Uncompressing the attachment revealed ten photos taken the previous day. They showed the outside of the back door with the broken pane, the inside hallway with shards of glass on the floor, and the basement stairs taken from multiple angles. Forensics had marked the spots where Jesse’s feet and head had landed. The placement suggested he’d tumbled from a high enough step to turn one hundred eighty degrees. Ethel deduced his assailant used more than a roundhouse punch. The blow was precise and powerful, not necessarily because of the attacker’s size but rather his skill and technique. She reviewed the photos carefully for a second time, then made a phone call.

“What is it, Ethel?” Director Cory Bradshaw sounded exasperated.

“I wanted to thank you for the speed with which you got an agent in place for Susan and Davie Finch.”

“You’re welcome. And I understand from Frank Mancini that you alerted him to the suspicious activity.”

“We were fortunate to have gone down to check on her. Sorry I didn’t get a good look at the driver, but I have a suggestion.”

Bradshaw laughed. “I’m sure you do.”

“There’s no way around the fact that at least some of the participants in this counterfeit theft are Secret Service agents. And they could have been on the original bust. If I could see their photographs, I might be able to make a partial identification.”

“Based on what?”

“Hair color. Ear shape. He had close-cropped blond hair, and his ear stuck out a little.”

“I don’t know, Ethel. I’m moving forward in that area, checking alibis and access. Let me narrow the field and then we’ll reevaluate.”

“All right. You know I won’t interfere.”

Bradshaw laughed louder. “Did we just pass into an alternate universe?”

Ethel ignored the gibe. “Frank told me about the brain tumor the autopsy uncovered.”

“Yes. That must fit somehow. We’ll need to follow up with his wife and his doctor.”

“I can help with Susan if you like.”

“Thanks, but this will be a more formal interview. Anything else? I’ve got a staff meeting I’m late for.”

“Just one thing, and it’s about the attack on Jesse. Did you find anything useful on his clothing?”

“I had the lab share the report with Frank. I’m afraid it doesn’t help him. There was nothing at all to show Jesse came in contact with his assailant.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing. His clothes could have come straight from the wash.”

Ethel rang off and closed the crime-scene photos. She wouldn’t interfere, but she’d not stand idly by. Suddenly, she felt tired. She’d been up before dawn, driven to Manassas and back, flown to Richmond and back, and kept her mind racing the entire time. Just a few minutes of rest would be refreshing. She slipped off her shoes and lay down on top of her bedspread.

***