"So, what happened?" asked Alan, squinting as the crime scene photographer's flash lit up the room.

"Pretty grisly, if you ask me. Found traces of coke everywhere. No sign of any semen anywhere, but that shouldn't be too surprising," said the Coroner.

"Why's that?" asked Gunner.

"He has no dick."

"What do you mean?"

"Look for yourselves. He has no dick."

The technician handed Alan some gloves, who then passed them on to Gunner. Gunner and Alan inspected the body. Slowly, Gunner pulled back the panties and looked at the bloody mess where the man's genitals had been removed.

"God, what happened?"

Alan felt queasy.

"Hey, you two are the Dick's around here. You tell me. I can tell you that he's been dead for a good while. He was stoned on coke, he's missing his dick, and he's wearing panties. Anything more than that, you'll need to be calling a psychic."

"Pretty messed up. Who found him?"

"One of his 'friends'."

Gunner, who had his notepad out and already begun making a little sketch of the scene, narrowed his eyes as he looked at the man.

"He's downstairs," said another officer, who was taking fingerprints. "I think in the kitchen. I've already taken all the latent prints and have his, as well."

"Better go see him," said Gunner with gruffly diction, while removing his gloves. Alan took his off, and followed Gunner from the room.

"Be careful. I think he's still upset with me for taking his hair samples." The technician snickered as he spoke. "He might bite."

In the kitchen, Alan and Gunner found officers standing over an African-American man, whose head was buried in his arms that were draped over the kitchen table, sobbing bitterly. He was clutching what looked to be more like a scarf, than a handkerchief. He was mumbling one minute, cursing aloud the next, and shaking violently, at times.

"Excuse me," said Gunner. "I'm Detective Malloy, and this is my partner Detective Patrick. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

The man lifted his head off the table and looked at them through tear-stained eyes.

"Oh God, tell me this isn't happening. Tell me he isn't dead."

Gunner shook his head. "We need to ask you a few questions."

"Oh, please do," said the black man, with a slight southern drawl. Alan and Gunner both noticed the smudged green eye shadow and eyeliner about the same time, and gave each other a look.

"I'll tell you anything, if it would help catch that mutha' fuckin' son-of-a-bitch who did this to Armie."

"When did you last see him?" inquired Alan.

"Last Saturday. I had a show. I was doing a performance in Palm Springs, and he left me and Travis stranded there. It wasn't until today that I..." The man's voice quivered with his shuddering body.

"I tried calling him, to find out what was wrong. Let me tell you, that was one hot-headed man, Honey. He did have a temper. But, I loved him."

"So, you two had been intimate?" asked Alan.

"Were we lovers? Oh, hell yes. But, that was many years ago. We were just friends, now. His career kept him from being out of the closet."

"And your name, again?"

"Cherri. Cherri Lane."

"Pardon?"

"Cherri...Oh, sorry. That's my show name."

"Okay."

"My real name is Ralph Franklin. I live not too far from here, just off Maplewood. Oh, Lord, this can't be happening." The detectives could hear the grief in his voice.

"And you had a key and could let yourself in?" asked Alan.

"Yes. Armie and I kinda kept an eye on each other."

"It's kinda messy upstairs. Did you touch anything?"

"Oh, Lord no. I was so scared, I ran downstairs and right out into the front yard, screaming. I bet I screamed all the way to my car. It just freaked me out, so. I called on my cell phone just as soon as I could. I was so scared, until the officers showed up, that someone might still be in the house. I stayed outside until they said it was okay."

"Any idea who might have done it?"

"Well, if you're thinking it's that little Miss Travis, I can already tell you that it wasn't her. I saw her all weekend, there at the Springs. Talk about a ho. She was playin' little miss 'how far can you stick your dick up my ass,' all weekend. I don't know where she is now."

"Is Travis his real name? And what is Travis's last name?"

"We sometimes call her Miss Trapeeza. Travis Baker, is his real name. They lived together, up until a few weeks ago. Armie had gotten scared that Miss Trapeeza was gonna ruin his chances of a comeback. Some hack from some tabloid had gotten pics of them together in the hot tub up at the hotel there in the Springs."

"Uhhh, any idea how we might find Miss Trapeeza?" asked Alan.

"Oh, dahling. I have no idea where you might find her. You'll just have to check around town. She could be just about anywhere. Tradewinds, Guchi's, Aftershocks, Sugar Palace, Paradiso... She does just about any of the clubs she wants, and anybody, too. She is such a ho."

Suddenly Ralph let out a shriek as the coroners brought the gurney with Armando's body down the stairs.

"Oh, Lordy. Oh, Lordy! I can't believe it!" screamed Ralph, while looking at the body bag.

Alan felt awkward. Gunner knew there was nothing that he could do to comfort the man.

"Aww, Lordy. Ya'll have to change that."

"What?" asked Alan.

"Ya'll need to get another bag. Black was not his color. And, if he knew ya'll had done that to him, he'd really be pissed. Oh, Armie, wherever you are, forgive 'em."

"Sorry, but as far as I know, body bags come in one color...and one size fits all."

Ralph looked at Alan and smiled appreciatively at his comment. "I'll have to remember that."

Gunner asked, "Do you know of any next of kin that we need to contact?"

"He had a sister in Alameda, but I think she moved. And, I think the rest of the family was somewhere near Tijuana. They pretty much left each other alone."

"Thank you for your statement. We've got your address. If we need you, we will let you know," replied Gunner, turning.

"Mr. Detective-man," said Ralph, looking at Alan rather tearfully. "Let me know if you catch the mutha' that did this."

"Will do," said Alan.

"What do you think we do now?" inquired Gunner.

"Go back upstairs and see what's left, review the scene, and see what we can find."

"Good. Guess your schoolin' hasn't been a complete waste."

Both men passed other technicians, who had removed their equipment and were beginning to leave. As they once more entered the primary crime scene, they each surveyed what was left.

Gunner observed the flashing clock lights of the videotape machine and approached it. He removed a pen from his pocket and tapped the play button. Immediately, it whirred to life. With the same pen, Gunner touched the 'on' switch for the television, and instantly the room was filled with noise.

At the sound of voices, Alan turned to see what Gunner was doing. His eyes widened as he watched the images that appeared on the wide-screen television.

Familiar sounds of people fucking, filled the air. Alan watched, intensely. On the video, two men had begun to engage in sex. Seconds later, after himself becoming slightly aroused by watching the intercourse, an uneasy queasiness pitted itself in Alan's stomach.

Gunner snickered, "Can one of you guys take this into evidence, or should I?"

One of the remaining technicians approached the entertainment system, embarrassed at the oversight. Alan heard the sound of a paper bag being fluffed open, and watched as the tech quickly confiscated the evidence.

"Come on, let's go," said Gunner. "These fuckers always miss the little things."

It was a quiet walk back to the car. The sun had begun to beat down. A rush of heat exited the car as Alan and Gunner got in. Gunner snaked the vehicle around the television vans and down the street.

A long silence ensued. Each reflected over the evidence and the statement that they had taken.

"What ya' thinkin'?" asked Alan, breaking the silence.

"Pretty sick puppy, if you ask me. When we get back to the station, you call Palm Springs. We'll need to speak to the department's shrink. I'll put in a call to her."