“And he’s not practicing,” Neil said dryly. “The use of chloroform, the unique manner of asphyxiation, the methodical removal of skin . . . This guy knows exactly what he’s doing. Our killer’s not learning as he goes. Our killer’s already a pro.”

• • •

THE FRONT DOORBELL RANG. The sound, so ordinary and mundane, happening at the scene of a murder made them all jump. They shared chagrined expressions.

“Russ Ilg, my physical therapist,” D.D. guessed.

Alex went to let him in.

“Sure you want to do this?” Phil asked, the second Alex was out of earshot.

“Yes. Why wouldn’t I?”

Phil and Neil exchanged a look. D.D. interpreted it correctly and shot them an annoyed one of her own.

“You don’t have to cover for me,” she bit out. “We go through this . . . reenactment, and the most logical conclusion is that I’m an out-of-control fruitcake who discharged her weapon for no good reason, well then, that’s what you should report back to FDIT. I’m not looking for handouts. I want the truth.”

“We’re behind you,” Neil murmured. “Whatever happens. Squad is family; you know that.”

“Please, I’ve met your family.”

That made them smile. Neil’s family was a bunch of Irish drunks. He often joked he wasn’t the black sheep of his family for being gay. He was the black sheep for being the only one still sober.

Alex returned with a younger-looking guy, six feet, gym fit and clad in black sweats. D.D. did the honors. “Detectives Phil and Neil, Boston PD. Russ Ilg, my personal torturer, er, physical therapist.”

Everyone exchanged handshakes. D.D. kept her own arms tight by her sides, where no one would see her hands tremble with growing nerves. Her first choice for this mission would’ve been her doctor. But MDs didn’t keep schedules that allowed for last-minute field trips; hence, Russ agreed to do the honors. Besides, as he put it, doctors just diagnosed the damage. His job was to rebuild and repair, which provided him with a much more intimate knowledge of injuries both past and present.

As the lead detective, Phil brought them from the kitchen to the base of the stairs. D.D. could see the bullet holes in the drywall along the right-hand side. Three individual marks, sprayed across the surface. If she’d been aiming at the time, it didn’t speak well of her marksmanship.

Phil cleared his throat. “So D.D., um, Sergeant Detective Warren was found unconscious at the base of the stairs. Given the, um, injuries she sustained, working theory is that she started at the top, fell down.”

Russ nodded. He didn’t look at D.D. but kept his gaze focused on the straight rise of the narrow staircase, for which D.D. was grateful. Suddenly, she didn’t feel so great. Her stomach was churning, and she could feel sweat once more beading her brow.