Alex turned on a bedside lamp, snapped off his flashlight. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Removing his clothes may limit his risk of blood-transfer evidence, but it increased the killer’s chances of leaving behind hair, fiber, DNA.”

“Fair enough.”

“And there’s still the small matter of he has to incapacitate his victims somehow. Once the ME figures that out, we’ll have something more to pursue.”

They turned away from the bed, toward the hallway, the descending flight of stairs.

“I don’t want to be injured anymore,” D.D. heard herself say, gazing toward the staircase.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to feel this weak and useless. I want to be on the job. I want to be tracking this killer.”

“Do you remember anything more?”

“You mean like why I tried to fly down a staircase? Or fired my gun three times into drywall?” She shook her head.

“You’ve helped tonight.”

“Not officially. Officially, I’m a detective who returned to a crime scene all alone and may or may not have discharged my weapon without probable cause. As things stand right now, I’m a liability for the department, and we both know even if my left arm miraculously heals overnight, they’re not going to simply return my badge. I’m an unanswered question, and cops hate that.”

“You are an unanswered question,” Alex agreed, walking over to her.

“Gee, thanks.”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “But you know what? You’re something more.”

“A brilliant detective? Perfect wife? Loving mother? It’s okay; you can lay it on thick. Melvin’s starting to really piss me off, and I could use some sickeningly sweet platitudes right now.”

“Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of how detectives answer questions. Or really, how I answer questions.”

She stared at him. “You’re a criminalist.”

“Exactly. I study crime scenes. And you, D.D., your shoulder, your arm, your injuries, you are a crime scene. Better yet, you’re the one scene our killer didn’t control.”

Chapter 5

PAIN IS . . .

A conversation. My adoptive father started it when I was twelve, seeking to help me understand all the various forms and functions of both physical and emotional discomfort. Pain is . . . watching our housekeeper break a glass, then use tweezers to remove a shard from the meat of her thumb, her breath hissing sharply.

Pain is . . . forgetting how to spell vertebrae on a test, though I had studied it just the night before. Thus, I scored ninety, which my father said was okay, but which we both knew wasn’t excellent.

Pain is . . . my father not making it to the state science fair. Another case, a pressing paper, work forever demanding. But assuring me that he loved me and was sorry, while I studied him closely and attempted to understand those sentiments as well. Regret. Remorse. Repentance. Emotions that were by definition corollaries of the pain process.