“I wondered what the hell the smell was,” McBride said, appearing at the door.

“Just animals,” Dooley replied.

“Don’t they ever wash? Filthy buggers.”

“Anything downstairs?”

“Nope,” McBride said, crossing to the cages. The monkeys met his advance with more gymnastics. “Just the alarm.”

“Nothing up here either,” Dooley said. He was about to add, “Don’t do that,” to prevent his partner putting his finger to the mesh, but before the words were out one of the animals seized the proffered digit and bit it. McBride wrested his finger free and threw a blow back against the mesh in retaliation. Squealing its anger, the occupant flung its scrawny body about in a lunatic fandango that threatened to pitch cage and monkey alike onto the floor.

“You’ll need a tetanus shot for that,” Dooley commented.

“Shit!” said McBride, “what’s wrong with the little bastard anyhow?” “Maybe they don’t like strangers.”

“They’re out of their tiny minds.” McBride sucked ruminatively on his finger, than spat.

“I mean, look at them.”

Dooley didn’t answer.

“I said, look…” McBride repeated.

Very quietly, Dooley said: “Over here.”

“What is it?”

“Just come over here.”

McBride drew his gaze from the row of cages and across the cluttered work surfaces to where Dooley was staring at the ground, the look on his face one of fascinated revulsion.

McBride neglected his finger sucking and threaded his way among the benches and stools to where his partner stood.

“Under there,” Dooley muttered.

On the scuffed floor at Dooley’s feet was a woman’s beige shoe; beneath the bench was the shoe’s owner. To judge by her cramped position she had either been secreted there by the miscreant or dragged herself out of sight and died in hiding.