Marlowe shakes his head bitterly. “That’s a bad scene,” he mutters. “That ain’t right.”

A rookie runs out into the rain, vomiting; Marlowe stomps his cigarette and walks up close to kneel by the remains. “How’d you find him?”

“Dogs,” says Kapowski.

“That what you use ’em for these days?”

“The right dog can find anything.”

“Even this deep?”

“Sure you can, right, boy? Good boy.”

“We got an estimated time of death?”

“Doc says 150, 155 million.”

Marlowe nods. “Gashes down to the bone, single victim. I’ve seen this before.”

“No shit? A pattern?”

“Yeah,” Marlowe sighs, “I’m thinking allosaur.”