“And the blood on this particular scalpel?”

“It matches Tyra’s.”

“Do two blades mean a second cutter?”

“It means a second blade, something like a kitchen knife, nothing special, sharp enough but not surgical. Beyond that, we move into speculation.”

“At the scene, you said some cuts indicated a higher level of skill or knowledge. A corpsman, you thought. Maybe a med school dropout.”

“Yes, but again, that was off-the-cuff speculation.”

“Not enough to rule out my son?”

“I’m sorry, but no. Everything that led me to that initial impression could be learned in a book or on a battlefield or working on stolen cadavers. I can’t testify to a specific level of skill or training. Whoever did this had patience, a steady hand, and a general knowledge of anatomy.”

French stared through the window. Outside, the day was brighter: a high blue sky, the shadows rolling back. “Walk me through it. Front to back.”

The ME kept it clinical. The specifics. “In the end, she died from blood loss and mass, diffuse trauma. The murder took time.”

“How much time?”

“Hours. She suffered.”

French walked to the window, and peered out. “You have a background in psychology, don’t you?”

“Before medical school, I was a clinical psychologist.”

“Forensic, as I recall.”

“I worked with police departments, yes. Miami-Dade. Los Angeles.”

French pinched the bridge of his nose. He was about to leave the cop behind, and it was hard, losing that shell. “How does it happen, Malcolm? What makes someone capable?”

“Of torture like this?”

“The psychopathy.”

“Come, Detective, you know the answer as well as I.” The ME showed his pale, pink palms. “There are some killers we’ll never understand, even after trial and conviction and years of study. You won’t hear this term in clinical circles, but people like that are born wrong. We both know the names. We’ve read the cases. Perhaps one day we’ll understand that level of innate psychopathy, but right now, we don’t.”

“What about those who aren’t … born wrong?”

The ME rolled his shoulders. “Something in life makes them that way. Childhood trauma, abuse.”

“And if it’s not related to childhood?”

“Something violent, then. Something big.”

“Like war?”

“That depends on the person and the war.”

“A bad war. My son.”

“Ah, now I see.” The ME sipped his coffee, very intent. “How long did Jason serve?”

“A bit less than three full tours.”

“Was he physically injured?”

“Burned, shot, and stabbed.”

“Did he kill men in return?”

“Twenty-nine, at least. Would that be enough to change him, to make him capable?”

“Of murder like this?” The ME leaned back, and showed the same pink palms.

Maybe he had no answer to give.

Maybe none was needed.

Court opened at nine, and I was there early, watching from across the street. My father would use the secure entrance in the rear, but I wasn’t taking chances.