“Nine mil Parabellum,” Erickson said. “The ammunition was fragged, but the spent cartridge casings we recovered told us right off.”

Ricci glanced over his shoulder at Erickson.

“Big, deep punch for nines, even fired up close,” he said. “There a brand name on those casings?”

Erickson gave a nod. “Federal Hydrashok.”

“Premium make.”

“That’s right.”

“Expensive.”

“Right.”

“You able to tell anything about the guns from the ejection pattern?”

“Not definitively.”

Ricci responded to the cop’s knee-jerk hedge with a look of overt impatience.

Erickson hesitated a moment, exhaled.

“Off the record,” he said, “I believe the weapons used outside this door were subs.”

Ricci considered that.

“Outside,” he repeated.

Erickson nodded.

“Were shots fired inside?” Ricci asked.

“The shop seems a different story.” A pause. “Put on those booties from my kit and I’ll show you.”

Erickson led the Sword ops through the entrance and back rooms to the area behind the sales counter.

“Be careful where you step.” He motioned to several dark brown splatters on the linoleum that had been bordered with tape. “The stains were partially dry when I arrived yesterday morning. Maybe a couple of hours old. It was clear on sight they were blood, but I swabbed and did a Hemodent test to confirm.”

Thibodeau studied them a moment, then raised his eyes to Erickson.

“You know whose blood?” he said.

The detective appraised his grave features, the cheeks pale above the dark beard.

“Julia Gordian’s purse was left on the countertop,” he said. “She carried one of those Red Cross donor cards, and her type matches.”

Perspiration glistened on Thibodeau’s forehead in the chill dampness of the room.

“Une zireté,” he muttered under his breath.

It is something atrocious.

Erickson was still looking at him. If the literal meaning of the words eluded him, their underlying emotions were easy to translate.

“I’m not saying anything for sure, but it doesn’t appear she was shot.” The cop knelt, pointed to the rust-colored stains. “The bleeding wasn’t that heavy—”

“No spray patterns like you’d expect from a bullet wound, either,” Ricci said.

Erickson glanced up at him.

“Right,” he said. “From the way the drops struck the floor and their cast off angles . . . you see these streaky lines trailing toward the wall . . . I’d guess she fell back against it in a struggle and got cut or something.”

As he spoke Ricci shifted his eyes to a much larger stain crusting the floor of the shop.

“Must’ve been a more serious wound left that one over there,” he said, gesturing across the counter top. “You have a theory to explain it, too?”

Erickson straightened and turned to him.

“The main thing you need to know is that our tests fixed the blood group as different from Julia Gordian’s,” he said.

Ricci regarded him curiously.

“Any bullets or casings picked up in the storefront?”

“No.”

“Ideas how the blood got there?”

“We’re still narrowing down the possibilities.”