I’d been in shock at first. Now, I was beginning to get pissed off. “I didn’t stab Bert,” I said, linking the words together like boxcars, each one with an inaudible clank.

“How do you know he was stabbed?”

My cheeks burned, and I felt sick at the memory, and the smell of blood rising from my sodden T-shirt. “I guess it was the three-inch slit in his chest,” I said tautly.

The coffeemaker made a chuppa-whuppa sound, like a helicopter circling in for a landing.

Crowley poured java for both of us, and joined me at the table.

I considered adding a dollop of Christian Brothers to mine, but it didn’t seem like a good idea, given that I was trying to present myself as a solid citizen.

“These questions are routine, Ms. Sheepshanks,” he said mildly, once he was settled. I kept the sugar and the powdered creamer in the middle of the table, along with a plastic spoon, so we doctored and stirred, in our turns. Crowley was a gentleman; he let me go first.

“What’s next?” I was a little foggy on the details, but I didn’t want to jump up and consult a DF Guide. It might be considered suspicious behavior and, anyway, I was too dizzy.

“A crime scene tech will collect your clothes. With your permission, she’ll take a few photographs, too. Then we’ll leave and you can take your shower.”

I felt my eyes go wide. “What kind of photographs?”

“Routine ones,” Crowley said.

A rap sounded at the outside door.

Russell lifted his head and gave a grunting woof, but he didn’t get up to investigate.

“Come in,” Crowley called.

The same woman I’d seen downstairs appeared in the kitchen doorway, with the handle of a backpack in one hand and a folded paper bag in the other.

The promised crime scene tech had arrived.

I signed a release, agreeing to let her take pictures. Legally, they couldn’t force me to pose, not without a lot of paperwork anyway, and it would take time, but I wanted to cooperate.

“I’m Jennifer,” the tech said, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves.

“That’s nice,” I replied.

Jennifer and I trekked to the bathroom and, once inside, she watched clinically as I peeled off my clothes, dropping each garment into her evidence bag as I handed it to her. After that, she took pictures of my naked, blood-smudged body, from every possible angle. It was all very businesslike, but I still felt like a white rat on a lab table.

When the ordeal ended, Jennifer excused herself and stepped out, and I tucked the shower curtain inside the tub, turned on the taps, and dived under the spray. I scrubbed and scoured, and when I got out, I dried hastily and shrugged into my bathrobe, tying the belt tightly at my waist.