Police officer. Anyone home?

He decided no one was home, and was halfway down the steps when a woman called from across the street. Her Mini Cooper was packed and ready to go.

I think he's home. He doesn't go out.

Beakman glanced up at the door he had just left. He had banged on the jamb so hard the door had rattled.

He's an invalid?

Mr. Jones. He has a bad foot, but I don't know. I haven't seen him in a few days. Maybe he's gone, but I don't know. He doesn't move so well, that's why I'm saying.

Now she had the irritated expression of someone who wished she hadn't gotten involved.

Beakman climbed back to the door.

What's his name?

Jones. That's all I know, Mr. Jones. He doesn't move so well.

Beakman unleashed the Maglite again. Hard.

Mr. Jones? Police officer, is anyone home?

Trenchard, finished with his side of the street, came up the stairs behind him.

We got a holdout?

Lady says the man here doesn't move so well. She thinks he might be home.

Trenchard used his own Maglite on the door.

Police officers. This is an emergency. Please open the door.

Both of them leaned close to listen, and that's when Beakman caught the sour smell. Trenchard smelled it, too, and called down to the woman.

He old, sick, what?

Not so old. He has a bad foot.

Down on the street, she couldn't smell it.

Beakman lowered his voice.

You smell it, right?

Yeah. Let's see what's what.

Trenchard holstered his Maglite. Beakman stepped back, figuring Trenchard was going to kick down the door, but Trenchard just tried the knob and opened it. A swarm of black flies rode out on the smell, engulfed them, then flew back into the house. Beakman swatted at the flies. He didn't want them to touch him. Not after where they had been.

The woman shouted up, What is it?

They saw a man seated in a ragged club chair, wearing baggy plaid shorts and a thin blue T-shirt. He was barefoot, allowing Beakman to see that half the right foot was missing. The scarring suggested the injury to his foot occurred a long time ago, but he had a more recent injury.

Beakman followed Trenchard into the house for a closer look. The remains of the man's head lolled backwards, where blood and brain matter had drained onto the club chair and his shoulders. His right hand rested on his lap, limply cupping a black pistol. A single black hole had been punched beneath his chin. Dried blood the color of black cherries was crusted over his face and neck and the chair.

Trenchard said, That's a damn bad foot.

Suicide?

Duh. I'll call. We can't leave this guy until they get someone here to secure the scene.

What about the fire?