He approached the nightstand, which held a lamp and a stack of four books. With one finger, he turned the books to read the titles: The Collected Poems of John Keats, The Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Poetry, Woman’s Orgasm, and Lady Sophia’s Rescue: A Regency Romance. He remembered attending a memorial service for a former professor. A family member had read a list of the books from the professor’s nightstand as if the titles alone were a reflection of the man’s character.

“World’s largest collection of thongs.” Bailey reached her hands into the dresser drawer. “I’m almost positive my job description didn’t say anything about looking through the underwear of dead people.”

“It’s not in the job description,” Coyle said. “It’s under Benefits.” He picked up the books. The Keats volume was worn. Inside, the page margins were covered in a looping handwritten scrawl. He read part of a poem underlined in black ink: “Now, a soft kiss.” Poetry always seemed feminine to Coyle. It made him uncomfortable. What was he supposed to think or feel? Should he think of a soft kiss from Adrienne? What was a soft kiss, anyway? What did the victim, the girl in the park whose head was crushed, think when she read this poem and underlined the words? Did it make any difference to her before she was killed? He closed the Keats and put it in an evidence bag.

On the nightstand a framed photograph hid behind a clock. It showed a man dressed in baggy trousers, shirt, and tie, standing at the edge of a field. The man’s features looked like the victim’s. Coyle put the photo in a separate evidence bag.

In the nightstand’s drawer, Coyle found half a dozen prescription bottles with “Elise Durand” on the label: Haldol, Lithium, Risperdal, Depakote, and Paxil. He knew the first was an antipsychotic, the second a treatment for manic depression. He opened a bottle with the label torn off and showed it to Bailey.

She poured the contents into her gloved palm and counted four different kinds of tablets. “OxyContin, or synthetic heroin,” she said, pointing to several hard, yellow pills. “These blue ones are Ecstasy. I don’t recognize the others.” She put the pills back in the bottle and dropped it into an evidence bag.

Coyle looked at the posters lining three of the room’s walls: Tom Waits, a sweaty-faced female singer Coyle didn’t know, an art print of a street café at night, and another of a woman lying beside a lake. He stared at the last poster, peeled off the tape, and laid the poster on the bed.