They all watched, hypnotized. Even Reich was aghast, transfixed by the pointing finger and the fierce scowl.

“Hesitation. His face flushes red, then ghastly white as the blood drains out. You hear the tortured refusal: ‘No!’…” The Prefect turned and enveloped them all with an electrifying gesture: “And in that thrilling moment, we know we have captured the killer!”

He almost had them. Almost. It was daring, novel, exciting; a sudden display of ultra violet windows through clothes and flesh into the soul… But Maria’s guests had bastardy in their souls… perjury… adultery — the Devil. And the shame within all of them rose up in terror.

“No!” Maria cried. They all shot to their feet and shouted “No! No! No!”

“It was a beautiful try, Linc, but there’s your answer. You’ll never get motive out of these hyenas.”

Powell was still charming in defeat. “I’m sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but I really can’t blame you. Only a fool would trust a cop.” He sighed. “One of my assistants will tape the oral statements from those of you who care to make statements. Mr. ¼maine will be on hand to advise and protect you.”

He glanced dolefully at ¼maine: “And louse me.”

“Don’t pull at my heart-strings like that, Linc. This is the first Triple-A Felony in over seventy years. I’ve got my career to watch. This can make me.”

“I’ve got my own career to watch, Jo. If my department doesn’t crack this, it can break me.”

“Then it’s every peeper for himself. Here’s thinking at you, Linc.”

“Hell,” Powell said. He winked at Reich and sauntered out of the room.

Lab was finished in the orchid Wedding Suite. De Santis, abrupt, testy, harassed, handed Powell the reports and said in an overwrought voice: “This is a bitch!”

Powell looked down at D’Courtney’s body. “Suicide?” he snapped. He was always peppery with De Santis who was comfortable in no other relationship.

“Tcha! Not a chance. No weapon.”

“What killed him?”

“We don’t know.”

“You still don’t know? You’ve had three hours!”

“We don’t know,” De Santis raged. “That’s why it’s a bitch.”

“Why, he’s got a hole in his head you could jet through.”

“Yes, yes, yes, of course. Entry above the uvula. Exit below the fontanelle. Death instantaneous. But what produced the wound? What drilled the hole through his skull? Go ahead, ask me.”

“Hard Ray?”

“No burn.”

“Crystallization?”

“No freeze.”

“Nitro vapor charge?”

“No ammonia residue.”

“Acid?”

“Too much shattering. Acid spray might needle a wound like that, but it couldn’t burst the back of his skull.”

“Thrusting weapon?”

“You mean a dirk or a knife?”

“Something like that.”

“Impossible. Have you any idea how much force is necessary to penetrate like this? Couldn’t be done.”

“Well… I’ve just about exhausted penetrating weapons. No wait. What about a projectile?”

“How’s that?”

“Ancient weapon. They used to shoot bullets with explosives. Noisy and smelly.”

“Not a chance here.”

“Why?”

“Why?” De Santis spat. “Because there’s no projectile. None in the wound. None in the room. Nothing nowhere.”