“Paralysis can make someone stiff. That doesn’t mean the person’s dead. Again, please don’t interpret or offer your opinions—especially not medical or forensic ones.”

“Since I’m the one who witnessed it, that makes what I’m saying a fact, not an opinion,” he fires like a loaded bowstring. “And maybe there’s an odor. I might have smelled rotting blood.” After a hostile pause he takes the next shot. “And now I’m getting what all the chatter was about. All the shit that was on the radio earlier.”

I don’t ask him what he means. I have a feeling I know as I’m unpleasantly reminded of the 911 complaint about my supposedly fighting with Bryce and disturbing the peace. Maybe Barclay knows all about it. Maybe everyone in his department does. I conclude my business with him by asking that he wait over there, and by that I mean a healthy distance from me.

He stalks off toward Marino and the twins, and the dashing investigator whose name isn’t Clay doesn’t like me. It couldn’t be more apparent. Not that I particularly care. Marino walks in my direction. He crouches by the big black plastic Pelican case he rolled from his SUV.

“You need to keep your eye on him.” I say it under my breath. “Because he’s brand-new and already he doesn’t think he answers to anyone. An attitude like that will get only worse.”

“I got his number more than you know.” Marino moves around the case unsnapping clasps. “He’s got a weird thing with older women, some fucked-up mother complex. I’m just giving you fair warning.”

“I remind him of his mother?”

“An aunt, a mother. Because you’re older than him.”

“That doesn’t mean I remind him of his mother or aunt or anyone else for that matter.”

“I’m just telling you he thinks he’s a gift to women but unlike yours truly here he doesn’t like them. Not really.” He opens the lid of the case.

Inside is a supply closet of forensic necessities perfectly organized and neatly packed. He finds a camera and a large flashlight with a detachable shoulder strap. Then he pulls disposable booties over his shoes, and he works a pair of gloves over his huge hands.

“I know these will swallow you, Doc.” He hands me a pair of booties and gloves.

I ask him for two rubber bands to adjust the booties, making them half the size so I don’t walk out of them or step on my own feet. I pull on the extra-large gloves and have inches of room to spare in the floppy purple nitrile fingers.

“Let’s go,” he says, and we move on to the second stage, the inner perimeter, not bothering with other protective clothing, not yet.