Outside Lamar’s house, the news vans were parked solid on both kerbs, and the cameramen had their gear on the roofs of the vehicles, trying to see above the wall. His driver radioed ahead to have the gate opened, and as they turned in off the street the noise behind them was a patter of shutter-clicks, the news people all hunched and lens-snouted, scuttling for the money shot. Lamar’s Lincoln was in the driveway, but through the entry hall window Vincent saw that the old man’s body had been removed, and in its place was a colony of numbered plastic markers. He’d killed people before, but this was the first time he’d seen the aftermath—or these kind of analytics at least—and in a strange way, the response felt overblown. He was used to situations where you pulled the trigger, and right or wrong, that was the end of it. No white sheets, no numbered markers by the drops of blood. At least here, with everything assigned a label—each scarlet fleck, each wink of glass—you could entertain the thought that they would find who did it. Like this was just a matter of process and logic, one step and then the next, and penance was the bottom line.

They had to sign the scene log when they got out of the car, and then his driver and another pair of uniforms escorted him down the garden path beside the house. The patio tiles were radiating gentle heat, and the pool had the same hue and china texture as the sky. Fall perfection, except for the blood and the glass, and the forensics staff in his apartment—white jumpsuits going past the window. Freeman and the masked man had been removed, and in their place were chalk silhouettes and more plastic markers. The same fate as Lamar: they were data now, information.

Erin’s bag was on the table in her room, like she’d told him. Vincent pointed it out like he was fingering it for the crime, and his driver stepped in through the open door and fetched it for him. The door to her bedroom had been kicked in—sharp splinters of clean wood against the white paint—and the TV had toppled off its perch on the cabinet, face down in glass. He saw too the cordless phone was off the cradle, lying on the floor by the window.

Vincent said, ‘Can I grab some stuff from my room, too? I’m just through the wall.’

The other cops were discussing how to book leave through the department intranet. His driver said, ‘You gotta code it two-one-six or they just put it through as unpaid vacation. It’s bullshit.’ Then to Vincent: ‘I’m only supposed to give you the bag and the car. I thought they told you that?’

Vincent spread his arms. ‘This is all I have. Can’t I just get some clothes?’