“Man, oh man,” he groaned.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“You think maybe I picked up the stomach flu or something?”

“Or something.” She’d always liked Frost, had always appreciated his sunny and uncomplaining nature, and she hated to see his pride laid so low. She gave him a pat on the shoulder, a motherly smile. Frost seemed to invite mothering, even from the decidedly unmaternal Rizzoli. “I’ll just pack you a barf bag next time,” she offered.

“You know,” he said, trailing after her, “I really do think it’s just the flu…”

They reached the torso. Tierney grunted as he squatted down, his joints protesting the latest insult, and lifted the disposable sheet. Frost blanched and retreated a step. Rizzoli fought the impulse to do the same.

The torso had broken into two parts, separated at the level of the umbilicus. The top half, wearing a beige cotton shirt, stretched east to west. The bottom half, wearing blue jeans, lay north to south. The halves were connected by only a few strands of skin and muscle. The internal organs had spilled out and lay in a pulpified mass. The back half of the skull had shattered open, and the brain had been ejected.

“Young male, well nourished, appears to be of Hispanic or Mediterranean origin, in his twenties to thirties,” said Tierney. “I see obvious fractures of the thoracic spine, ribs, clavicles, and skull.”

“Couldn’t a truck do this?” Rizzoli asked.

“It’s certainly possible a truck could have caused massive injuries like these.” He looked at Rizzoli, his pale-blue eyes challenging hers. “But no one heard or saw such a vehicle. Did they?”

“Unfortunately, no,” she admitted.

Frost finally managed a comment. “You know, I don’t think those are tire tracks on his shirt.”

Rizzoli focused on the black streaks across the front of the victim’s shirt. With a gloved hand, she touched one of the smears, and looked at her finger. A smudge of black had transferred to her latex glove. She stared at it for a moment, processing this new information.