An unmarked car moved through the vehicular snarl with urgent repeats from its screaming whelper. When it braked to a stop across from the church, I could see Mercer Wallace, one of the city’s only African American detectives to make first grade, his six-footfour inches towering over the noisy kids.

Officers began to push back against the curious crowd as one of the sergeants from the local precinct came through the gates and up the steps, followed by Mercer.

“Counselor.” Sergeant Grayson nodded at me as he shook Mike’s hand. “What’s going on here, Chapman? Why’d you pull Alexandra out of bed in the middle of the night?”

“She got something better to do I don’t know about?”

I walked behind Mike to try to get a closer look at the body, wrapping the end of my scarf around my mouth and nostrils, although it provided little protection from the powerful odor. We had all put on booties and been cautioned to minimize foot traffic close to the dead woman because of the need for the crime-scene team to collect debris that might also yield valuable clues.

“You just can’t learn to stay back, can you, Coop?” Mike said as Mercer joined us at the top of the staircase, in front of three pairs of tall wooden doors that fronted the six columns of the old church.

I stared at the parts of the young woman’s body that were visible. Her left thigh was bruised, her torso was badly burned, and mutilated fingers protruded from beneath the tattered blanket.

“Who’s the ME?” Grayson asked, glancing over at Mike.

“Rookie named Bixby, who’s about to die from a cell phone being forcibly impacted in his cochlea if he doesn’t hang it up and get back over here,” Mike said, whistling to get the doctor’s attention. “I take it you’ve met Ms. Cooper.”

“About six rapes and thirty-seven domestic assaults ago,” Grayson said. “How you doing, Alex?”