Webster sighed, turned the tape back on. Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique. Because this was a murder scene extraordinaire. Trying to clear the area of debris—to find more compelling evidence and to allow Deputy Coroner Jay Craine access to the bodies. The pathologist was waiting outside, eating his lunch. Crime lab had sent two techs for blood sampling, dusting, and collection. The two white-coated workers were amassing pieces by the bagfuls.

Webster said, “There is so much glass, blood, and guts here, it’s like wading in a deadly offal soup. I don’t know how the lab’s gonna blood-type on all these bitty bits.”

Martinez said, “Guarantee you, mixed in with all this shit is blood from the perp…or perps. You can’t do this much damage without getting scratched.”

“Wonder why someone did this much damage?” Webster shrugged. “It serves no purpose.”

“It serves a purpose,” Martinez said. “It makes our job a hell of a lot harder.”

Webster said, “Someone did this to confuse us?”

Martinez said, “Or maybe someone just likes destruction.” He looked up from his kneeling position. Decker had come back. “Hey, Loo. How’s it going?”

“Find anything?”

“Lots of glass and blood.”

“Grab a pair of gloves, Rabbi,” Martinez said. “Get your hands dirty for old times’ sake.”

Decker slipped latex over his hands. “Anyone check the other rooms?”

“Neat and orderly if you please,” Webster said. “Decameron was a compulsive type.”

“Where’s his office?” Decker asked.

“In the back. Why?”

“Go through his papers?”

Webster said, “Just a quick glance. But nothing appears rifled through. What are you looking for?”

“Decameron was supposed to show Oliver and Dunn the Curedon/FDA trial data. Just wondering if he had the data somewhere in the house.”

“Like I said, his office is in the back. Help yourself.”

Decker walked through a skylit hallway off which three rooms sat—a bedroom, a guest room, and Decameron’s office. Webster was right—all of them appeared untouched. Decker started with the office.

Light poured into quarters—from above and from the windows. A bay oriel framed a view of Decameron’s patio garden—dozens of lush potted plants along with a three-tiered tiled fountain spilling gentle sheets of water. Decameron had done his work on an eight-foot granite drawerless desk. Atop the stone were a phone, a fax, a desktop copy machine, and a blotter and pencil holder.

The walls held no artwork—just shelves and banks upon banks of file cabinets. Decker pulled out a few drawers. All of them unlocked, seemingly undisturbed.

Some were reserved for patient files, but the majority had been dedicated to research data, most of the folders having to do with Curedon. Decker scanned the topics.

Curedon—Renal complications in rhesus monkeys.

Curedon—Iatrogenic blood dyscrasia caused by phagocytic T-cell response.

Curedon—Postmortem intractable acute renal rejection during application of Cyclosporin-A versus OKT3 versus Curedon.