They didn't say anything to each other after that phone call; it was time to go to work. Somehow, though, they knew she would be working with him and that he wouldn't have to go it alone. And that was right, they knew it was right.

Lawless got to the Paradise Lateral at a quarter to eight, whistling, looking and feeling better than he had in anyone's recent memory. He had even found a clean, pressed jacket in the back of the closet.

A crowd had assembled. He saw three patrol cars parked in the field and followed their tracks through the dry grass, hoping his car wouldn't get caught in a hole or blow a tire. McCain and Cruff were there, keeping the crowd at bay. He guessed there were thirty people looking at the canal; bad news travels fast.

Sgt. Ralph Tingey stood on the canal bank, writing on a notepad. Tingey saw Lawless and waved him over. Ralph looked bad.

"Jesus, Danny," Tingey said. "Thank God you're here."

Tingey stood five feet from what appeared to be two human legs, lying at a forty-five-degree angle to each other, two feet from the canal; each leg was cut mid-point between the foot and knee. The feet were covered by an unbranded pair of white tennis shoes, probably from Wal-Mart. The legs wore jeans. Red meat and white bone poked out from the sheared end of the jeans and blood had soaked into the sand at the cut-off end of the legs, turning it black. Flies had found the gore and were feasting.

Ten feet from the legs, Lawless saw a couple of lawn chairs, one overturned, on either side of an ice chest. A grocery bag sat in front of the chest, on top lay a small baggie containing what appeared to be several marijuana cigarettes. The ice chest, no doubt, held beer. Party station, Lawless thought. Someone was partying by the canal and lost their life.

"What do we have, Ralph?"

"We got jack-shit, Danny," Tingey said, staring at the legs. Tingey was fifty-five, looked sixty-five, and seldom ventured out of headquarters. His wife, Mary, had left him for a woman two years ago, after thirty years of marriage. Bachelorhood had not been good to Tingey; he took all his meals at a diner now and the grease and starch had put twenty pounds on his belly; he looked eight months pregnant. His doctor warned him he would never make it to retirement if he didn't take better care of himself, but he didn't care. Mary had broken his spirit; he even quit the bowling league. He was no good for real police work now, so the sheriff moved him inside to supervise the deputies and shuffle papers, hoping to cover for him until he retired.

"How did you get this one?" Lawless asked.

"I didn't 'get' this one. I'm giving it to you. I'm too old for this shit. I was on my way to work when the call comes across the radio about an attack off Paradise. I was close so I figured, what the hell." He looked at Lawless. "They said 'attack,' " spitting the word. "I thought this was a gang hit, not one of your canal killings."

"Who called it in?"

"Mother of the victim. Says he didn't come home last night and work called 'cause he didn't show up at six."

"How did she know to look out here?"

Tingey spat into the water and watched his phlegm float downstream. "She didn't, at first. Says one of her kids found her son's friend hiding in the backyard. She tried to talk to him but he wasn't saying much. All she could get out of him was 'Bitch' and 'Bobby's ass,' or some shit like that. He pointed to the canal and she found this." He waved an arm around. "Said these were her son's shoes, so I suppose that's his feet in the shoes."

" 'Bitch' and 'Bobby's ass'?" Lawless repeated. "Where's the friend now?" He was very interested in the friend, thinking he might have himself an eyewitness.

"His mama came and got him. Took him to the hospital."

"Did you talk to him?"

"No. When I got here the mother of this one," pointing to the legs, "brought me out here, hysterical and crying. By then the neighbors started showin' up and I had to stay here to keep them from stomping all over everything and taking souvenirs. By the time Cruff and McCain showed up, the mom had already taken the boy away."

Tingey looked at the crowd; four people had cameras and were snapping pictures, two were filming with small camcorders.

"Would you look at that?" Tingey said with disgust. "He was their neighbor, for God's sake. What the hell is wrong with people today?" He spat again. "You need me for anything else, Danny? 'Cause I sure as hell would like to get out of here."

"If that's all you have, no, I can take it from here."

"That's all I got." He turned to go. "I'm shuttin' off my radio from now on. Too old for this shit."

Lawless watched him slide down the canal bank, heard him say, to himself, "Take me a case of beer to get to sleep tonight."

He pulled out his cell phone, called for a CSI team and the coroner, though there wasn't much of the victim to pick up. He took some pictures with his digital camera, made some notes, remembered the divers and called headquarters, left a message for Busmur and Vandertop to meet him at the Paradise Lateral.

He climbed down the canal and asked McCain and Cruff if they knew anything. They didn't. They also made it clear they were happy doing crowd control and did not care to stick their noses into bloody leg-stumps again.

Lawless looked the crowd over; there were mostly Hispanics faces looking back at him, some with suspicion, others with hostility, most with plain old curiosity. The two camcorders were pointed at him, and a couple of flashes went off, so he climbed back up the canal bank.

On the canal, Lawless saw a short man loaded down with camera equipment walking through the field; Ed Yount, a photographer for The Modesto Bee. Ed was a first-rate photojournalist whose images had won many national awards, leaving Lawless to wonder how the Bee managed to keep him.

"Hey," Yount called. "How you doin', Detective?"

"Been better, Ed. How you doing?"

"Shankin'," Yount said, eying the throng held at bay by McCain and Cruff. Lawless wondered if 'shankin' ' meant good. "Big crowd today. You doing a magic show up there?"

"No magic up here, Ed." Though I sure could use some.

"Mind if I take some pictures?"

"Not at all. You'll want my good side, I'm sure."

"Handsome as you are, Detective, I think the paper wants pictures of the scene. They sell more copies that way."

"The reading public's loss. You know the rules, Ed. You can't come up here until CSI is done, and they haven't even arrived yet."

"That's why God gave photographers telephoto lenses." Yount attached a huge lens to his Nikon digital camera. "We can avoid tromping on potential evidence, yet still get the photos the public demands."

"Touching. I never thought of you as a public servant."

Yount aimed his camera at the party station and fired off a few shots. He checked the images on the camera's LCD screen, was satisfied he had what he needed, and looked back at the canal. Spying the tennis shoe-clad feet, he aimed his camera and zoomed in.

While shooting, he said to Lawless, "Is that the victim?"

"Sure is."

"Where's the rest of him, in the canal?"

"Don't know yet." Then, "You know the Bee won't publish those. They're too graphic."

"I just shoot 'em, Detective," Yount replied, firing away. "I don't get to pick which ones get published." Then, serious, "What do you think happened to the guy? Someone cut off his legs?"

"Looks that way." Lawless said it, even though he knew it wasn't true. "Just happened last night, so we don't know much. Ask me again next week and I can probably tell you more."

"I'll leave the question asking to our team of crack reporters," Yount said, shooting images of the crowd and deputies. "I'm sure one of them will be contacting you soon."

"By phone, no doubt," Lawless said.

Yount smiled as he checked his work on the LCD screen. "Good enough. I'm out of here."

"Have a shankin' day," Lawless called to him.

"I will do just that. Work your magic, Detective."

Yount passed Jensen on the way to his truck. She was back in full work dress. Remembering how she looked the night before at the restaurant, in her short skirt and white blouse, Lawless decided he liked the after-hours look better.

She scaled the canal bank. "Detective," she said, making eye contact.

"Deputy," he said back, smiling, despite efforts not to.

She gave a little smile back. "You're looking better today."

"I'm shankin'."

She raised her eyebrows. He tried to stifle a smile, couldn't, and looked away, thinking, correctly, someone had a camcorder pointed at them.

She looked at the legs. "That's all we have?"

"That's all it left this time."

"God help us," she said, shaking her head. She looked at the canal and felt vulnerable, standing so close to the water. She moved back a step and hugged herself, noticed the party station and said, "Looks like someone was having fun." And, counting, added, "There's two chairs."

"The mother of this one," he said, pointing to the legs, "says they found his friend hiding in their backyard. He's probably the other partier."

"Did he say anything to her?"

"Something, but I'm not sure what. Sgt. Tingey told me but it didn't make sense. His mother came and got him and took him to the hospital."

Still hugging herself, she said, "Do you think he saw what happened?"

"There's a good chance he did, so I'm real anxious to talk to him. I need to speak to the vic's mother as well, but I can't leave until CSI gets here."

"Is there something you want me to do?"

He thought of a few things, but said, "Why don't you work your magic on the crowd. Get them to talk, see if anyone saw anything, see what they know about the victim."

She went down into the crowd, happy to put more distance between herself and the canal, and started talking to the first clump of watchers. They had plenty to say, though it remained to be seen whether any of it was worth hearing.

Busmur and Vandertop arrived in their Explorer. Lawless watched them get out of their truck, and thought they didn't look happy to be here. He couldn't blame them; there's no way he would want their job right now.

"Detective," Busmur said as he climbed onto the canal bank. Vandertop slipped in the dirt and fell, drawing light applause from the crowd. One lucky filmmaker caught it on tape; Vandertop scowled at him.

"We have another db by the canal, and more missing body parts," Lawless told them, breaking the bad news.

Vandertop's face fell as he looked at the legs. "Looks like the whole body's missing."

"It should be easy to find then shouldn't it?" Lawless said.

The two deputies looked at the water with apprehension.

"We need the same job done here as yesterday, guys. Search the canal down to the next road. If you don't find the victim, and there's a hole in the grille, follow the canal until it ends. Call me if you find anything or when you finish. Oh, and I need you to check Lateral Number Three, where that MID guy was pulled out a couple of days ago."

"This is bizarre, Detective," Busmur said, looking at the legs. "I know there are some sick people in the world, but I never thought I would see this kind of thing in Modesto."

"You find out what the holes are all about, Detective?" Vandertop asked.

"MID's looking into that today."

The divers left to get their gear.

The CSI van arrived as the divers were preparing to get into the water. "Be careful, guys," Lawless called out to them. They gave him a strange look.

He turned the crime scene over to the CSI team and went off in search of Bobby Gutierrez's mother.

She was laying on the couch in her front room, zonked out on a neighbor's Valium. He chastised the neighbor about the illegality and danger of playing doctor, but the woman acted like she didn't speak English. He didn't press it, anxious to get to the hospital to see if he could talk to the friend. He could always came back later, when she wasn't drugged up.

Outside, the crowd had thinned and was looking bored. The CSI team was working the canal bank over and Brouchard had come with his assistants to collect the human remains, such as they were. Jensen had worked her way through the crowd and appeared to be about done with her interviews. If there was anything of value to be learned from these people, he was confident she would get it.

He met Brouchard near the canal. "Hey Larry."

"Danny," The coroner looked more ruffled than usual, and tired. "I sent off another DNA sample from Mr. Weston yesterday. I assume I'll hear from Stockton today. Do you want me to call you again?"

"That'd be great. Find anything unusual in the autopsy?"

"The markings on the bone and the manner in which the tissues were cut were similar to those seen with Mr. Sanchez. I'm sure you're not surprised."

"I wish I was."

"What's happening here, Danny? I can't imagine these killings are being done by the same group. Think of the planning that would take."

"Good thing about today is, we might have a witness."

Brouchard's bushy eyebrows went up. "What did they see?"

"Don't know yet." He told the coroner about the potential witness.

"Why aren't you at the hospital, questioning him? You're not hanging around here on my account, are you?" Brouchard asked.

"Well, you know," Lawless mumbled. "It's my responsibility and all. You'll take him when you're ready?"

Brouchard nodded. "Go, go. We know what to do here."

Lawless said thanks and left to get Jensen, pulled her away from three men who appeared to be very interested in her. Two were older, had paunches that hung over their belts and wore cowboy hats. The third was young, had forgotten to put a shirt on that morning and wore pants so big they threatened to fall off with his slightest movement. His chest, arms, and back were covered with green and black tattoos.

"Hey, the lady was talking to me, man," the young one said, scowling at Lawless, not wanting to give Jensen up. Lawless scowled back and the man said to Jensen, "You got my number, baby, call me." He blew her a kiss and returned to the crowd, pulling up his pants. His boxer shorts were printed with images of the Mexican flag.

"You think he plans on putting on a lot of weight soon?" Lawless asked Jensen.

"You're just out of touch with the new styles, old man," she said, smiling.

He smiled back. "Did you learn anything important?"

"Some of these people have known Bobby all his life. He didn't run with gangs, wasn't into hard drugs, and has worked at the Foster Farms turkey plant in Turlock for a year. Sagger pants said the victim and his friend, Tony Fruega, were always partying on the canal bank. When I asked him if he ever partied with them, he said he had better things to do than throw beer bottles into the canal. I was about to ask him what he meant by 'better things' when you walked up and scared him away."