An upended cot had been tossed into the corner, its mattress, such as it was, still in place relative to the frame. Every surface had been splashed with gore; drips, smears and spatters extending high onto the walls. A child-size bloody footprint pointed out the door-just a partial, actually, a ball and five toes. Michaels's mind worked to re-create the enormous struggle that had gone on in here.

As Warren surveyed the scene, a cheerful and familiar voice boomed out of the din.

"Nice outfit there, Lieutenant," Jed Hackner said from behind, clapping his boss on the shoulder. Hackner and Michaels had been classmates through the academy, and back as far as junior high school. That one outranked the other spoke only of the limited availability of lieutenant slots, not of any lack of ability. Each man thought of the other as his closest friend.

"Yeah, well, imagine me thinking that just because I had the day off, I wouldn't have to work. You certainly are your usual dapper self this evening." Hackner had a reputation as the department's clotheshorse, preferring the latest styles from Gentleman's Quarterly over the cliched rumpled look of most detectives.

"Pretty disgusting scene, huh?" Hackner said, noting Michaels's body language.

"What the hell happened in here?"

Hackner pulled a notebook from his inside jacket pocket. Always a notebook, Michaels thought with amusement. Not a single note more than one hour old, yet Jed still needed to read his findings.

"From what we've put together so far, this is Richard W. Harris, age twenty-eight. He's been employed here for the past four and a half years as a child care supervisor."

"Is that the same as a guard?" Michaels interrupted.

"Yes," Hackner acknowledged with a smile. "But only to politically incorrect old people." At thirty-seven, Michaels was eight months Hackner's senior. Jed continued from his notes: "At seven o'clock, Mr. Harris had some kind of an altercation with one of the residents, a Nathan Bailey, and assigned the kid here to the Crisis Unit."