“I can’t. But better information comes from other sources. We have eyewitness accounts as told to journalists. We have the court records of the coroner’s report. And the testimony of the accused murderer.” He turned fully in his chair, his black T-shirt pulling taut across his chest. “Remember what I said . . . it’s scene-setting. Re-creating the months, the weeks, the day leading up to the murder. Then piecing together what happened afterward. Most crimes don’t have a murderer standing over the victim with the smoking gun saying, ‘Well, sir, I had to do it. Nellie drove me to it.’ ”

Sara raised her eyebrow in disbelief, suddenly wanting to laugh. Gabriel had put on a strange fake accent, like a Southern cowboy, and it was so totally unexpected it struck her as funny. “But how do you know who was telling the truth and who wasn’t?”

“You search for consistencies. And likewise, inconsistencies.” He shrugged. “It’s common sense. Logic. Read the rest of the folder and then tell me what you think.”

So ultimately science had to work with human deduction and reasoning. It was interesting. He was interesting.

Sara watched him turn back to his computer, his hair sliding forward. She wanted to touch his hair, to stroke it and see if it felt as smooth as it looked. Which must be the result of fatigue because she didn’t normally have any desire to touch a man’s head. But tired and edgy, she was strangely aware of her own body, of the tactile feel of her bare legs on the soft velvet couch, of the brush of the folder over her wrist, and for the first time in a year she wanted to feel a human touch. But Gabriel didn’t invite casual arm contact, let alone letting her fingers cascade through his soft hair. He had a barrier around him, a stance that said he walked the world alone, and at the moment, he had his back fully turned to her. He was tapping a silver spoon on the desk as he read his screen. It was a rhythmic tapping, a harmony that repeated over and over. She wondered if he even knew he was doing it, but it was definitely a song.

MURDERED!

October 7, 1849—Even in a city where a murder a week takes place in our less illustrious districts, the STABBING DEATH of Anne Donovan has captured the attention of the public due to the severity of the crime, and the lack of an immediate arrest. While it is no secret that a vast number of city officials frequent houses of ill repute, does their status alone preclude them from punishment? It would seem so, given the extraordinary circumstances explained below by Madame Conti, owner of the house where the crime took place, and first WITNESS on the scene.