So it was another hour before Mrs. Ortiz approached the priest with her story and another hour after that before he telephoned the police, in English, and a car was dispatched. By that time the dew had dried along the Alameda and the day was hot.

Sergeant O’Neill had never seen a corpse before. There had been murders in Santa Fe, mostly Mexicans with knives solving domestic arguments, but he had never been assigned one. The last real murder, during a jewel robbery, had happened while he was fishing in the mountains. So the man in the park was his first official corpse, and it made him sick.

“You all right, Tom?” Chief Holliday asked him while the photographers snapped pictures. Inevitably, Holliday was “Doc.”

O’Neill nodded, embarrassed. “He’s a mess, all right. Where’s Doc Ritter, anyway? Don’t you think we should cover him up?”

Chief Holliday was crouched near the body, turning the head with a stick he’d picked up.

“Don’t be so squeamish-he doesn’t mind. Christ, look at this.” The back of the man’s head was crusted over with blood and pulp. “Here’s where he got it. The face looks like decoration-maybe a few good kicks, just for the hell of it.”

O’Neill was writing on his pad. “Weapon.”

“A blunt instrument. What do you think?”

“Blunt instrument.”

“Hammer, wrench, could have been anything. Anyway, it cracked his skull. Funny, though, there’s not much blood around. You’d think to look at him he wouldn’t have any left.”

“It rained last night. Maybe it washed away.”

“Maybe. No ID. Boys find anything further along?”

“Nothing. They’ve been checking up and down the Alameda. Broken bushes here where we found him, but that’s it. Can’t you at least shut his mouth?”

Holliday looked up and grinned. “Not now I can’t. Take it easy, O’Neill. Once the doc gets here, we’ll haul him off. You get used to it.”