“She has contusions and abrasions of the scalp which you can clearly see in areas where I’ve shaved her hair.” He rests his bloody gloved hands on the edge of the table as he talks to me. “Posteriorally, temporally. Obviously I’ve not looked at her brain yet but on CT there’s subgaleal hematomas of the left parietal-temporal and right occipital areas, and a coup contusion in addition to diffuse subarachnoid hemorrhage. Her fractures are complex, suggesting a lot of force, a high velocity and multiple impact points.”

“Consistent with hard impacts such as someone beating her head against a marble floor.”

“Yes. And what I’m just now seeing might be helpful.” He holds up the carton of gastric contents.

“I’m zooming in.” It’s as if I’m inches away, and I can make out approximately 200 milliliters of what looks like a lumpy vegetable soup.

“What appears to be seafood, possibly shrimp, and greenish peppers, onions, some rice.” He pokes through it with a scalpel. “Something she must have eaten not long before she died. It’s barely begun to digest.”

“What about a STAT alcohol?”

“Nothing much. Point oh-three. Maybe she had a glass of wine with dinner. Or it could be from decomposition.”

“She certainly wasn’t impaired, at least not by booze. I’ll check to see what’s in her refrigerator. I’m on my way back there.” I log off the computer, cut the engine and climb out of the truck.

Lucy has parked Donoghue’s big Mercedes sedan out of the way, and she trots over to me.

“Come on,” she says. “I want to show you something.”

Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

WE WALK AROUND THE SOUTH WING OF THE HOUSE where a narrow grassy strip of yard gives way to dense woods.

A ten-foot-high chain-link fence is coated in dark green PVC and anchored by heavy steel poles driven deep into the earth. Lucy unlocks a gate as another FBI SUV disappears down the driveway. There are only two government vehicles still parked in front of the house. One of them must belong to Erin Loria. I’ve been watching for her. I’m sure she’s still here. She wouldn’t miss it.

“Be careful,” Lucy says. “There’s plenty to trip over. The landscapers never come in here so it’s really overgrown.”

I follow her through the gate and then we’re in the woods. There’s no gradual transition. Her yard ends at the fence, and on the other side of it are acres dense with rhododendron, mountain laurel and old trees. Trails winding through were cleared long years ago and are mostly overgrown. I move very carefully, slowly along a vague scar of a path as Lucy leads us through ferns, birches and dogwoods. Then she stops.