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mused, his voice level now, he was sounding sane, “but that’s the part I want to hear. Humor me. You do the talking, son. I’ll listen in.”
    The two detectives moved with stealth, attuned to the sound of their ascent. On each floor the hallways were dimly lit, the stairways between them worn and narrow. Student rooms emitted the muffled beat of the music channel, or the laugh tracks of sitcoms, a quieter night than was common with many residents gone home for the holidays. The men moved upstairs in search of Santa Claus, to the second floor, then the third, Mathers in the lead, Cinq-Mars a stride behind.They were looking for Room 37, found it easily, and listened at the door. No sounds came from within.
    Cinq-Mars stood to one side and rapped gently, a friendly knock.
    No answer.
    He waited.
    No sound.
    He knocked harder. Then gestured with his chin.
    “What?” Mathers whispered back.
    “Try the knob.”
    It turned.
    Cinq-Mars arched an eyebrow.
    Mathers opened the door and peered through the crack. Then he gave the door an easy shove and let it swing open, both men concealed behind the casework on either side, weapons drawn. Mathers gave the room a quick glance, pulling his head back in a wink both to entice fire, if it was forthcoming, and to avoid it. Cinq-Mars did the same, to get a mental snapshot of the room. He put a finger to his lips to indicate they’d move in without first shouting a warning, then flashed his thumb for his junior partner to go first.
    Mathers swung low, his pistol held in both hands in front of him as he stood in the doorway. Not much to see. The room was empty of people, pretty much empty altogether. A tall, pine wardrobe, a table with Santa’s bag of toys on it, and that was all. Mathers crept forward, his eyes taking in the room, and headed for the kitchen. That long, narrow space proved barren as well, save for the remnant of a cardboard box. He turned, and Cinq-Mars gestured to maintain silence.
    A small alcove was built into one end of the main room on the right, and a door led off it. Cinq-Mars listened first, then proceeded. Bent at the knees, he flung open the door, his pistol upraised. Straightening, he reached inside and flicked on the light switch. Thejohn was empty. Even the curtain on the shower stall was missing.
    “Back way out?” Cinq-Mars asked.
    “Kitchen door,” Mathers told him.
    They entered the kitchen together. They had a choice between two doors. The one ajar led into a small pantry. Empty. The other was locked. Mathers flicked the light switch beside it and peered through the keyhole. “Stairwell, looks like,” he commented.
    “Santa’s chimney,” Cinq-Mars muttered.
    “Break it down?”
    “Why bother? If Santa wanted to lose us, he’s lost us.”
    “So this was a wild gooser?”
    “With all the trimmings. Why, though? What’s up?”
    Mathers holstered his pistol. He walked back into the main room, and his steps echoed off the hardwood floors and bare walls. “Somebody cleared this place out.”
    “Not quite,” Cinq-Mars noted. He leaned against the kitchen jamb. Motioned with his chin. Mathers simultaneously opened both doors to the wardrobe. Then just stood there, gaping.
    “Bill?”
    “Jesus!”
    Cinq-Mars came around. Inside the hutch, Santa Claus hung from a rod. His head was tilted askew, as though the neck had snapped, and his bloated, pale face was largely concealed by the phony Santa’s beard and by the extravagant white tufts of Santa Claus hair. His slack mouth was open in an oval. Around his neck, across his red Santa’s uniform, a cardboard message had been slung on a string, a few words of greeting, which Sergeant-Detective Émile Cinq-Mars recognized as being addressed to him.
    The victim’s eyes indicated that Santa Claus would not be riding his sleigh tonight. The eyes and the limpbody confirmed that he had no pulse. Cinq-Mars checked anyway. The body was cold to his touch.
    On top of the mountain that night, on a floodlit