 I staggered to my feet, ran some cold water over my head, and took a closer look. It was Ray McCully. He was a very dead, crusading reporter. He'd been stabbed clean through with a long, bladed kitchen knife. It said on the handle, property of Leo's place. I went through his pockets. In his wallet, a press card, a police card, union card, and ten genuine, crisp, new thousand dollar bills. That gave me a line on a killer. He was crazy. So was I. I left it on him, too.