"What the hell is that?" he asked, pointing to the jar. Good old Vince; he was never afraid to sound stupid.

"That's the right middle lobe of a lung," M. J. said.

"I woulda guessed it was a brain."

Beamis laughed. "That's why she's the doc and you're just a dumb cop." He straightened his tie and looked at her. "Isn't Ratchet doing this one?"

M. J. snapped on a pair of gloves. "Afraid I am."

"Thought your shift started at eight."

"Tell me about it." She went to the slab and gazed down at the bag, feeling her usual reluctance to open the zipper, to reveal what lay beneath the black plastic. How many of these bags have I opened? she wondered. A hundred, two hundred? Each one contained its own private horror story. This was the hardest part, sliding down the zipper, unveiling the contents. Once a body was revealed, once she'd weathered the initial shock of its appearance, she could set to work with a scientist's dispassion. But the first glimpse, the first reaction – that was always pure emotion, something over which she had no control.

"So, guys," she said. "What's the story here?"

Shradick came forward and flipped open his notebook. It was like an extension of his arm, that notebook; she'd never seen him without it. "Caucasian female, no ID, age twenty to thirty. Body found four A.M. this morning, off South Lexington. No apparent trauma, no witnesses, no nothin'."

"South Lexington," said M. J., and images of that neighborhood flashed through her mind. She knew the area too well-the streets, the back alleys, the playgrounds rimmed with barbed wire. And, looming above it all, the seven buildings, as grim as twenty-story concrete headstones. "The Projects?" she asked.

"Where else?"

"Who found her?"

"City trash pickup," said Beamis. "She was in an alley between two of the Project buildings, sort of wedged against a Dumpster."