Nocturnal

Two SFPD cruisers were parked at the curb. Two more were parked on the sidewalk, one on either side of the alley, to discourage foot traffic. Bubble lights flashed blue and red. Someone had hung a yellow tarp across the mouth of the alley - nothing to see here, just move along please. The morgue van sat patiently, like a scavenger, waiting for the detectives and the crime scene photographers to finish their work before it could claim the corpse as its own.

Bryan and Pookie hung their badges from their necks and walked past the tarp. A half-dozen uniforms milled about, leaving plenty of room for the the crime scene investigation team -- the familiar pair of Sammy Berzon and Jimmy Hung.

The boy was spiked to a brick wall.

At least most of him was. His right arm, the arm Bryan had bit down on in last night's dream, was gone. A ragged, gaping wound ran from the corpse's neck down to just under where the armpit would have been had the arm still been attached. Part of the collarbone jutted out, bright white smeared with red in the foggy morning light.

The killer, or killers, had nailed him to the wall with railroad spikes. One through his remaining hand, two through his stomach, and one through his throat. The man-boy's feet lay slack against the wall, free of spikes but at least three feet above the filthy alley ground.

Two-foot high letters spelled out a message in psychotic graffiti made from the victim's own blood: LONG LIVE THE KING

Bryan remembered the words that had ripped through his mind during the dream-hunt. "That's him," he said. "That's the kid."

His vision blurred in and out of focus as he stared at the boy's body. "Bryan, look at me."

Bryan turned to face Pookie. The man's eyes burned with intensity, possibly anger.

Pookie spoke in a whisper. "You told me about this very murder scene last night. You know what that means." "That I'm a suspect."