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investigation.”
    “If there ever is an investigation,” Mason said.
    “I hope there is. You need to find this killer before he does something like this again.”

SEVEN
    M ason turned heads when he and Wolski entered the squad room, the amused looks following him as he crossed the room. Mason figured he must have firmly planted his feet into some kind of horse manure, but damned if he could figure out what.
    Wolski apparently noticed it, too. “Maybe you should check your fly.”
    Mason nodded toward Colonel Walton, who madly waved for Mason to come to his office. “Looks like I’m about to find out.” He passed through the outer office, where Walton’s secretary shook his head like a disappointed parent. Mason ignored the man as he knocked on Colonel Walton’s open door and entered. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
    Colonel Walton retreated behind his desk and thrust the newspaper in Mason’s direction. “That doe-eyed look of yours means you haven’t seen today’s
Stars and Stripes
.”
    Mason took the paper and looked at the special guest column Colonel Walton had featured in the top fold. A knot formed in his stomach when he saw a photograph of himself during the riot, standing on the jeep and firing the machine gun. In bold typeface it declared, “CID Investigator Demonstrates New Method of U.S. Occupational Diplomacy.” The byline read, “Laura McKinnon, Special Reporter,” with a thumbnail sketch of her smiling face.
    Anger and embarrassment both fueled the flush in Mason’s cheeks. “Colonel, the riot was getting out of control—”
    Colonel Walton held up his hand for Mason to stop. “I’ve talked to the MPs handling the riot. General Jenkins, the CID’s top commander, wanted to bust you down to private. I had to eat crow and defend you because I need you. But you do something like this again, and I won’t lift a finger to help you. Do you understand?” When Mason nodded, he turned his attention to the folders in Mason’s hand. “That the ME’s report on the slasher case?”
    Mason handed the files to the colonel. “Major Treborn’s formal report will be here tomorrow. Those are copies of the autopsy photos, dental prints, X-rays, and my notes.”
    The colonel leafed through the files. He winced at the autopsy photos. “Sweet Jesus.” He looked up at Mason. “Tell me what you found.”
    Mason told him about the ME’s estimate of the time of death before being hung on the column, the victim being strung up to be bled out, probably after hours of excruciating torture. The colonel fell back in his chair with a look of repulsion when Mason told him the ME’s opinion that the killer had made autopsy-style incisions and dissected the victim while he was still alive. “The surgical methods and the dismemberment show the killer has medical expertise. I’m still convinced this was a ritual performed by a psychopath. This is not going to be his only killing.”
    “Yeah, you’ve said that already. Any luck on the victim’s identity?”
    Mason had known that question was coming, and he hesitated while trying to formulate an answer. “Statistically, the man is likely to be European, but we can’t definitively rule out that he was American.”
    “Statistically?”
    “A combination of factors. The fact that he was uncircumcised. Signs of malnutrition . . .”
    “I don’t know of one U.S. soldier in this entire occupational zone who could claim starvation. The victim has to be German.”
    “Or a DP or former concentration camp inmate. Major Trebornalso pointed out that there were a lot of foreign national experts the Nazis brought in from their occupied territories, so the victim could have been one of our Allies. Sir, I request we pursue this case with urgency. We have to do anything we can to stop this killer from doing this to anyone else.”
    “My order stands. The army works like a big-city police department: quantity not quality. Keep this case in the fire but continue with