“She didn’t cut her hair short, but she keeps it very clean. If she went somewhere, the minute she got back inside, she’d take a shower and wash her hair. Never a bath. Because you’re sitting in dirty water. That’s what she says, constantly. She uses a towel once, and then it went into the wash. I know it’s not normal. I told her she might want to talk to someone about her anxiety, that she’s obsessive-compulsive, not severely but has some of the symptoms. She didn’t wash her hands a hundred times a day or walk around the cracks in the sidewalk or refuse take-out food. Nothing like that.”

“What about when you had sex? Any extra precautions because of her vigilance about cleanliness?”

“Just that I’m clean. We shower afterwards, wash each other’s hair, and usually have sex again in the shower. She likes having sex in the shower. She calls it clean sex. I wanted to see her more than once a week. But that was all. Once a week. Always the same day, exact same time. Probably because she’s so organized. Saturday at five. We’d eat and make love. Sometimes we’d make love the minute I got there. I didn’t sleep there. She likes to wake up alone and get started on her work. My DNA’s all over her house.”

“But you didn’t have sex with her last night.”

“You already asked me that!”

He clenched his fists and the veins stood out in his muscular arms.

“How could I!”

“I’m just making sure. You understand why I have to ask.”

“I always use condoms. You’ll find them in the drawer by her bed. My saliva would be on her.”

“Because … ?”

“Because I held her. I tried mouth-to- mouth. When I knew she was gone, I kissed her face. I touched her. I had her in my arms. My DNA’s on her.”

“This and this.” Scarpetta touched bruises on his sternum. “When he hit you with the flashlight?”

“Some of them. Maybe some from hitting the floor. I don’t know.”

Bruises change color with time. They can indicate the shape of the object that caused them. His were reddish-purple. There were two on his chest, one on his left thigh, all about two inches wide and slightly curved. The most Scarpetta could say was they were consistent with a flashlight’s rim, and that he had been struck with what appeared to be moderate force around the same time he’d received his other injuries.

She took close-up photographs, aware of how easy it would be for him to throttle her with his forearm. She wouldn’t be able to scream. In minutes she would be dead.