“Because he knew his attacker,” Hazard said, his voice dead. “He trusted him.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

JULY 2

TUESDAY

8:42 AM

SOMERS WAS AT HIS DESK, working through preliminary photographs and video of the crime scene, when Dulac came out of Riggle’s office. The younger detective’s cheeks were red, and he hung his head as he came across the bullpen. Although Riggle had kept his door shut, Somers had heard the chief’s every word. So had everybody else in a mile radius.

“Bro,” Dulac said as he slumped down at the desk opposite Somers. He eyes filled with tears and he blinked them away before dropping his head onto his arms. “I know I fucked up.”

Leaning back in his seat, Somers rearranged the crime-scene photographs on his desk. He had tried a chronological organization, copying Norman and Gross’s approach to Susan’s body as they documented and processed the scene. Then he had tried organizing them in terms of importance: evidence that might lead to the killer, close-ups of Susan herself, anything that might give Somers a place to start. Blowing out a breath, Somers shuffled the photographs again and tried laying them out spatially, with the pictures of Susan at the center and then moving out, arranging the other photographs as best he could to correspond to a sketched layout of the scene.

“Dude,” Dulac finally said, looking up. “Man. Bro.”

“I guess you’re ok,” Somers said, the glossy paper of the photograph sticking to his thumb. He flicked it free. “That’s a positive thing, right?”

“Darnell and I really got into it last night. I slept on the couch. My phone died. It’s not like I was trying to be irresponsible, ok? Any other night, it would have been fine.”

“I didn’t say you were trying to be irresponsible,” Somers said, flattening another photo against the desk. Then, channeling a voice that sounded suspiciously like Emery Hazard, he added, “Nobody tries to be irresponsible. That’s the whole point.”

“Look, I fucked up. I get it.”

Somers gave him a thumbs up while settling the next image into place.

“Dude,” Dulac said, dragging out the word into a whine.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you. Riggle tore you a new asshole; hopefully, you learned your lesson. End of story.”

“Can we go work or something? Christ, I’m fucking embarrassed enough. I don’t need to sit around here. Let’s go take another look at the crime scene. Or we can swing by Dr. Boyer’s office—”

“Nope,” Somers said. “And nope. Christ, Emery Hazard is too deep in my brain these days. What does this pattern look like to you?”

“Um, a circle.”

“Not a Celtic triquetra?”

“What?”

Somers rubbed his eyes. “Never mind. Long night.”

“Bro, I know you’re pissed at me, but punishing me by keeping me away from the case isn’t—”

“I’m not punishing you. About two hours ago, the FBI showed up. Somebody called them. Somebody screamed until they dragged their collective asses out of bed and got down here. They took over the scene, which, fair, they’ve got way more resources to handle it. We were politely asked to wait for them to finish processing the scene. I’m lucky Riggle didn’t put me back on the exploding-mailboxes investigation, for Christ’s sake.”