“What’s that?” Maloney points at the wound. “Knife handle?”

Leaning closer, I set my beam on her chest. The fabric of her gown is blood soaked. There’s a slit in the material, evidently from the blade. Something protrudes about half an inch from the wound.

“I don’t think it’s a knife,” I say.

“Coroner’s going to have to dig it out.”

But I can’t stop looking at the small foreign object. Deep inside, I already know what it is, and the knowledge is so disturbing, I have to withhold a gasp. “I think it’s a wooden figurine,” I whisper.

He gives me a sharp look. “Come again?”

“An Amish peg doll.” Quickly, I fill him in on the Michaels homicide. “We didn’t release that information to the public.”

A siren wails in the distance, but neither of us acknowledges it.

“BCI on the way?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He whistles. “Two major crime scenes in a single week. They’re going to start a running tab for you.”

Despite the grimness of the scene, I smile, and I’m glad there are no civilians around to notice. Cop humor is one of those things that can easily be misinterpreted and blown out of proportion, usually by someone who doesn’t understand that sometimes the only way to combat despair is through humor, even when it’s dark.

Concerned now with contaminating the scene, we carefully exit the bathroom and walk into the living room. The flash of emergency lights through the window draws my attention. I look over to see an ambulance pull into the driveway, followed by a fire truck that parks curbside. I see Glock on the front porch and motion him in.

“Anyone find a point of entry?” Maloney asks.

“Kitchen window is open,” Glock tells him. “Screen was cut and removed.”

“What about the lights?” Maloney asks.

“We’ll need to check the breaker box,” I say.

I brief both men on everything I know about the scene. “I’m pretty sure the foreign object in the wound is similar to the peg doll we found in Michaels’s mouth.”

“So this isn’t random,” Glock says.

I nod. “When Skid and I talked to her, she said Michaels had been in touch with her about a painting he wanted to buy.” I think about that a moment. “Skid and I both noticed she seemed nervous about her security. Bolt lock on the door. Security chain.” I shine my beam at the end table where I’d seen the Beretta earlier, but it’s gone. “She had a nine mil on the bottom shelf of that end table.”

“Guess she couldn’t get to it in time,” Glock says.

“We need to find it,” I add.

“Do you think Blue Branson or Jerrold McCullough are involved?” Maloney asks.