A Griff & Fats story
I picked up Fats
at the usual place. He was at Jackie’s on Dumont Avenue, stuffing his pudgy
face full of burgers, fries, wind rings, and Jackie’s sad-sack coffee. That’s
the kind of joe where the pot hadn’t been scrubbed since the days back when
Jackie still got her period. Now that was surely long ago! It was nasty coffee
that packed an unkind bite, sorta like Jackie herself sometimes. I wonder why
anyone drank it. It was the kinda brew that if spilled on the hood of our car
might just peel the paint off our old unmarked Plymouth war-wagon like
sulphuric acid burning through melted butter. I told Fats to be careful with
it. I don’t know how he could drink that rot-gut stuff and survive. There was a
lot about my partner that was a mystery to me back then. That was the least of
I pulled the car
up to the curb. Fats came over, belched in my face, laughed and said, “Hey, oh,
so what’s up, Griff?”
I did a fanning
motion in front of his mouth, made a something-stinks-face right back at him.
He just laughed at me, then to accentuate his point he farted, loud and squishy.
I just shook my head. What the hell was I going to do with him?
voice said it all and to the point, “Come on, get the hell in. We got
Well he knew what
that meant, and Fats bounced into the death seat like a whale with an attitude
and I took off, down Dumont, down, down deep, and out of what we called back
then ‘The Square’.
Or as they all
called it back then, ‘The Square Mile of Vice’, the heart and soul, the very
hell of the town I call Bay City. It wasn’t the only bad part of town. It just
seemed to try harder. That’s the place where Fats and I did most of our work
back then, Homicide cops in the early days of the bygone 1960s.
‘old days’, when Kennedy, the first one, hadn’t even been killed yet, when the
New York Yankees were still playing real baseball with Mickey Mantle and Roger
Maris hitting 50-60 home runs that summer of ‘61, and when crime, drugs and
guns were still in the hands of people who knew how to handle them.
Not like today,
when every teeny-bopper, doped-up, wise-ass punk, crack-head on the street has
the kind of fire-power Fats and I could have only dreamed of having back then.
Today, when every child-punk, rat-bastard considers himself the toughest,
gangsta mutha in the world—but in reality they’re only screwed-up, lost,
scared, alone kinds without any good sense or upbringing worth half a shit.
Because no one cared about them. No one took an interest. Or no one on the good
side of things. Of course, that doesn’t diminish their danger—it only enhances
it. In fact, it takes the violence to a whole new level that was rare back in
the old days. Usually. But not always. We did come upon some really weird shit
in them old days, for sure.
The 1990s, when
I’m telling you all this, really do suck, but the 1960s was no bed of roses
either. Not for Blacks for shit-sure, and not for a lot of others too, back
then. Not for cops in Homicide either. Not if you was honest like Fats and me.
We had our days back then, shit still happened. Everything was just hidden back
then, too. Undercover. The 1960s was just the training ground for all the crap
the 1990s would become—and the decades beyond that later on would be even
worse. Far as I could tell, there wasn’t much positive truth to all the
nostalgia about them old days being so peachy keen. Leastways, not a real lot,
not usually—but I guess if the truth be told, I’d have to admit those days were
just a bit better than these days. Maybe a lot better? The thing is, even a little
better can make a whole lot of difference sometimes. They were the good old
days. Most of the time. For most of the people. But not the kind of people we
dealt with in the day-to-day on the job.
The case we
caught that morning was an interesting one. It concerned a guy who’d lost his
head. Literally. He’d lost it because the guy that killed him had evidently
sawed off the victim’s head and took it with him when he left the corpse and
the crime scene.
“Nice, eh? Sounds
like some freako stuff to me, Griff,” Fats growled in anger. Things like this
always upset his delicate sensibilities. I could tell he figured we were in for
something bad with this. He saw it coming. So did I. He didn’t like that at
“Guy takes the
head. Leaves the body. What the hell’s that supposed to mean? I mean, what’s he
gonna do with it? A damn human head.” I muttered, then shrugged, and just kept
headhunter. Like them guys in the jungle, Griff. I wonder if he’ll shrink it
down. You know, maybe make a necklace or something out of it? I saw a picture
somewhere in a magazine that they did that to some missionary in the Amazon,”
Fats grunted. He did not approve of this kind of behavior. Who the hell did!
I shrugged again,
what did I care? We weren’t in the damn Amazon, but then again, in a town like
Bay City, the jungle is just a state of mind.
“Well?” he asked
me, as if I had all the answers.
I said, “I can
see you’re starting to get talky. That’s not a good sign. Next, you’ll start
thinking and before you know it, you’ll start getting all kinds of ideas. When
you get too many ideas, Fats, you can be trouble.”
He just smiled at
me. He did have a nice winning smile. That was also a bad sign. Trouble on the
way. I did not want to encourage him.
“You’re gonna get
in trouble again, if you don’t watch yourself,” I told him.
He laughed again,
“Trouble, not me, trouble only to the bad guys.”
“I know, that’s
what I’m afraid of.”
He laughed, said,
“So what we got, Griff?” He pulled out a bag, took out a bagel stuffed with cream
cheese, and began munching it like it was the last bit of food in Bay City.
hungry. Always eating.”
raise no shrinking violet, gotta have fuel to keep the furnace running in
I just laughed,
at 290 pounds last weigh-in—and he had probably added a few ounces since then I
imagine—he was anything but in tip-top shape for a copper. However, Fats was
one hell of a cop, and in them days that’s all that mattered.
I told him, “They
found the body in one of the junk yards out by Blacktown. Laying there nude,
right out in the open. No ID. And no head on the corpse. Freaked the dogs, and
the guy that runs the junk yard. Freaked the harness bulls that came upon it
and called it in too.”
Fats laughed, “I
can imagine. Must be one hell of a mess.”
I looked at Fats,
sitting there, munching on that bagel like he hadn’t a care in the world.
He looked over at
me carefully. Wiped his face.
I just gave him a
gruff “No” and floored the gas. I didn’t bother with the damn siren, and just
cut and weaved in the traffic so I could get us to the junk yard before the
press hounds got there to indulge ‘the public’s right to know’ with a lot of
grisly photos and wrong information. The press hasn’t changed much from the old
days either. They’ve just gotten like everything else—worse.
Doc Carten and
the meat wagon were right on the ball and Fats and I pulled up, pushed through
the small crowd, ripped away the yellow crime scene tape and walked out to a
secluded area behind stacks of flattened, rusted old Buicks and Chevys. Ghost
cars, some with the dried blood still on them in places, wrecks that I’d bet
could tell some tall tales of horrendous crashes if they could talk.
The body hadn’t
been moved. Not yet. It was waiting for us. Doc lifted the sheet, and Fats and
I got an eyeful of a naked guy, six feet tall—or he would have been six feet
tall if he’d still had his head on his shoulders. His weight was about 240
pounds, a big boy, white, no tattoos, big belly, like I say, a big boy. Him
having no head, is what kinda really stuck out for us. I mean, you couldn’t
help but notice. And wonder why.
The neck stub on
the corpse had been cut clean. Nice even job there. Bloody and messy as hell,
but a clean cut on the bone. I wondered if it had been done while he was still
alive. I couldn’t tell from the blood yet, I’d have to wait for the Doc’s dope
on that. That would be freaky shit if he’d been cut while still alive, and I
knew we might never really know for sure, but I had a feeling that was exactly
how it had been done. I would bet on it, and that made the murder a lot worse
than if the head had been taken while the guy was still alive.
I looked at the
cut more closely. Fats and Doc now at my side. I didn’t like what I saw. It
wasn’t a knife, axe, hatchet, or even a razor cut. I thought back on Gando
Jarmandeu and that razor, his calling card, and sighed in relief. It wasn’t
none of that, at least. It was something else. Something more involved. This
looked like a clean saw cut. Like it had been done by a butcher? Maybe. That
thought was not reassuring to me.
“Well, ain’t this
just lovely,” Fats told us in a light tone, tinged by his dark humor. He’d just
finished up his bagel and was now busy opening up a box of Ju-Ju Bees. He
chucked them down his gullet by the dozen, like he was watching a movie
Saturday morning at the Rialto. I just hoped he wasn’t going to start throwing
them at me and Doc the way we used to do when we were kids. Those damn things
were annoying when they hit you. I wasn’t in no mood for playing games right
Doc Carten, the
crime scene investigator, just looked up at Fats, then me, then said,
“Fine-toothed saw did it, like what a plumber would use on thin gauge piping.
This was done carefully, but it caused a lot of blood—too much—but notice the
stub of the neck bone. It isn’t jagged like you’d expect in a similar killing
done by other means. It’s smooth. Clean cut. Whoever did this wanted the head
and wanted it in fairly good condition.”
“Damn that!” Fats
continued in a soft tone, “the guy was done while he was still alive. His head
was definitely sawed off while he was alive—at least at the beginning of the
“So the killer
did his deed while the guy was still alive—and then took the head,” Fats said
with a nod of his own head. “That’s cold! And he took the head with him!”
“What the hell
for?” I asked.
The Doc shrugged,
then laughed, “I don’t know. Two heads are better than one?”
Fats just laughed
along with Doc, said, “Maybe freako wants to mount the damn head on his wall?”
Fats came up with
the damnedest ideas sometimes.
The Doc shrugged
it off, became serious for a moment, “Nah, that can’t be it.”
I looked at Doc
and then back to Fats and took a closer look at the neck stub. When I was
finished, Doc covered the body with a sheet. He said, “I figure time of death
about 24 hours ago, Rigor has set in. Fingertips cut off also. Of course you
know, he wasn’t done here.”
“No shit,” Fats
bellowed, “yeah, the tips of his fingers have also been severed. So, no
fingerprints. No chance of ID, unless there’s a missing persons report
somewhere that will match with this mess. Which I doubt. Which something tells
me there ain’t going to be. Why do I think that, Griff?”
I shrugged, I had
the same hunch, then offered up, “I don’t know, Fatman intuition?”
“Fats nodded like
an all-knowing Buddah, said, “Boys, I got the power.”
Doc shook his
head, he had had enough, “Okay if we move him now?”
“Yeah, take him
away,” I said with a nod and Doc and his boys did their thing with the corpse.
We watched a bit. I wrote some junk in my log book. Then I went over to my
partner. I didn’t say much. We were both just thinking. Two great minds at
work. Scary, ain’t it?
Finally I said,
“The killer cut the fingers off so no one could identify the body. Without a
positive ID there’s no legal proof an actual murder has been committed. Nothing
for us to go on. Nothing for the DA to go on. This killer didn’t have to pull
out the teeth to stop an ID of the corpse from death records—this killer didn’t
need to do that, because he just decapitated the corpse and took the whole
freakin’ head with him.”
killer could’ve nixed any ID by pulling the teeth. Not a big deal for a guy
like this who knows what he’s doing. Knows what the wants to do. He didn’t have
to cut the head off. That’s nasty stuff, even for your average psycho. But
judging by the fact that he went through all the trouble to do that—it appears
that’s what he wanted. He really wanted that head!”
I said, “I think
rubbed his blubbery face, laughing with that wise-ass laugh of his. “You mean
about the guy wanting the head to shrink down, Griff?”
“Yeah, sure. No,
you idiot. The fact that some freak took this guy’s head to mount on his wall.”
way,” Fats told me seriously.
I nodded, he was
probably right about that, one way or the other. “But why? Why do it at all?
Why go through all the extra trouble after you kill a guy?”
“I don’t know but
it looks like someone of a very serious and angry nature was very pissed off at
our dead guy,” Fats offered serious now. “That’s a serious level of anger, or
hate, I cannot even imagine.”
I nodded, tried
to think about this logically, gave up, we just did not have enough information
yet, then I said, “I guess we’ll find out who the killer is once we find out
who the headless guy is. Was.”
Fats just laughed
it all away, it was his turn now to state the obvious. “We got a corpse with no
ID. There’s no distinguishing marks, no missing persons report on anyone even
remotely like him, the fingertips have been clipped, so no prints…”
He gave me that
what-does-that-tell-you? look of his.
“A missing person
report might still show up. We have to expand the search. It’s only been 24
hours,” I said, helplessly hopeful.
Fats just smiled,
“Griff, I got a feeling on this one. It ain’t good. We can wait 48, we can wait
72. We can take reports from all neighboring jurisdictions. And we’ll do that.
And you know what? We’re not going to come up with squat.”
I nodded. I knew
Fats was right. I had the same feeling.
Fats had me
laughing when he sent out an APB—on the guy’s missing head.
“You can’t put an
APB on a head just by itself,” I told him. A little ball-busting went a long
way in those days.
“Why not, Griff?
That’s all we need. I mean, we got the rest of the body. Alls we need is the
head,” Fats said it with a sly wink. Was he busting me back? Yes he was!
I shook my head,
laughing as Fats made the call into Central. We did all we could on it. And
that was that.
The case fizzled
after that. Just as we knew it would. The Medical Examiner did an autopsy and
backed up what the crime scene boys had told us. Now there was never any doubt
that the man’s head had been taken while he was still alive. That was grim news
and a really brutal fact, and that level of violence or anger told us a lot—but
it led us nowhere.
Meanwhile, no one
fitting a description of the corpse was reported missing in Bay City or any
neighboring jurisdiction. There was no way to ID the corpse, or the remains—and
no place to go with the case now, so the ME kept the body on ice and we filed
the case with all the other crap shoots in this town that got us no answers. It
was a big file.
It was a month
later when Fats and I got the call. A flat-foot beating it in the Square Mile
of Vice had found something in a hat box laying on top of a pile of garbage in
an alley. It smelled pretty bad. The first thought was some lonely hooker’s dog
or cat had hit the bucket—or maybe something more ominous—perhaps an aborted
fetus thrown out by some back yard butcher. Or God help us, some new-born baby,
thrown out dead in the trash. It happened back then too. More often than you’d
Then we heard the
true poop about what had been found. A human head in a box. Fats and I were on
our way like big dogs with the hot scent of a bitch in heat. This is what we
had waited for, something we could chew on, and hearing about this newly found head
was the lead we hoped we needed.
officer on the scene took us into the back alley. Slow. The smell hit us as we
got closer. It was a real bad rotting death smell. Fats and I walked faster.
The uniform guy
told us, “There’s something here you ought to see. I heard about the guy found
in the junk yard out by Blacktown. This might have something to do with it.
I said, “Okay,
let’s go take a look.”
The box was a
woman’s hat box, of all the damn things. Nothing fancy, or colorful, the colors
were dulled. It was old, or sun-faded. It had been tied closed with a string.
“I cut it to look
inside,” the uniform told us. “The string, I mean.”
I nodded. He
seemed the curious sort.
Fats moved the
box, began to pry off the lid. The uniform guy stepped back. I moved in closer.
Fats pulled off the lid and then the smell really hit us, like a ton of old
vomit. Not vomit though. It was the death smell. Concentrated. Locked in that
hat box and just dying to get out. The smell of decay and putrescence.
I looked inside.
There was a severed human head.
“Yep,” I replied.
Fats said, “Okay,
looks like we got our missing piece.”
The rot and decay
were powerful. Advanced. About what we expected after four weeks in the hot Bay
City sun. The face was almost entirely gone. Very little folds of skin or
flesh. Worms had eaten through most of the flesh. And they were still there.
Feasting. Busy. White, thick, ugly, squirming maggots. Disgusting. The hair was
matted with black chunks that had been blood. What was left of it. There must
have been a lot of blood. Not much left now. Now white bone shone through the
face in most spots. I could see the teeth were bad. Not a full set. Brown and
white, green and black. Some broken. No gold.
Fats said, “I
don’t know who he is—was—but I think we just found the missing part to our
little puzzle from the junk yard, Griff.”
I nodded, but I
wasn’t all that sure yet. The head in the box seemed to be looking back at me.
Mocking me. I didn’t like that. I wondered how anyone could do such a terrible
thing to another human being. That thought lasted all of two seconds. I was a
cop. Homicide. I didn’t need to wonder about any of that, that’s just the way
things were. Back then, and even today. Especially today.
I didn’t like the
whole thing, and the hair—there was something about that hair.
Fats nudged me,
“The cut on the stub, it’s eaten away and all, but…”
“I don’t know
about this…” I said carefully.
“Could be the
rot, but damnit, Griff, this has just gotta be the head we’re after. Right?”
I nodded a bit
reluctantly. Hopeful more than anything else. I didn’t tell Fats what I really
thought just then. Not right off. It was just a hunch, a crazy hunch. So I kept
mum about it for the moment. We took the box, closed it up, the smell making us
both sick. The uniform guy who’d found the mess had left and was all the way at
the mouth of the alley, about fifty yards off, puking his guts out all over the
On the way over
to the station Fats said, “Guess we cleared that up. Match the head to the
body, maybe we’ll even find out who the lucky guy was. Once we find that out we
can dig around for the killer.”
I nodded. My
partner, Mr. Optimism. I didn’t know how to break it to him. My hunch. The ME
would give it to us straight and for sure, soon enough. Sometime tomorrow we
would know for sure.
“Why you looking
so glum, Griff?” Fats asked me, opening up a Hershey bar with almonds. He loved
to eat that damn chocolate goop.
“I don’t know,”
answered back softly, a bit too non-committedly.
“Now what the
hell?” he blurted, looking at me hard, demanding an explanation.
“The cut ain’t
right... The decay obscures it but I don’t feel it’s right,” I told him.
The smile left
Fats’ face. He did not seem happy at all now. He looked at me hard, “Okay,
Griff, spill the rest. I feel you got more. Like to rain on my parade. Figured
we had this bad boy all signed, sealed and delivered.”
Fats held the
chocolate bar in a holding pattern in front of his big mouth waiting for my
“The thing I told
you about. The hair?”
“Ah, Griff, that
don’t mean nothing.”
“I think it does.
At least it could. Fats, the hair ain’t right for a white guy, but it’s good if
the guy’s a negro. Maybe.”
can’t believe it”
“I’m not making
this up for fun.”
“I know, Griff,
but the guy could be a half-breed, mixed blood. You know? Have features of both
races? You realize what you’re saying? You realize what it means if you’re
right about this?”
“Fats, believe me,
I realize it. The headless corpse in the junk yard was a white male, the head
we found in the alley seems to belong to a negro male. They do not match. We
got the wrong friggin’ head!”
The next day the
ME did an autopsy on the head we had found and backed me up. I wasn’t all that
happy I’d been proven right. The head belonged to a negro male, age thirty-ish,
no ID was possible. There was no body to match the head, so we were still
missing some significant parts in this case—if the two cases were even connected.
I thought Fats
was gonna be sick on it but when we went out for grub he just ordered an extra
plate of pancakes that morning at Jackie’s, smothered them in maple syrup and
brown sugar, and ate them like they were the last pancakes on Earth.
disappointing. A head with no body. A body with no head. A no damn match. It
was a frustrating time for us. No leads. Nowhere to go with it. We were forced
to shelve it. Once again. At least for the time being.
things kinda quieted down. Things got back to the usual crap, the more normal
kind of murder, killing, and mayhem that everyone in Bay City was used to.
Killing for very specific reasons. No mutilations, aside from the usual ones.
Fats and I never
did find out who the headless corpse was. We never found his head. We never
were able to ID the severed head of the negro male, or come up with his corpse
either. It was frustrating, but not unexpected. The cases were left open. They’re
Fats told me
once, “You know what I hate about police work, Griff? And it goes double for us
I took the bait,
asked, “What’s that?”
unremitting bullshit, the relentless evil of the human mind, the rot of the human
spirit. I can’t stand it sometimes. Man, I know what’s going on here.”
“Yeah, Fats, I
motherfucker has got that guy’s head stuffed and mounted it some-damn-place on
a wall in his house or… something like that…”
“And he’s probably
looking at it right now,” I added.
Fats looked at
me, laughed, then said, “Or the damn head’s looking down on the guy who did
“Either way it
I said, “Either
way, Fats, that’s always the way it is. Always the way it will be. We’ve got a
thousand questions and maybe we get lucky and find one or two answers. It’s
“I’m gonna be on
the lookout for this head-chopper, Griff. I’ll never forget this. Someday he’ll
make a slip-up. Someday it will come out. Someday the guy that’s got that head
mounted on his wall or wherever the hell it might be, is going to get fucked by
you, or fucked by me, or another cop, or someone, somewhere, sometime. When
that happens, it will all come out and I’ll nail his balls to the wall. Right
next to that damn head he took.”
I nodded. When
Fats lost his jolly fatman personna he was not someone to mess with. Even in
conversation. Or what barely passed for conversation for him at those times.
I said, “We got
time, Fats. A guy that can do something like that, he just can’t all of a
sudden stop. It’s not in him to stop. It’s in him to snicker that he got away
with it, and a bit later, in him to get bold and cocky. You know what I mean?”
“Yeah, I’ll tell you what’s in him, he thinks he pulled one over on us all.
He’s laughing his ass off about it. He’ll be dying to talk about it too—but he
can‘t do that—but it will only eat at him more and more to want to tell someone
about it—to need to tell someone about it. It’s in him—eventually—to get
I smiled. My
partner was right.
Fats lit up a
Camel. Took a deep drag. He let the smoke fill up the car, looked at me through
the haze and said, “And when he slips up, I’ll be there, Griff. On his ass so
fast he won’t know what the hell hit him. Then I’ll nail his balls to that damn
wall for sure!”
I just nodded,
gunned our old Plymouth war-wagon down Dumont Avenue. All I could say was,
“Fats, when the time comes, you bring the nails, I’ll bring the hammer.”
Fats said, “One
Fats just smiled,
took one more deep drag from his cancer stick and finished up with, “That’s
good. That’s the way it will be, Griff.”
by Gary Lovisi. All Rights Reserved.
originally appeared in HELLBENT ON
HOMICIDE, tpb 1997 in UK, from the Do Not Press and is copyright 1997
& 2019 by Gary Lovisi.
Gary Lovisi now
has a free YouTube channel
about vintage paperbacks, book collecting, etc. Here is the link to “Collectible
‘Dell 10c’ Vintage Paperbacks, Episode #28:
GARY LOVISI BIBLIOGRAPHY:
(Recent and partial):
The Secret Adventures of Sherlock
THE SECRET ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK
HOLMES (Ramble House, 2007)
MORE SECRET ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK
HOLMES (Ramble House, book #2, 2011)
SECRET ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK
HOLMES: BOOK THREE (Ramble House, 2016)
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MR. HOLMES
(Gryphon Books, 2016)
SHERLOCK HOLMES: THE BARON'S
REVENGE (Airship27, 2012)
THE GREAT DETECTIVE: HIS FURTHER
ADVENTURES, edited anthology (Wildside Press, 2012)
THE MYSTERY SURROUNDING WATSON'S
LOST DISPATCH BOX (MX Pub., UK edition, 2014)
OF SHERLOCK HOLMES
(Gryphon Books, 2002, non-fiction, new edition forthcoming)
SHERLOCK HOLMES: THE GREAT
DETECTIVE IN PAPERBACK & PASTICHE (Gryphon Books, 2008, large-size, spiral
BATTLING BOXING STORIES, edited
anthology, (Wildside Press, 2012)
VIOLENCE IS THE ONLY SOLUTION
(Wildside Press, 2012)
MURDER OF A BOOKMAN (Wildside
HELL'S HIGHWAY (Wildside
THE LAST GOODBYE (Bold Venture,
THE NEMESIS CHRONICLES (Bold
ULTRA-BOILED: HARD HITTING CRIME
FICTION (Ramble House, 2010)
DIRTY DOGS (Gryphon Books)
EXTREME MEASURES (Gryphon Books)
HELLBENT ON HOMICIDE (Do Not
Press, UK, 1997)
BLOOD IN BROOKLYN (Do Not Press,
UK only, 1999)
Science Fiction / Fantasy &
GARGOYLE NIGHTS (Wildside Press,
MARS NEEDS BOOKS (Wildside Press,
WHEN THE DEAD WALK (Ramble House,
SARASHA (Gryphon Books, 1997)
The Jon Kirk of Ares Series:
WINGED MEN, 2014
#2 THE INVISIBLE MEN, 2015
#3 THE SPACE MEN, 2015
#4 THE MIND MASTERS (forthcoming,
#5 THE TIME MASTERS (forthcoming,
TEXAS WAR AND OTHER WESTERN
STORIES (Ramble House, 2007)
THE SEXY DIGESTS (Gryphon
THE PULP CRIME DIGESTS
Books, 2004, large-size)
THE ANTIQUE TRADER
GUIDE (Krauss Books, 2008)
DAMES, DOLLS & DELINQUENTS
(Krauss Books, large-size trade paperback)
BAD GIRLS NEED LOVE TOO
Books, hardcover, 2010)
MODERN HISTORICAL ADVENTURE NOVELS
(Gryphon Books, 2006, large-size, spiral bound)
THE SWEDISH VINTAGE
GUIDE (Gryphon Books, 2003, large-size).