What they got instead was an athletic man in his early twenties, opening the door with a look of astonishment.

“Can I help you?” he asked reasonably enough, scanning the array of uniforms.

“We’re here for Lemuel and Lucy Shaw,” Joe told him.

“They’re not here,” the man stammered.

“Who’re you?” Joe asked.

“Seamus Kyle. I work for Mr. Shaw. What’s happening?”

“You have any identity papers? A driver’s license?” one of Joe’s colleagues asked.

Kyle was startled. “What? No. I don’t drive.”

“Where are they, Mr. Kyle?” Joe asked as the other cop snapped a picture of Seamus, using his phone.

The younger man shook his head in wonder. “I don’t know what to tell you. He’s in Claremont, upstate. That’s where she is. At least, I guess he’s there by now. He was in Boston when I called him.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I mean,” Kyle said. “Lucy Shaw died this morning. They’re at the funeral home.”

Not every death gets an autopsy, not even ones nobody saw coming. Often, an apparently natural death will earn a glance from a medico-legal investigator, whose report is then forwarded to the state’s chief medical examiner. But usually, that report—given the time and money invested in the investigator’s training—is taken at face value and accepted in lieu of the body itself. Only rarely does the boss reverse a recommended course. Such is the level of trust granted to the field-based “eyes and ears” of the office.

In other words, there is wiggle room concerning the necessity for a pathological examination. And without one, the next steps are death certificate and disposal, both of which can be and often are quickly facilitated. This, Joe keenly wanted to head off.

He did not waste time grilling Seamus Kyle at the Shaw residence. Instead, he told Willy to drive and began working his phone as they traveled at speed up to Lebanon.

Echoing the process he’d employed to assemble the team he’d just abandoned, Joe chose not to call the funeral home they were rapidly approaching, but rather Beverly Hillstrom in Burlington.

“Hey there,” she greeted him upon picking up. “This is unusual. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Business, I’m afraid,” Joe said. “I need to ask a big favor.”

She didn’t hesitate. They both knew how rarely he did this. “Absolutely. What is it?”

“A woman named Lucy Shaw died this morning at her home in Gilsum, New Hampshire, supposedly of natural causes. She was on meds for high blood pressure and diabetes, according to the housekeeper.”

“Okay…,” Beverly said.

“I’m hoping you still have enough pull with the OCME over here to get an autopsy ordered on her.”

“You think she was murdered?”

“I don’t know. I have no reason to think so right now, but she is tangentially involved in the homicide I’m working. She’s the stolen car owner’s wife.”

“Right, right. I remember the name.” Her voiced changed slightly, as it did when she entered professional mode. “Let me start working on this,” she said. “We certainly don’t want the funeral home acting prematurely. I’ll call my counterpart, delay the issuance of the death certificate, and offer my services for free. That can only help. I can do the procedure in Lebanon if everyone’s amenable. I’ll call you back.”