“Pretty wide-open spaces,” Fowley said. “See that lot over there? That’s where Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey used to put the circus on, before the war.”

“There she is,” I said, pointing to a bare white foot in the weeds.

Fowley slowed, craned his neck. “Hell, that’s not a woman-that’s a store mannequin or something…”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

There’d been no sign of whoever called it in to the cops; not surprising a citizen would take a pass on getting involved in the likes of this.

Now-some minutes later-Fowley was scribbling frantically as I took a few more flash pictures, the Speed Graphic spitting blackened flashbulbs onto the crime scene; any moment a patrol car, having heard the same police call, would roll up and take over. Me, I wished they’d hurry.

But, as I may have mentioned, I was a detective, and, for better or worse, that’s how I looked at things. And I heard myself saying to Fowley, “You notice anything weird about this?”

Flies were blowing me the raspberry.

Fowley looked up from his notepad, raising his eyebrows, smirking as he said, “Oh hell no. This is about as routine as they come, Heller.”

“Where’s the blood?”

“The blood…” His eyes slitted, then widened. “Where the hell is the blood?” Suddenly Fowley was looking around like somebody who misplaced his car keys.

From the sidewalk, I pointed to the two-part corpse. “Look at the wounds-no signs of coagulation.”

Nodding slowly, Fowley said, “The grass isn’t bloody around the body, either-not even… you know, between the halves.”

“No sign of any other internal fluids, either. See that grayish white knob? That’s her spine. It looks like some organs have been removed.”

“What is this guy? A friggin’ vampire?”