you are.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just hold on.” Decker tiptoed out of the bedroom and saw the kid standing in the hallway of the apartment. “I’m assuming you didn’t touch anything and you were careful where you walked. There’s blood evidence in the living room.”

“I saw it. And yes, I was real careful where I put my feet.” The kid swallowed hard. “You’ve been gone a while. I peeked in and saw the blood. I got nervous . . . like you were ambushed. I guess I would have heard something if you were ambushed. Sorry to disturb you.”