It had taken Asten two hours to carefully examine all of the skeletal remains under a bright light with a magnifier, and he could feel the tension in his neck muscles from the effort.

"Okay, Sam, let's tack it together, so I can see what's missing."

"Yes Dr. Asten."

Sam moved to begin the attachment process as Monahan stuck his head into the small area.

"How's it goin' in here? Find anything?"

Asten looked over at the ex-cop. "Based upon the pubic bone, sacroiliac joint and spinal wear, we have a male between the ages of 35 and 45. Given the overall femur measurement, I estimate his height between six feet and six feet, two inches. The facial construction indicates a Caucasian, and the lack of tissue on the skeleton points to a time of death that's at least two or three years ago."

"What about evidence of homicide?"

"The skull indicates multiple trauma with a hard object, possibly wood."

"Wood? How can you tell?"

"I found what appears to be splinters embedded in the skull, but I won't know until I remove some and examine them under a microscope."

"Wanna hazard a mode of death before you're finished?"

"Head trauma."

"Homicide."

Asten nodded. "Homicide."

Monahan heaved a sigh. "And just how are we gonna tie that to Anthony Vandano?"

Asten shook his head. "I don't know, Monahan. If we can establish the victim's identity, and link that person to Vandano..."

"Yeah, then we need a motive, opportunity and an eye witness or two might be helpful, along with a murder weapon," Monahan said sarcastically.

"We're just starting, Monahan. This is going to take awhile." Monahan nodded, and Asten's brow crinkled. "How's Quincy holding up?"

"He's been asleep this whole time."

"Good. If he stirs, or shows any sign of discomfort, let me know."

"I will."

Monahan backed out of the area, and Asten turned to Fujiyama. "How's the assembly?"

"I think we're missing a few fingers, some teeth and maybe a rib or two."

"If we have enough teeth, we might be able to establish an identity through dental records."

"Maybe," Sam said, "but there's so much deterioration, I don't think it will be easy. Now that you've narrowed down the time of death, Sgt. Brill might be able to compile a list of missing persons."

"How's he going to access those records?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't know, but he said he could."

"Fine, then go tell him we're looking for a white male between the ages of 35 and 45 who was reported missing two or three years ago."

"Okay, Dr. Asten."

Sam left the area, and Asten looked at the skull through the magnifying glasses. He picked up some tweezers and a specimen tube. He yanked a few splinters from the skull and put them into the tube. He capped it and set it on the small side table. Once again he studied the skull through a magnifier and frowned. Using the tweezers again, he extracted what appeared to be a chunk of wood with writing on it, embedded deeply in the back of the skull. Asten put the specimen in another tube, capped it and put it on the table. He continued to examine the skull, finding several other older fractures and possible identifying marks. He heard Fujiyama walk in behind him.

"Sam, I'm going to need you to do some research work."

"Anything that gets us closer to an answer, Dr. Asten..."


Danny finished putting away the groceries and taking a beer with him, went into the living room and sat down. Brill was talking on the phone.

"Listen Walt, I need you to run a missing persons on a white male, 35-45 years old, reported missing two or three years ago." Brill shook his head. "No, Walt, I don't have anything more than that... yeah, yeah, I know it's gonna be tough. Walt, I need your help with this." Brill waited for Walt to finish complaining then said, "Start with the Las Vegas area, then try New York following that. Yeah, I want all possibilities...okay, thanks." Brill hung up the phone and looked over at Tovo. "You bought beer?"

Danny shrugged. "I figured we needed somethin' to keep the natives from becoming restless."

Brill grinned. "I see what you mean."

"Want one?"

"Not right now, Danny," Brill answered, "I have a lot of work to do first."

"Asten made some progress on those bones already?"

"Very preliminary, but yeah, he's given me a little to go on."

"That's better than the alternative..."


Sequana leaned his hands down on the arms of the chair, closing in on the pilot sitting there. "I want all of it, Mr. Thompson."

"I've already told you...I set the chopper down at the base of Clark Mountain. They took a car after that; they didn't tell me where they were going, and I didn't ask."

"Mr. Thompson, you're a pilot with the San Diego Police Department."

"Yes."

"Why were you flying for the LAPD?"

"I wasn't flying for the LAPD. I told you this was a private charter. I fly private charters when I'm off duty, it brings in a little extra cash for my kid's tuition, and it ain't illegal!"

"Who contacted you?"

"I don't know exactly who it was that I talked to on the phone. I didn't ask the guy for his ID. He told me where I needed to fly and I told him how much it was gonna be."

"How were you paid?"

"In cash when we landed at Clark Mountain. Look, I don't know what this is all about, and I don't care. I flew a private charter. I logged the flight plan as required by the FAA, and I obeyed all regulations applicable to the flight. Beyond that, Agent Sequana, I don't need to do anything."

"So if I told you that you transported a couple of drug mules, in violation of federal law, what would you say then?"

"You expect me to believe that those two guys were carryin' drugs? From the County Morgue building? You're trying to bluff me..."

Sequana rolled his eyes. "Thompson, I'm out of time and patience. You'd better tell me where those two guys were headed or I'll see that you never fly so much as a paper airplane in this state or any other."


Sam hung up the phone once more, scribbling what he had learned on a yellow pad. He glanced over at Asten, who looked completely drained.

"Dr. Asten?"

"Yes, Sam?"

"Are you okay?"

Asten nodded. "I'm fine, just tired. What did you find out?"

"The logo you found on the wood chip, H&B in block letters, is the early logo of the Hillerich and Bradsby company; we know them as the Louisville Slugger company."

"Baseball bats? You're telling me the murder weapon was a baseball bat?" Sam nodded and Asten sighed. "Great, so anybody with a Louisville Slugger could have killed the guy."

Sam smiled. "Not exactly. By the size of the dents and breaks in the skull, you estimated that the wooden item used weighed between 40 and 50 ounces. According to the expert I spoke with, that narrows down the field considerably. First, H&B in block letters was a logo only used by the company prior to 1918--"

"--1918? Sam--"

"--Dr. Asten, this is going somewhere, believe me. There were only two models of bats made at that weight in the years of 1917 and 1918, and they were both custom built."

"Custom built?"

Sam smiled bigger. "Uh-huh. One of the bats was a 36 inch, 42 ounce slugger, model R-43, made for Babe Ruth."

"Babe Ruth? How in the hell do you know that?"

"After speaking with the Sports Memorabilia owner and establishing that the bat is most likely a collector's item, I called the Louisville Slugger Museum, and they supplied the possibilities."

"Babe Ruth is one...who's the other one?"

"Edd Roush used a Hillerich and Bradsby Slugger weighing 48 ounces in the 1919 World Series; he had several bats custom made in 1918 by the company."

"And it couldn't be any other bat?" Asten asked dubiously.

"Not if it carries that logo, and weighs what you estimate, no."

Asten smiled tiredly. "Good work, Sam." He looked over at Brill. "How's your search coming, Sergeant?"

"With the new information you added, I should have a short list pretty soon."

Sam glanced over at Asten. "What new information?"

"Further examination of the skull revealed a fracture above the right eye and upper jaw bone that were sustained at least four years before death. There was also a severely deviated nasal septum which presented evidence of a chronic nasal infection. If our victim sought medical help for any of these conditions we can use x-rays to give us a positive match."

Sam shook his head smiling. "Dr. Asten, I think you've out-Quincied Quincy!"

"I'll uh, take that as a compliment."

"I couldn't have meant it any other way, Dr. Asten," Sam said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Glowering slightly, Asten said, "Uh-huh. Let's have a chat with Monahan..."


Monahan looked up from his chair when Sam and Asten walked into the bedroom.

"How's he doing, Monahan?" Asten asked.

"He hasn't stirred."

Asten sat down on the edge of the bed and checked Quincy's pulse. He reached for his black bag on the nightstand, pulled out the stethoscope and listened to his patient's heart. The doctor laid a soft hand on Quincy's forehead and then his cheek. Asten reached over and wrung out the washcloth sitting in the basin of cold water, and placed it on Quincy's brow.

"Dr. Asten? Is he all right?" Sam asked.

"His pulse and heart are steady, Sam, he's just a little warm. I want to keep him as comfortable as possible. I'd like you to add another 10cc's of amoxicillin to the IV drip."

"You're worried," Monahan said flatly.

"No, no," Asten lied, "the antibiotic is a precaution."

But Sam knew better. "Dr. Asten," he said laying a hand on the man's shoulder, "how bad is it?"

Asten's chin dropped toward his chest. "He's just so weak...If we don't keep on top of the infection, we could lose him."

Sam pat the director's shoulder. "I'll get the amoxicillin."

Asten nodded and switched out the cold compress, gently wiping down Quincy's face with the cool one, again leaving it on the man's brow. He looked over at Monahan, and extended his hand to check the man's bandaged wound, but Monahan jerked his head out of reach.

"Monahan," Asten scolded, "that injury needs to be monitored."

"I'm okay, Asten." He stared hard into the dark brown eyes then tactlessly changed the subject, "What did the bones tell you?"

"A lot. We're pretty sure that the murder weapon was a baseball bat."

"That's gonna be hard to pin down given how many of them are out there in the world..."

"No, we got lucky. This particular bat is a collector's item worth a lot of money."

"How in the hell could you possibly know that?"

"The chip had a logo on it. The bat was either built for Babe Ruth or Edd Roush in 1918."

"You got all that from a wood chip?" Asten stared at Monahan, and the ex-cop added, "I think Quincy's overly active imagination has been a bad influence on you, Asten, you know that?"

"Monahan," Asten growled, "let's just keep to the business at hand.

"Which is?"

"Anthony Vandano. Do you suppose he collects baseball memorabilia?"

Monahan shrugged. "How the hell should I know? Al Capone did, but then again, so did my father..."

Asten felt the warm hand grip his wrist before he heard the raspy voice. "What kind of wood was it?"

"Quincy," Asten shushed, "go back to sleep."

"What kind of wood?"

"I...I don't know. What difference does that make?"

Quincy licked his chapped lips and Asten reached for the glass of water on the table. He lifted the coroner's head and poured some of the cool liquid into his mouth.

"Roush's bats were usually made from pine," Quincy whispered, "but Ruth's were white ash in that era...it was an early version of the R-43, his signature bat."

Monahan shook his head. "We might have known Quincy would be up to speed on this kind of thing."

Asten took Quincy's hand in between his own and rubbed it. "Rest now, Quincy. You need to sleep."

The coroner nodded slightly and dropped off as Sam walked in, carrying a syringe loaded with amoxicillin which he injected into the IV drip.

"Isn't there anything else we can do for him?" The technician asked.

"Yes," Asten said, "we can get to the bottom of what that skeleton is trying to tell us, just the way Quincy would." He looked up at Fujiyama then. "Let's establish what kind of wood that chip is made from."

"I'm just an amateur botanist, Dr. Asten," Sam said, "I can't tell you what kind of wood it is."

"Then call a botanist Sam, and find out how to see the difference between white ash and pine under a microscope."

Fujiyama looked doubtful, but said, "If you say so..."

Sam walked out and Monahan stood, patting Asten on the shoulder. "You look like you could stand some sleep. Why don't you knock off in this chair for awhile and keep Quincy company?"

Asten glared up at the man. "Need I remind you that you're not exactly in the pink, lieutenant?"

Monahan shrugged. "Maybe not, but I'm enough recovered that I can help in the investigation of this homicide from a chair in the living room. You've had the lion's share, Asten, and no offense, but it's beginning to show a little. Get some sleep."

Asten nodded and moved to the chair by the bed as Monahan left the room. The doctor looked at the pale face of his patient, and once again took the man's hand in his own.

"I know you're tired, Quincy, but you keep fighting. You have to keep fighting."


Standing in the parking lot of the Circle K in Victorville, Rocky addressed his small army of men who had driven in from Las Vegas.

"You all know what Mr. Vandano wants here, so we're gonna ride out there, park the cars about a quarter of a mile away and wait for dark. Then we're gonna descend on those cops like a swarm of flies on shit. I don't want nothin' left when we're through, capice?" The men nodded, and Rocky took a last drag on his cigarette tossing it to the ground. "Okay then, let's go. And remember, Mr. Vandano don't like no mess-ups."

The men got into their cars, and with Rocky leading the way, they headed toward the small white house in the desert, and the six targets unaware of their impending entrapment.