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been sucked out of her body. “Damned if I’ve ever seen anything like this,” Jamie muttered.
    â€œSame here,” agreed Thompson.
    â€œDid you check for ID?” Jamie asked.
    â€œNope,” replied Boyle. “We were waiting for the big boys.”
    â€œGood girl.”
    â€œCall me girl, again, Griffin, and you’ll be singing soprano at church for a month.”
    While Jamie enjoyed the good-natured banter, he became serious as he took a pen from his pocket and peeked in the outer pockets of the woman’s jogging suit. “Nothing. Hunh. Well, we’ll wait for the M.E. to get here and let them see if there’s any ID elsewhere on the body.”
    Jamie stood and staggered backward. Frank Thompson caught hold of Jamie’s arm and kept him from falling. “Hey there, old man, be careful.”
    Cal came back then and said, “According to Hammond, he was jogging along the road here in the cemetery, and when he reached this part about an hour ago, he noticed they body lying in the undergrowth. Claims he doesn’t know the woman, doesn’t know anything about this.”
    â€œYou believe him? Does he look like someone who jogs regularly?” asked Jamie.
    â€œNah, but he doesn’t seem like the type. I turned him loose, but we’ll keep a line on Mister Hammond.”
    â€œOkay, then. Thompson, Boyle—we’re done with you here. Get us your reports, and be available if we have any questions.”
    â€œAye, aye, sir.” said Boyle, snapping to attention and saluting.
    Before Jamie could retort, they heard a car door slam. The quartet turned to see another unmarked car, with two detectives getting out.
    â€œWatch out.” called Cal. “The
really
big boys from Homicide are here. About time you got here, O’Neill.”
    Timmy O’Neill, one of the two homicide detectives approaching the scene, was a good friend of Jamie and Cal. He was a tall, red-haired Irishman about their age—they’d gone through the academy together. His partner was a gorgeous African-American woman named Sally Martin. “Martin, can’t you do something about the way your partner dresses?” asked Cal.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with the way I dress?” asked O’Neill.
    â€œNothing,” replied Martin. “Not everyone can look like they walked out of a fashion magazine.”
    Jamie stood back from the exchange rather than jumping in, as was his usual habit. His headache was much worse—it felt like someone was peeling off the top of his head with a can opener. Jamie stepped forward to shake O’Neill’s hand and staggered slightly.
    â€œWhoa.” said O’Neill. “You been drinking already today, Griffin?”
    â€œNo more than you, ya gobshite.” They shook hands. “Just coming down with something, probably the flu.”
    O’Neill jerked his hand back. “And you still shook my hand, you shit?”
    Jamie managed a smile, but he felt clammy, like his whole body was being shaken in a paint mixer. “Ahh, you’re too damned mean to catch anything from me.”
    O’Neill shook his head. “I dunno, man. You really look like shit.”
    â€œI told him that earlier,” added Cal.
    â€œWell, funny you comedians should mention that.” Jamie turned away from Cal and Timmy back toward the crime scene. His vision darkened, as if twilight was settling over the bright late summer morning. “I really feel like shit.”
    Jamie took two staggering steps, and the whole world receded. He could hear faraway voices calling his name, but the roar of his racing pulse drowned them out. Reeling like he was indeed drunk, Jamie turned back to face his partner and the other cops.
    â€œWow. Really…like…shit.” Jamie’s eyes rolled up and he collapsed to the ground in a faint.

Chapter Three
    Jamie heard an alarm clock going off, but it wasn’t
his
alarm