Finally Cooper straightened, stretching his back, and turned to us. “To summarize,” he informed us, with satisfaction, “my preliminary statement at the scene was correct. As you will remember, I posited that the cause of death was either this wound”—he prodded the gash in the middle of Pat Spain’s chest with his scalpel—“or this one.” A poke to the slit below Pat’s collarbone. “In point of fact, each of these was potentially fatal. In the first, the blade glanced off the central edge of the sternum and nicked the pulmonary vein.”

He folded back Pat’s skin—delicately, holding the flap between thumb and finger—and pointed with his scalpel, to make sure Richie and I both saw exactly what he meant. “Absent any other wounds or any medical treatment, this injury would have resulted in death within approximately twenty minutes, as the subject gradually bled out into the chest cavity. As it happened, however, this sequence of events was interrupted.”

He let the skin drop back into place and reached to pry up the flap below the collarbone. “This is the wound that proved fatal. The blade entered between the third and fourth ribs, at the mid-clavicular line, causing a one-centimeter laceration to the right ventricle of the heart. Blood loss would have been rapid and extensive. The drop in blood pressure would have led to unconsciousness within fifteen or twenty seconds, and to death perhaps two minutes later. The cause of death was exsanguination.”

So there was no way Pat had been the one who got rid of the weapons; not that I thought he had been, not any more. Cooper tossed his scalpel into the instrument tray and nodded to the assistant, who was threading a thick, curved needle and humming softly to himself. I said, “And the manner of death?”

Cooper sighed. He said, “I understand that you currently believe a fifth party was present in the house at the time of the deaths.”

“That’s what the evidence tells us.”

“Hmm,” Cooper said. He flicked something unthinkable off his gown, onto the floor. “And I am sure this leads you to assume that this subject”—a nod at Pat Spain—“was a victim of homicide. Unfortunately, some of us do not have the luxury of assumption. All of the wounds are consistent with either assault or self-infliction. The manner of death was either homicide or suicide: undetermined.”

Some defense lawyer was going to love that all over. I said, “Then let’s leave that blank on the paperwork for now, and come back to it when we’ve got more evidence. If the lab finds DNA under his fingernails—”

Cooper leaned over to the hanging mike and said, without bothering to look at me, “Manner of death: undetermined.” That little smirk slid over me, to Richie. “Do cheer up, Detective Kennedy. I doubt there will be any ambiguity as to the next subject’s manner of death.”

Emma Spain came out of her drawer with her bedsheets folded neatly around her like a shroud. Richie twitched, at my shoulder, and I heard the fast rasp as he started scratching at the inside of a pocket. She had curled up all cozy in those same sheets, two nights ago, with a good-night kiss. If he started thinking along those lines, I would have a new partner by Christmas. I shifted, nudging against his elbow, and cleared my throat. Cooper gave me a long stare across that small white shape, but Richie got the message and went still. The assistant unfolded the sheets.