I put a hand on his shoulder. “If we’re approached in there, you show your badge and make the trouble go away. I have a badge too, if it comes to that, but it says ‘Private Investigator’ on it.”

He was nodding, breath pluming. “But either way, if we’re caught at this, I play the cop card.”

“Damn skippy. You have a key given to you by your late partner. You have a right to cross a police crime scene barricade. You’ll get your ass chewed if it gets back to Captain Chambers, but he won’t pursue it.”

“Okay.”

“And if he does, I’ll convince him I talked you into this.”

In well under five minutes, we were on Shannon’s floor. The expected crime scene tape was there, in a dramatic X, which we ducked under, after Chris unlocked the door.

The forensics team had left the place in good shape. Beyond the taped outline of where Shannon had fallen near and against the couch, no sign of their work remained. Even the dust of the black-graphite fingerprint powder had been cleaned away, which isn’t easy.

“God,” Chris said, looking pale. “It’s like nothing ever happened. It’s like Casey might just walk in on us.”

The bizarre outline on the floor and up onto the front of the couch said otherwise. Because Shannon had been slumped with his head forward, the outline had a ghastly decapitated look.

“Chris,” I said, “I don’t want to toss the place. Pros have gone over it. We won’t be gutting cushions or dumping out bureau drawers onto the floor.”

“No need,” his partner said. “I know Casey’s ways. He kept private files on open cases, even when the rest of us had moved on. Photocopied stuff he shouldn’t have. Made his own notes. Took his own pictures.”

I nodded. “And Pat and the forensics bunch weren’t necessarily looking for any such file. They were processing a murder scene. But if our assumptions are right, the file on that pair of unsolved homicides, and any notes on Vincent Colby, could be here.”

Chris held his hands out, palms up. “Worth a look. Worth a damn good look.”

The corner with the roll-top desk seemed a good place to start.

“I’ll go over this thing,” I said, opening it up, “and see if I can find any hidden compartments. These old behemoths have more secrets than a haunted house.”

The remark lingered oddly. We were, in a way, in a haunted house right now.

The nearby file cabinet was a dark-stained oak vertical four-drawer affair. Supervising above were three framed items—two commendations for valor on either side of the color framed 8” by 10” of President Reagan, signed to Casey.

“Take a look at those,” I said.