“I don’t want to touch anything inside the car,” I muttered, surveying the surroundings as I got out my camera. I was alert and thinking clearly but my hands would not stop shaking. “Give me a minute to look, then let’s get her on a stretcher.”

“You guys ready for the doc?”

Marino asked Lucero. “We’re ready.”

Susan was dressed in faded blue jeans and scuffed lace-up boots, her black wool coat buttoned to her chin. My heart constricted as I noticed the red silk scarf peeking out of her collar. She wore sunglasses and leaned back in the driver’s seat as if she had gotten comfortable and dozed off: On the light gray upholstery behind her neck was a reddish stain. I moved around to the other side of the car and saw the blood Lucero had mentioned. As I began taking photographs, I paused then leaned closer to her face, detecting the faint fragrance of a distinctive masculine cologne. Her seat belt, I noted, was unfastened.

I did not touch her head until the squad had arrived and Susan’s body was on a stretcher inside the back of an ambulance. I climbed in and spent several minutes looking for bullet wounds. I found one in the right temple, another in the hollow at the back of the neck, just below the hairline. I ran my gloved fingers through her chestnut hair, looking for more blood and not finding it.

Marino climbed into the back of the ambulance. “How many times was she shot?”

he asked me.

“I’ve found two entrances. No exits; though I can feel one bullet beneath the skin over her left temporal bone.”

He glanced tensely at his watch. “The Dawsons don’t live too far from here. In Glenburnie.”

“The Dawsons?”

I peeled off my gloves.

“Her parents. I’ve got to talk to them. Now. Before some toad leaks something and they end up hearing about this on the damn radio or TV. I’ll get a marked unit to take you home.”

“No,” I said.”

I’ll go with you. I think I should.”

Streetlights were coming on as we drove away. Marino stared hard at the road, his face dangerously red.

“Damn!” he blurted, pounding his fit on the steering wheel. “Goddam! Shooting her in the head. Shooting a pregnant woman.”

I stared out the side window, my shattered thoughts filled with fragmented images and distortion.

I cleared my throat. “Has her husband been located?”

“No answer at their crib. Maybe he’s with her parents. God, I hate this job. Christ, I don’t want to do this. Merry friggin’ Christmas. I knock on your door and you’re screwed because I’m going to tell you something that will ruin your life.”

“You have not ruined anybody’s life”

“Yeah, well, get ready, ‘cause I’m about to.”