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you.” He looked at the two detectives.
    â€œWhat’s that?” They both said in unison.
    â€œThe blood, or perhaps I should say, the lack of it.”
    â€œYeah,” Monica said. “It was on our list to ask you how he removed it. It’s the strangest crime scene I’ve ever been on. I kid you not. This boy is thrown from the roof, and there’s barely a trace of blood on the ground, plus, his shoes are missing. Weird stuff.”
    â€œHave you determined how the blood was removed?” Lonzo said.
    The ME peered over his glasses at him. “The old-fashioned way. He stuck a needle in his arm and simply drained his body of the blood supply. Maybe your guy has embalming skills. He barely left a trace as to his entry.”
    Lonzo laughed. “Stop it, Doc. This is serious.”
    The ME didn’t budge.
    Lonzo’s eyes widened a bit. “Seriously? You’re kidding, right?”
    Dr. Noskog’s expression never changed.
    â€œYou’re serious,” Lonzo finally stated.
    â€œI am. Very.”
    Monica sucked in her breath. “What’s he doing with the blood?” she wondered out loud.
    Both Lonzo and Hubert looked at her, but there was no answer forthcoming.

3
    A fter leaving the morgue on First Avenue, Tracie had the driver drop her off at 135 th Street and Lenox Avenue. She stood in front of Harlem Hospital, under the canopy with Dre and Michael. She stared up at the roof of the Lenox Terrace apartments, from which her son had fallen.
    Her mind refused to accept any other explanation. This was just a tragic accident. Not even a murderer could commit such a horrific, brutal crime.
    She had been after Randi since he was a small boy about climbing rooftops. He loved to sit up there, staring down on the world. A tragic accident was what it was. That was all.
    Tracie squinted in the fading sunlight. She pulled her shades down from her hair to cover her eyes. Something across the street drew her attention. Slowly the shades came down to the bridge of her nose. She stared over the top of them.
    Rashod Burlingame, Tracie’s nineteen year old son, her eldest, was racing across the street. Black twists sprouted all over his head, looking like black spaghetti erupting from his scalp. He weaved his way across Malcolm X Boulevard toward Tracie.
    Tracie’s skin crawled a bit at the sight of him. Lord help her. The mere sight of him had a way of churning her insides.
    In Tracie’s opinion, Rashod had one of the nastiest dispositions this side of the river. He was an extremely weak and emotionally unstable young man.
    Yet he possessed a sensitivity that most people never got to see. He was also a veteran crack addict. He loved crack more than life, and woe to anyone who got between him and one of his coveted vials.
    Motorists were blaring their horns, weaving around Rashod and yelling out of their car windows at him as he decided to slow his pace to a leisurely crawl while he crossed the street on a green light.
    One guy yelled out of his window, “Yo, man? Can’t you see? The light is green. You color-blind? Get a life.”
    Rashod ignored him. He swiped at his runny nose with the back of his hand. His pants slipped a little too low. He pulled them back up while taking another swipe at his nose.
    Finally, he reached the safety of the spot in front of Tracie, on the sidewalk under the canopy. His face glistened with sweat as he focused on her and blatantly disregarded Dre and Michael.
    â€œMommy dearest,” he said to Tracie, the sneer obvious in his tone.
    Tracie swallowed hard. “What are you doing here, Rashod?”
    â€œI want to pay props and respect to my dead baby brother. Harlem’s grapevine don’t know no end, baby.”
    â€œDon’t call me ‘baby,’ ” Tracie said in disgust. “The only respect you pay is to that pipe you be hitting.”
    Rashod laughed. He leaned in closer to Tracie. “Wrong. I