Crucifixes of differing sizes and designs dotted his forearms and thighs and belly, all of them upside down. The tattoos were upside down because they were self-inflicted. They would have been right-side up as he looked at them when he pushed ink into his skin. Some of the crosses were brittle thin lines, but others were blocky structures with shading and shadows. Weeping Jesuses and upside-down words were spread between the crosses: PAIN, MERCY, GOD, FORGIVE ME. They looked like they had been drawn by a child. I felt queasy. These marks were not religious; he had desecrated himself.

When I glanced at Diaz, she was watching me again. I felt a bubble of irritation.

"What is it? You think I look like him?"

"You don't look anything like him. Do the tattoos ring a bell?"

"Of course not. It's nothing but crosses."

Diaz glanced at Beckett.

"Does he have more on his back?"

"Uh-uh. It's all in front where he could reach. None of his ink is identifying-like the name of a ship, or a gang sign, or something like that-it's just what you see."

Diaz frowned at the body, then shook her head.

"Okay, I want you to check him for sex. If you get a smear, log it for DNA."

"Pardy already told me."

"Fine. Dope, too. He was in that alley for something."

Beckett shifted the bag to make a note, and the bag gave me an idea.

"Did you see if his name was in his clothes?"

Beckett grinned.

"Always, and inside his shoes, too. I got burned like that on my first case-here's this dude, flattened with no ID and no prints in the file, turns out his mama wrote his name inside his belt, and that's how we made the ID."

I nodded, and looked back at Diaz.

"And you didn't find any rings, watches, a wallet-"

"He was stripped, Cole. Just the clippings and seven cents."

I studied the body again, feeling remote and detached. His chest was smooth and thin beneath the tattoos, with a farmer's tan showing pale flesh against dark arms. Other than a thin scrape at the base of his neck, no other marks were apparent. The lower half of his body showed a mottled lividity where his blood settled; the bloodless tissue above had taken on a waxy sheen that seemed to highlight the tattoos. The pucker of the entry hole was purple and blue with a pepper of gunpowder particulate surrounding it. He had been shot close, the muzzle not more than two feet away. His fingers showed no evidence of rings, but his left wrist carried the pale outline of a missing watch. A faint dimple crossed the outside of his hip below his left pelvis, so slight it might have been a fold or a crease.

I said, "What's that?"

Beckett reached under the gurney for the case file, and tipped out a large X-ray.

"A surgical scar. There's another on his opposite leg just like it. Here, we already got the plates."

He held the X-ray up to the overhead light. The shadows and smudges of the pelvic ball joint were offset by perfect white bars that ran along the outside of each femur. Beckett pointed them out.

"It looks corrective, so he probably had the surgery when he was a kid. These white bands are some kind of appliance. Appliances like this will sometimes have a manufacturer and serial number. If these do, we should be able to trace the manufacturer to the hospital, and pick up his ID."

Diaz said, "When will he hit the table?"

Beckett checked his clipboard.

"Tomorrow afternoon, looks like. Might wash over to the day after, but I think we'll cut him tomorrow."

I stared at the body again. Its face had hardened with rigor into a distorted mask. One eye was closed, but the other drooped open. The skin was stretched tight over bony cheeks and the hollows of his eyes were pronounced. His mouth hung open as if he were sleeping and might wake. I wanted to close it.

Something touched me. I lurched. Diaz was watching me.

"Cole? You okay?"

"Sure. What happens next?"

Diaz stared at me another moment, then glanced at Beckett.

"Okay, Dino, we're done. I need close-ups of the body tats and his face. Something that doesn't make him look like Night of the Living Dead, okay?"

"No prob. I'll meet you at the elevator."

Beckett pushed the body away as Diaz and I peeled off our gloves, and I followed her back to the hall. When we were away from the bodies, she considered me again.

"Here is what happens: I'm going to drop the pictures back with Pardy so he can make copies, then I'm going to bed. Pardy will hand out the pictures to the patrol commander so we can try to find someone who knew this guy."

"Has Pardy ever worked a case before?"

"This is a big chance for him, Cole. Pardy came up from Metro. He's hungry, and he wants to make a name for himself. He'll be fine."

I looked back at the swinging door with the walls of bodies behind it, some that had been there for years.

"You mind if I work it?"

"Meaning what? Pardy isn't good enough, so the World's Greatest has to pitch in?"

"I want to know why he thought he was my father. Wouldn't you want to know why someone said that about you?"

"We haven't even cleared you yet."

"You'll clear me. C'mon, Diaz, think about it. I might even find the shooter."

Her eyes hardened with something I could not read deep in their dark pools. She smiled at me, but her smile held no humor, and was also unreadable. She shook her head.

"I hope you're being straight with me."

"About what?"

"I hope you're not keeping something from me, Cole."

"Like what?"

"You don't recognize him?"

"All I know is a man who told you he was my father is lying on ice."

She stared with the hard eyes, then she turned away down the hall.

"Sure, Cole. You want to look, look. You're the World's Greatest Detective. It says so in the papers."

Beckett met us at the elevator a few minutes later, and gave Diaz the pictures. She pulled off her mask, considered the picture of the dead man's face, then gave me one of the prints.

"Here. You might need this."

"Thanks."

"You can take off the mask."

I left it on. I didn't take off the mask until the elevator opened and we stepped into cool fresh air. We walked out together, then parted to go to our cars. When I reached my car I looked back at her. She was standing beside a dark blue Passat, studying his picture. She glanced up to look at me, and saw I was watching. She tried to pretend she wasn't comparing us, but I sensed that she was. She got into her car, and drove quickly away.

Hidden

Payne Keller owned sixteen acres of elm thicket, brush, and pine trees, bought for squat in a probate because the cabin was falling apart. He had dug a new septic tank, a new well, replumbed the place, put in new gas lines, had a natural-gas tank set, put on a new roof, and paid to run new phone and power lines from the main road. Frederick had encouraged Payne to get a trailer like him, but Payne wanted his privacy. Frederick had to admit that Payne's privacy had come in handy, time to time.

Frederick bumped along the long private drive over potholes and erosion cuts until he reached Payne's cabin. The dusty white house was still. Frederick slipped the shotgun from under the seat, then climbed out of his truck. Payne used to have a real nice place, but now the eaves were heavy with cobwebs, and the house was streaked with dirt like mascara when a woman cried. "Payne! Hey, buddy, you home?"

Frederick stood absolutely still, listening. He sensed the house was deserted, but stepped up onto the covered porch, keeping an eye on the windows. He unlocked the dead bolt, and pushed open the door. Inside, twelve Christs stared down at him from twelve crucifixes nailed to the walls. More Christs stood on the TV. Christ bore witness from the entertainment center, the bookcase, and the end tables. Frederick knew that even more Christs waited in the bathroom and kitchen and bedroom.