Standing with hands on hips, he gazed at the rear of Garry’s building. There was trash in the yard, and not much else. Under the deck were two large plastic flower pots, empty. There was no rear entrance on this level—only one tiny window to the right of the deck. Like the others, on the sides, it was painted shut.

He pulled on latex gloves and wrapped his feet with rubber bands. Thom did the same. They climbed to the deck, jutting from the first floor. On it was a lawn chair, faded and torn, and three more large flower pots, filled with dry, cracked dirt but empty of plants, living or dead. A windowed door led into the upper apartment. He tried it. Locked, as were these windows. Through the dust- and mud-spattered glass he could see a kitchen but no utensils or furniture. The counters were covered with undisturbed dust.

Thom squinted too. “Unoccupied. So, no witnesses in the form of Garry’s upstairs neighbors.”

“No. That is too bad.”

Climbing down from the deck into the backyard once more, Ercole followed Daniela’s advice and stepped away from the building, a good ten yards. He turned and surveyed the structure in its entirety. She’d explained that this gave you context.

Where were the doors, the windows, for entrance and exit? Where were alcoves and alleys—places where one could lie in wait and plan a break-in?

Where were the vantage points from which people inside could look out and where, from outside, could people peer in?

Were there trash bins that might contain evidence?

Were there hiding places for weapons?

The questions piled up. But there were no helpful answers. He shook his head.

Which was when Thom said in a soft voice, “You become him.”

“Him?”

“The perp.” The aide was looking his way and had apparently noted Ercole’s stymied expression. “You know the word?”

“Yes, yes, certainly. ‘Perp.’ But become him?”

“It’s why Lincoln was the king of crime scenes when he ran forensics at NYPD. And why he picked Amelia as his protégée years ago. I don’t understand it myself.” The aide added after a moment, “But the process is getting into the mind of the killer. You’re not a cop anymore. You’re the killer, the burglar, the rapist, the molester. You’re like a Method actor: you know, getting into the minds of the characters they play. It can be pretty tough. You go to dark places. And it can take some time to climb back out. But the best crime scene investigators can do it. Lincoln says that it’s a fine line between good and bad, that the best forensic cops could easily become the worst perps. So. Your goal isn’t to find clues. It’s to commit the crime all over again.”

Ercole’s eyes went back to the building. “So I am a criminal.”

“That’s right.”

“Allora, my crime is putting the evidence in the apartment to make Garry Soames seem guilty.”

“That’s right,” Thom said.