Captain Martin had locked him out of the case, and word had gone down the line. Only Burklow had the balls to break ranks, and what he’d shared was not enough. French had not seen the knife or the photographs. He knew nothing about witnesses, forensics, the specifics of the autopsy results. Patience had been urged, and French, half-broken, had agreed.

But that was last night.

Like most in law enforcement, the medical examiner was an early riser, and was still at home when French parked the car and killed the engine. He hesitated because there were boundaries in the murder business—there had to be. Putting his uneasiness aside, he climbed out into the morning sunlight as a young man jogged past, and a kid on a bike flung papers. French waited until one landed in the ME’s yard, then picked it up: The New York Times, which was good.

Nothing local.

No mention of his son.

On the porch, he raised his hand to knock, but the door opened before he could. “Detective French. What are you doing here?”

“I brought your paper.” He tried to keep it light, but Malcolm Frye declined to return the smile. “I’m sorry, Mal. I know it’s early.”

“I can’t discuss the case with you.”

His reticence was understandable. Going against the captain’s orders would get any medical examiner in trouble, especially in a case as politically loaded as Jason’s. And Malcolm Frye wasn’t just any ME. He was the only black one in the city, no small accomplishment in a county that had only recently integrated its public schools. That made Malcolm an important part of the civil rights movement. He was visible. He had a lot to lose.

“He’s my son, Malcolm. I don’t know where else to turn.”

The moment stretched uncomfortably. Neither man would call the other a friend, but the respect had always been there: all the years, dozens of cases. The ME frowned, then softened. “You still drink coffee, don’t you?”

“Only in the mornings.”

“Coffee, then. Come on.” He led the way into a neat kitchen. “Two things first.” Malcolm poured the coffees. “If anyone asks, you were never here. Second, the autopsy file is at the office. Even were it here, I wouldn’t share it with you. That’s a line I can’t cross.”

“Hey, we’re just two guys talking.”

“All right, then.”

French had a thousand questions, but one rose first in his mind. “You’ve seen the scalpel recovered from Jason’s bedroom. Is it consistent with Tyra’s injuries?”

“With the more precise cuts, yes.”

“Would most scalpels be consistent?”

“Bear in mind that two blades were used on Tyra Norris, one very thin and incredibly sharp. It takes high-grade steel to hold that kind of edge. A scalpel is specifically engineered to that purpose. Telling one from another…” He made a face that meant probably not.