“The suspect, Albert Jory, put dirt and grass in their mouths and noses. Then he taped their mouths closed. They aspirated on dirt.” Eden’s voice cracked. “The Arizona ME wrote a full page on one victim. He said before the victim blacked out, she tasted dirt. The Arizona surface soil, according to the examiner, is alkaline. He said it would have tasted chalky and coated the tongue.”

“We see and hear terrible things in this work, and it affects people in different ways. I’ve seen it before. You’ll get through it.”

“I still have the panic attacks. I’ve been on Ativan for two years.”

“The department has counselors. We can get you help.”

“I don’t know what this work is, how far to go. I can’t help opening the door and looking in. I’m like Elise—the way she couldn’t stop asking Thackrey about Reggie. After I read the Arizona report, all I could think of was the dirt in that girl’s mouth.”

Mahler saw Eden waiting for an answer. “Someone as arrogant as Thackrey thinks all cops are the same,” he said. “If the chief lets me keep my job, I need different kinds of people on my team. I need a guy like Danny Rivas, who can see two gangbangers and tell which one’s got a nine-millimeter behind his back. Or, someone like Frames, who does the right thing in a split second. Someone like Coyle, who can find stuff in a database. And someone like you—”

“Who can’t stop doing research? Why’d you recommend me to the chief, anyway? You knew I flamed out at the agency. The only thing on my résumé was a failure.”

“No,” Mahler said, “the failure was the agency’s for not backing you up. What you did was to get inside the victims better than anyone else. That’s why I wanted you here. Remember, with every homicide, all we’ve got at the start is the victim.”

“You want me to keep working for you?”

“I don’t know what kind of a cop you’ll be, Eden,” Mahler said, looking into her eyes. “A murder investigation is about looking at what’s there. You’re good at that, one of the best I’ve worked with. But cases are also about everything that’s left out—all the things we don’t know, all the questions we have. It takes time to see how to live in that world. You need to learn your craft. Hang around guys like Rivas. Have a beer with Tom Woodhouse, and let him bend your ear about the cases he worked.”

“And you?”

“Me? I’m not that old.”

“What about the terrible things we see?”

“Part of the job. You have to find your own way with it. Listen to the victims. They’ll tell you how far to open the door.”