Then Rhyme turned to the pages of the scene itself. He was disappointed. The RBPF crime scene team had found forty-seven fingerprints—other than the victims’—but had analyzed only half of them. Of those identified, all were attributed to the hotel staff. A note reported that the remaining lifted prints were missing.

Little effort had been made to collect trace from the victims themselves. Generally, in a sniper killing, such information about the spot where the victim is shot wouldn’t be that helpful, of course, since the shooter was a distance away. In this case, though, the sniper had been in the hotel, albeit a day earlier, and might even have snuck into the Kill Room to see about vista and shooting angles. He could easily have left some trace, even if he didn’t leave any prints. But virtually no trace had been collected from the room, only some candy wrappers and a few cigarette butts beside an ashtray near the guard’s body.

However, the next pages on the iPad, photos of the Kill Room itself, were illuminating. Moreno had been shot in the living room of the suite. Everything and everyone in the room was covered with shards of glass. Moreno lay sprawled on a couch, head back, mouth open, a bloodstain on his shirt, in the center of which was a large black dot, the entrance wound. The upholstery behind him was covered in dark blood and gore, from what would have been a massive exit wound caused by the sniper’s bullet.

The other victims lay on their backs near the couch, one a large Latino, identified in the photo as Simon Flores, Moreno’s guard, the other a dapper bearded balding man in his fifties, de la Rua, the reporter. They were covered with broken glass and blood, their skin torn and slashed in dozens of places.

The bullet itself was photographed lying on the floor next to a small sandwich board evidence location card bearing the number 14. It was lodged in the carpet a few feet behind the couch.

Rhyme flipped the page, expecting to see more.

But the next image was of the corporal with his wife again, sitting in beach chairs.

Without looking his way, Poitier said, “That’s all there is.”

“Not the autopsy?”

“One has been done. We don’t have the results.”

Rhyme asked, “The victims’ clothing?”

Now he regarded the criminalist. “At the morgue.”

“I asked my associate at the South Cove to track down de la Rua’s camera, tape recorder and anything else he had with him. He said they went to the morgue. I’d love to see them.”

Poitier gave a skeptical laugh. “I would have too.”

“Would have?”

“Yes, you caught that, Captain. By the time I inquired about them they were missing, along with the victims’ more valuable personal effects.”