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sealing the bag.’
    ‘I can imagine a student’s surprise as he unzips a bag to find a human body with a dog’s head stuck to it,’ Hunter said.
    ‘Exactly,’ the doctor confirmed. ‘I haven’t seen the head yet.’
    ‘Where’s it now?’ Garcia enquired.
    ‘In the lab. It will be undergoing forensic tests this morning. If we’re lucky, we might get something.’
    They stopped in front of the changing-room door.
    ‘Suit up,’ the doctor said. ‘I’ll meet you at autopsy 2B. Second to last door on the left.’ He pointed down the corridor.
    After Hunter and Garcia rejoined him, Doctor Winston continued, ‘OK, so last night the forensic technicians were preparing bodies for this morning’s examinations.’ He opened the door to room 2B and switched on the lights. Immediately, the smell of ammonia hit them and burned their lungs. A stainless-steel table occupied the middle of the spotlessly clean tiled floor. On one wall there was a large double sink and a metal counter with several tools neatly lined up on it, including a Stryker saw. On the opposite wall, shelves held numerous microscopes, vials and test tubes. Two state-of-the-art computers sat on two separate small desks.
    ‘The body needs to be washed before the examination is carried out,’ Doctor Winston said, stepping closer to the stainless-steel table. A body lay on it covered by a long white cloth. ‘Needless to say that before being washed, the body needs to be undressed.’
    Hunter could already predict what would come next.
    ‘When the forensic technicians undid the priest’s cassock, this is what they found.’ Doctor Winston uncovered the body. All three men stared at it in silence for a few seconds.
    ‘Fuck,’ Garcia whispered, breaking the tense silence. On the priest’s chest, painted in red and about six inches long, was the number three.

Eighteen
     
    It was past 9:30 a.m. by the time Hunter and Garcia arrived at the RHD headquarters in North Los Angeles Street. Usually the main squad room would be at least two-thirds empty at this time, with the majority of detectives out in the field. This morning it was surprisingly full.
    ‘Wow! Busy in here today,’ Garcia commented, looking around the open-plan office.
    ‘And there’s a reason for it,’ Hunter countered.
    ‘Homicides are finally on a slope in LA?’ Garcia joked.
    ‘Not even God could make that happen.’ Hunter pointed to the door at the far end of the squad room. ‘That’s the reason.’ The placard on its door read CAPTAIN BARBARA BLAKE.
    ‘Damn! I forgot all about the introductory meeting with the new captain this morning at eight.’
    ‘We had more important things to do,’ Hunter said, taking off his jacket and placing it on the back of his chair as he reached his desk.
    Before he had a chance to sit down, the door to the captain’s office was pulled opened and Captain Bolter poked his head through. ‘Robert, Carlos, get in here.’
    Without knocking, both detectives entered the spacious office. A stylish rosewood desk was positioned by the large back window. Casebooks lined the various shelves on the wall to the right of the desk. Most of the framed photographs that once decorated the room were now gone. Hunter guessed they were packed inside the boxes neatly arranged against the west wall. Captain Bolter was by the coffee machine in the corner. Standing beside the desk was a striking-looking woman.
    ‘Robert Hunter, Carlos Garcia, meet your new captain, Barbara Blake,’ William Bolter said as he stirred the cup of coffee in his hand.
    Captain Blake’s long dark hair was elegantly styled into a twisted bun. Her skin, under light makeup, looked smooth and well cared for. She wore a pale shade of lipstick, a pearl necklace and matching earrings. Her designer white silk shirt was neatly tucked into a black tube skirt. Hunter knew she was in her early fifties, but she looked no older than forty.
    ‘Please have a seat.’ She pointed to the two leather