Paul sat down and bent over with his head between his knees. He closed his eyes and brought his hands

up to his head, rubbing his temples. The police lieutenant approached the bench and looked down at him

sympathetically.

Paul sat down and bent over with his head between his knees. He closed his eyes and brought his hands

up to his head, rubbing his temples. The police lieutenant approached the bench and looked down at him

sympathetically.

"I don't know that one can ever be prepared for something like that," said Ramirez, glancing up toward

the fountain. He patted the pockets of his light blue, raw silk robe, embroidered with a southwestern

pattern. "I didn't get much sleep last night," he said wearily. "And I can think of better ways to start the

day." He sighed. "I don't suppose you'd have a cigarette?"

Loomis took out a pack and offered it to him. He was in his late forties, a large man, about two hundred

and sixty pounds, with the body of a powerlifter, lots of dense, thick muscle beneath a layer of fat. He

wore a light gray suit with a western cut, a snap-button white shirt with a silver bolo tie, well-worn, black

cowboy boots, and a narrow-brimmed white Stetson. In a hand-tooled, floral carved leather holster at

his waist, he carried an old Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum with a four-inch heavy barrel and staghorn

grips. He had a wide face with ruddy features and a bushy black moustache. He looked like a successful

western rancher, but his voice was pure South Side Chicago. He took the pack of cigarettes back from

Ramirez and shook one out for himself. He lit it and inhaled deeply, exhaling the smoke through his

nostrils.

"It's a bad habit," he said, "but I find it helps steady my nerves. Especially at times like this."

"I keep meaning to quit myself, but I don't seem to be having much luck," Ramirez said wryly. He stared

down at his soft, high leather moccasins for a moment, then shook his long, gray-streaked,

shoulder-length, black hair out of his face and stood. "I suppose I'd better take another look," he said

wearily.

"There's no hurry," said Loomis laconically. "She's not going anywhere."

Ramirez grimaced. He had just turned fifty last week, but he suddenly felt much older.

"Are you okay, Professor?" Loomis asked. "I mean, you look a little shaky. Can I get you some coffee

or something?"

His manner toward Ramirez was solicitous and deferential. Professor Paul Ramirez was the dean of the

College of Sorcerers at the university. He was also the local representative of the Bureau of

Thaumaturgy, which made him an important man.

"No, thanks. I'll be all right," Ramirez said. He took a few more drags off the cigarette and threw it

down, then approached the fountain and looked at the body once again. He took a deep breath. "Can

you . . . can you pull her out of there?"

Loomis turned to the man from the crime lab. "Are you finished?"

"You can take her out," the man said. "Put her down on the bricks there, I'd like to take a few more

shots of the wounds."

Loomis nodded to several police officers and they pulled the body out of the fountain. Ramirez watched

as they gently laid her down beside it and the photographer snapped a few more pictures.