Al Robbins was in a frisky mood, and hummed to himself as he kept an eye on the double doors, humming a little. It was a slow night because the current case kept arriving . . . in bits and pieces.

"Hey Doc, need a hand?" Stokes punned, helping David with a small bagged limb as they set it on one of the gurneys.

"Nice—now go find the other one," Robbins chided. "Unless our victim was named Lefty."

Half an hour later, Warrick and David hauled in a slightly larger bag. "Though you could use some ribbing—" Warrick commented, cheerfully depositing the limbless upper torso onto the table.

Robbins looked over his glasses at the grinning CSI and unzipped the body bag. "It takes guts to do that. Any luck with heads or tails on our dearly deconstructed here?"

"Still looking—" Warrick admitted. "It's a big ravine."

"And steep," David complained softly, wiping his forehead. "I need more Deep Woods Off."

"I didn't think mosquitoes bit after dark," Robbins murmured. David shot him a miserable glance and held out his arms, revealing a speckling of red dots up along his normally pasty coloring.

"I think they have their own version of the night shift," the assistant coroner muttered. "And maybe a few of the other shifts are putting in overtime."

"They all know you're a sweet guy," Sara assured him as she came into the morgue, helping with yet another bag. This one held a meaty upper arm from shoulder to elbow. "Here, I think you'll find this humerus, Doc."

"Oh ha-ha, Sara," Robbins sniped. "My morgue, my jokes—out, and bring me the head of Alfredo Garcia here."

They left Robbins to his jigsaw puzzle, smirking a bit as they pushed their way out the double doors.

Robbins sighed, and patiently began the arduous task of reassembling the deceased, keeping an eye out for a cause of death other than dismemberment.

Whoever had taken the man apart had done so thoroughly, working joint by joint, which meant time and privacy, both of which could be clues. For a moment Robbins thought of all the current horror films, and how many of them centered on just such an act. Was it possible the murderer had been influenced by cinema? That he saw Saw and was moved to action?

Jeepers, Creepers, anything was possible, Robbins knew, especially when more than the Hills Have Eyes.

-oo00oo-

Ultimately, DNA provided a name for the unfortunate man: Enrique Caesar Banello, AKA Little Rico AKA Caesarlito. The victim was a noted member of the Little Angels, and this was confirmed by numerous tattoos pieced together along with the body parts they'd been engraved on. Clearly someone had a serious grievance against the man and had taken the time to make that anger felt in serious ways.

Cause of death was a slashed throat, allowing the victim to bleed to death well before the butchery started, Robbins concluded. The entire case had been cut, if not dried, and there was only one body part missing that would complete the corpse. Robbins was hoping it would be found, and when a day later, David hauled in the last body bag, his expression mortified, the coroner grinned widely.

"Mother of mercy," he announced, opening the plastic to reveal the lumpy pair of buttocks there. "Is this the end of Rico?"

David stared at his boss for a long, mournful moment, then shook his head and shuffled out of the morgue for the showers.

Robbins sighed. "Young people—they just don't appreciate the classics anymore."