d. kenton mellott

There's been a murder.

No surprise there. In a city of over two million people, well, there's always a murder. Every day. Usually more than once a day. Just a sad fact when you put that many agitated humans in one place.

Fortunately, for somewhat burned-out Homicide Lieutenant Tyler Whitfield, most of the murders resolved themselves. That's because it was usually friends shooting or stabbing friends, relatives quaffing relatives; gang members dispatching rival gang members; or something similar.

The killers tend to sober up, then cool off and turn themselves in -- usually accompanied by a tearful plea for mercy -- or someone rats them out for reward money. Or, they make a run for the border. Or, more than likely, no one really gives a rat's ass about the dead person and you simply fill out the proper forms and close the book.

Get a cold beer.

Unless the victim is a "somebody," whose death actually means something. Especially if the media gets wind of the crime. Kind of like Susan Arnet.

As in Professor Susan Arnet. Whose headless corpse is discovered in her living room.

Crap. All seven shades worth.

Still, the case should be cut and dried -- there’s the body, right there in the freaking victim’s own house. Except there are complications. Like no medical records to help ID the body, no real evidence at the scene, no witnesses, and no effing easy solutions.

Oh yeah, and then there’s this occult symbolism associated with the corpse that Marjo Canard, the City Medical Examiner, discovered.

Bloody hell. And on a Monday, too. It was going to be a really bad week...