The doctor glanced up at him, his hand pressed against the elderly lady’s throat.

“No pulse, no signs of breath.” His Caribbean lilt bounced off the walls of the silent room. He discreetly raised Mrs. Owen’s nightdress and inserted the rectal thermometer. After a few seconds, he pulled it out. “Body temperature is 34.5 degrees Celsius. Normal body temperature is 36.5 degrees, and the usual rate of heat loss post mortem is 1.5 degrees per hour. However, the decedent is elderly, and was reported to be at end-stage cancer, so I would expect her core body temperature to be lower. I estimate time of death approximately one hour ago.”

Cooper checked his watch. “Two fifteen a.m.?”

“Correct.”

“I know it’s early to say, but do you think she died of natural causes?” The woman appeared to have been very ill.

The overhead light glinted on Dr. Guthro’s wire-framed glasses. “It is a reasonable hypothesis at this stage, Detective. Of course, appearances can be deceiving.” He reached for his camera. “I will take some pictures, complete the in situ examination, and let you know when the decedent is ready to be transported to the morgue.”

“Thank you, doctor.” Cooper turned to the door. “And when will you conduct the post-mortem?”

“First thing tomorrow morning.”

“I will be conducting interviews from eleven onward. But please let me know ASAP if you find anything of note in terms of unusual marks, substances, et cetera. Anything helps.”

“Understood, detective,” Dr. Guthro calmly. “Business as usual, then,” he added with a twinkle in his eye.

Cooper flushed. He had to remember he was the new kid on this block.

“Ellis!” Riley called him from the doorway, her voice muffled by the hood of her bunny suit. “You should take a look at this.”

He hurried out of the bedroom and followed her to the television stand in the sitting area. A wooden case sat on the TV console. Three handguns lay in a row on a dark velvet cloth.

“Did you open that?”

Riley shook her head. “No. It was open. Looks like he had been cleaning them.”

Cooper studied the guns. “Three handguns, two restricted, the other prohibited.” They gleamed under the harsh halogen lights the team had set up. “We need to get a search warrant. And make sure the guns are all licensed.”

Riley nodded. “The place is a friggin’ arsenal.”

Cooper shrugged. “Who can blame Mr. Owen? I think he was paralyzed from a robbery.” His gaze fell on the window at the back of the room. “Was the window locked?” The bottom pane had been jammed all the way open, the window frames and panes covered in magna dust. A FIS detective meticulously applied tape to lift the prints revealed by the dust.

“No.” Riley glanced at the bedroom door. The ME’s head was just visible from where he crouched on the other side of the bed. “Mr. Owen’s wife was very ill. Maybe he forgot.”