Cameron Young’s body, after technicians had lowered him from the balcony, was transferred to the New York State medical examiner’s office. Dr. Jarrod Lockard was tasked with the postmortem. Medical examiners and coroners had always been a peculiar lot to Walt. Outliers who took such a road less traveled in life that it literally led them to death. Being able to dissect the human body, Walt believed, had to come with some glitch in the psyche. Dr. Lockard was nicknamed the Wizard for his abilities to conjure every clue left behind by the bodies that came through his morgue. Jarrod Lockard was so much a genius in this particular niche that other aspects of life had gone unattended—like personal hygiene and appearance, as well as any effort to display the slightest hint of social awareness. Walt wondered if examining the dead had taken its toll on Dr. Lockard, as if each trip into the body of the deceased pulled the man further from life. Not so much toward death, but rather to some in-between place that left him alienated from the living and only able to associate with the corpses that filled his days.

Despite having just turned fifty, Dr. Lockard’s hair was bone white and made up of wild knots that hadn’t seen a comb in years. A few particularly enthusiastic strands stood out from the rest and appeared to carry an electric current. Combined with eyes set so deep in their sockets that the man needed to strain his forehead to keep his eyelids open, Dr. Lockard offered a perpetual look of surprise reminiscent of Doc Brown from Back to the Future.

“Come in,” the doctor said when Walt knocked on the door to his office.

Walt walked into the office. “Doc,” he said, extending his hand and doing his best not to look as nervous as he felt. Why Doc Lockard put the fear of God into every detective at the BCI was a mystery none of Walt’s colleagues attempted to explain.

“Thanks for getting on top of this so quickly,” Walt said.

Dr. Lockard offered a limp handshake that felt like poorly kneaded dough, and a stoic expression that was neither welcoming nor dismissive. He pointed at the chair in front of his desk. “You’ve got an interesting one here. Have a seat. There’s a lot to discuss.”

Dr. Lockard poured coffee into two Styrofoam cups and handed one to Walt. The doctor sat behind his desk and pulled a file folder in front of him.

“Cameron Young,” he said, opening the file and paging through his notes. “You ever read any of his books?”

Walt shook his head. “I’ve never found much time to read fiction.”

“Damn shame. I was a big fan of his. Thrillers. Good stuff.”

A quick image flashed in Walt’s mind of Jarrod Lockard reading by candlelight as he ate chicken wings and flipped pages, leaving greasy fingerprints behind.