“Dr. Cassady, I direct your attention to the evening of the murder of Detective Hampton. Did Geoffrey Shafer have a therapy session with you that night?”

“Yes, he did. At nine P.M., from nine until ten. I think he may have arrived a little earlier that night. But the session was scheduled for nine.”

“Could he have arrived as early as eight-thirty?”

“No. That isn’t possible. We were talking to each other on cell phones from the time he left his house in Kalorama until he arrived at my building. He was feeling a great deal of guilt about his latest dark mood’s coming too close to his daughters’ birthday party.”

“I see. Was there any break in your conversation with Colonel Shafer?”

“Yes. But it was a very short one.”

Halpern kept the pace brisk. “How much time passed between the time the two of you stopped talking on the cell phone and his arrival at your office?”

“Two or three minutes — five at the most. While he parked and came upstairs. No more than that.”

“When he arrived at your office, did Geoffrey Shafer seem unsettled in any way?”

“No, not at all. He appeared relatively cheerful, actually. He had just hosted a successful birthday party for the twins. He felt it had gone very well, and he dotes on his children.”

“Was he out of breath, tense, or perspiring?” Halpern asked.

“No. As I said, he was calm and looked quite fine. I remember it very clearly. And after the intrusion by the police, I made careful notes to keep everything accurate and fresh,” she said, then glanced at the prosecution table.

“So you made notes for the sake of accuracy?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Dr. Cassady, did you notice any blood anywhere on Colonel Shafer’s clothing?”

“No, I did not.”

“I see. You saw no blood on Shafer. And when Detective Cross arrived, did you see any blood on him?”

“Yes, I saw dark stains or streaks of blood on his shirt and suit coat. Also on his hands.”

Jules Halpern paused to let everything sink in with the jury. Then he asked a final question: “Did Colonel Shafer look as if he had just murdered someone?”

“No, certainly not.”

“I have nothing further,” said the defense attorney.

Daniel Weston did the cross-exam for the prosecution. He was twenty-nine years old, bright, quick-witted, a rising star — and known to be a ruthless hatchet man in the prosecutor’s office.

Dan Weston was also good-looking, blond, and rugged. He got physically close to Boo Cassady. They made a fetching couple, which was precisely the visual idea he wanted to communicate.

“Ms. Cassady, you weren’t Mr. Shafer’s psychiatrist, were you?”

She frowned slightly, but then managed a weak smile. “No, a psychiatrist has to be a medical doctor. You know that, I’m sure.”

“And you are not a medical doctor?”