Manhattan, New York AT DAWN, AT an area under the Manhattan Bridge along the East River not far from pier seventeen, half a dozen uniformed police officers and plainclothes detectives were gathered around a fully dressed corpse lying at the river's edge. The body had been carelessly tossed down, so its head was eerily bobbing up and down in the water, following the vagaries of the tide.

The man in charge, Detective Earl Greenburg, from the Manhattan South Homicide Squad, had finished the official prescribed procedures. No one was allowed to approach the body until photographs had been taken, and he made notes of the scene while the officers looked for any evidence that might be lying around. The victim's hands had been wrapped in clean plastic bags.

Carl Ward, the medical examiner, finished his examination, stood up, and brushed the dirt from his trousers. He looked at the two detectives in charge. Detective Earl Greenburg was a professional, capable-looking man with an impressive record. Detective Robert Praegitzer was gray-haired, with the laid-back manner of someone who had seen it all before.

Ward turned to Greenburg. "He's all yours, Earl." "What have we got?" "The obvious cause of death is a slashed throat, right through the carotid artery. He has two busted kneecaps, and it feels like a few ribs are broken.

Someone worked him over pretty good."

"What about the time of death?" Ward looked down at the water lapping at the victim's head. "Hard to say. My guess is that they dumped him here sometime after midnight. I'll give you a full report when we get him to the morgue." Greenburg turned his attention to the body. Gray jacket, dark blue trousers, light blue tie, an expensive watch on the left wrist. Greenburg knelt down and started going through the victim's jacket pockets.