“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.”

Ricci tipped his chin toward the front entrance without taking his eyes off Erickson’s face.

“I can see from here that door got kicked in,” he said.

Erickson nodded.

“Wouldn’t have been hard for a strong man,” Ricci said. “It seems pretty lightweight.”

Erickson nodded again.

“Means there was probably a fifth perp,” Ricci said. “At least a fifth.”

“Right.”

“So maybe the blood stain was left by whoever came crashing through the door.”

“I told you we’re looking at the possibles.”

“You going to have more for us on them soon?”

Erickson took a moment to answer.