"How're my favorite cops?"

"Have a seat," I said. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

"Well, since you can't provide any information, it was time to work on a feature article about the boat. And have a great lunch, at the same time." She pulled out her chair.

"Lunch is on Carl," said Hester. "Great to see you again."

"I'd like you to meet Shamrock," said Nancy. "She's my photographer this week."

"She's welcome to join us, too," said Hester, standing and reaching out her hand to the pretty blonde with the cameras. "I'm Hester Gorse, DCI, and this is Carl Houseman, Nation County. He's buying lunch today."

I stood, as well, and shook Shamrock's hand. She was about twenty-two or -three, small, slight, and about as pretty a young woman as had graced Nation County in years. Really small, I noticed as I stood. More than a foot shorter than I was. Not more than ninety pounds, I'd guess. With camera. She looked like she was in junior high. Well, from my perspective, at any rate.

"Shamrock really your name?" Cops. We say things like that.

"Yours really Carl?" Big grin.

I was beginning to feel hemmed in. "I'm buying, cut me some slack." I grinned, and sat back down.

She laughed. I sure hoped that she didn't go the way of Nancy's last photographer. Shamrock could grow on you.

"So, Nancy," I said, "what brings you here?"

Nancy looked at Shamrock. "He just sounds that dumb. He's really not."

"You gotta take that on trust," said Hester.

"Should I leave?" I asked.

"Not till the bill comes," said Hester.

"The murders brought me to Maitland," said Nancy.

"I hope you packed," I said. "You're gonna be here a while."

Nancy glanced around. "Lamar going to join you?"

"No," I said.

"Then I'll stay," she said, barely able to keep a straight face. "Wouldn't want to make him mad ... We'll hit the line," she said, "and be back in a second."

Nancy came back with a taco salad. Shamrock appeared with a cheeseburger, cheese b.a.l.l.s, and chocolate milk. Youth. Hers came to $4.50. Not too bad.

"So," said Nancy. "How you two comin' on this one?"

"Grinding it out," I said. Instantly on guard. Nancy was, after all, the press. "And it's not us two, either. Hester's just having lunch with me ... Really," I said. "She's on boat rotation."

"Oh, sure," said Nancy. "Then you haven't told her of any of your great leaps of intuition this time?"

Hester laughed. "Now that you mention it ..."

Thankfully, that got us off on what I would term "Houseman's intuition," intuition in general, and ended up with women's natural intellectual superiority over men. It also got us to the end of the meal. Hester and I were engineering a graceful escape, when Nancy scored.

"So, before you two go running off, how come we were hearing that it was two cops that were killed in there?" She knew she had us. I could tell, because she was still seated as we were standing. She knew we weren't going anywhere. The carrot had been dangled.

We sat back down. "Where did you hear that?" I must have looked interested or something. A crack in the poker face.

"Well, first from a neighbor down the road. Then from an older man at the Borglan place."

Unfortunately, we all now ordered dessert. Another $9.00 plus tax. Pie all around.

"We heard some of that, too," said Hester, pressing her fork through a slice of lemon meringue. "Do you know who these men were?"

"I think one was a Grossman ... hired man or something," said Nancy. "I'd have to look around for the second one's name ..." She carefully balanced large red cherries on the end of her fork, with fragments of a beautifully crumbly sugared crust clinging to the thick syrup.

"We don't know where that came from," I said, which was pretty much true. Just who might have started it when they were interrupted in a burglary. But they hadn't told anybody, that was for sure. So I wasn't really lying.

"They were sure convinced," said Shamrock. She took a bite of French Silk, topped with whipped cream and chocolate shavings.

"Well, there weren't cops killed. So I don't know how that got going," I said, again. I fiddled with my pumpkin pie, sans whipped cream. My diet program.

"Maybe somebody thought they were cops?" asked Nancy. "Good lead story, any way you cut it."

Ah. The stick.

"Wouldn't something more accurate be better?" asked Hester.

Of course it would. But what could we do?

My thoughts were interrupted by the waitress. "Phone for you, Carl."

I excused myself, and took the call at the phone in the kitchen. It was Sally. The bodies were thawed and Dr. Peters was ready to do the autopsies. Would an officer be available at the Manchester Hospital in the next hour or so? Art was still busy, so it was going to have to be somebody from our department. Right. If I knew Art, he was ducking the autopsy, the same way he did when he was a deputy sheriff. He'd hated autopsies as long as I'd known him ...

I walked back to the table. "Shamrock, I don't have my camera with me. Could we hire you to do some shots for us. In Manchester?"

Nancy knew an opening when she saw one. "Sure, she will," she said. "I'll come, too."

Hester shot me a glance, and mouthed "autopsy." I nodded. She grinned. We do think alike.

The deal was, the department got professional, first-cla.s.s autopsy shots, for a reasonable price. Shamrock got to take two cameras in, taking whatever shots for herself that she thought she'd need. I'd provide death-related information, and they'd get to hear the comments of Dr. Peters. Just the latter, in itself, was one h.e.l.l of a lot. I let on as if I was really sticking my neck out, but the truth was we had used professional photographers many times before. Although it was true that the Maitland Examiner Maitland Examiner newspaper was usually the provider. Nonetheless, it was a precedent, and I felt covered. There was a chance that Lamar would be p.i.s.sed, but if the results justified this ... newspaper was usually the provider. Nonetheless, it was a precedent, and I felt covered. There was a chance that Lamar would be p.i.s.sed, but if the results justified this ...

In exchange, Nancy and Shamrock would latch on to the folks who thought the victims had been cops, and find out what the h.e.l.l was going on with them. Especially the older male subject at the Borglan place. For us. They'd tell us just the information that was in regard to the cop bit. No obligation to say anything else. Deal? You bet.

"So, how soon do we get to release this stuff?" Nancy got out her notebook, a pen, and poised.

"Not sure," I said, "but I can guarantee you get it before anybody else."

"Gotta have at least twenty-four hours on everybody, or no deal. 'Before anybody else' won't cut it."

"Okay. But there has to be at least one critical detail held back," I said. "Number of shots, for example. Or caliber."

"Number of shots?" said Nancy. "Oooh, I like it when you talk like that." of shots?" said Nancy. "Oooh, I like it when you talk like that."

I turned to Shamrock. "You ever do an autopsy before? I don't want to have to get you a wastebasket ..."

"All the time. Bread and b.u.t.ter since fourth grade."

"No distractions for the doc," I said. "I'm serious. If you start to quease out on us, just excuse yourself, and leave me the camera."

"Sure, boss," said Shamrock. "No problem."

As we left Hester, she gave me some of the best advice I'd ever had on a case.

"Houseman," she said, "the Art business is distracting you from the case. You try too hard to get along with him, you'll end up with a mess."

"Okay."

"I mean it. And keep in touch."

We headed off to Manchester, me going one way, Nancy and Shamrock another, to throw off any of their compet.i.tion who might be looking at us. Since most of them didn't know me from a hole in the ground, I don't think they ever did catch on.

Dr. Peters had no problem with Shamrock the photographer, as long as he was not identifiable in the photos. Shamrock said there'd be no problem.

She looked at the two bodies, covered by white plastic sheets. "I, uh, hope I do okay on this ..."

"You'll do just fine," said Dr. Peters. "Just focus on the areas I tell you. We'll keep them to a minimum, just those that will grossly affect the investigation. Most likely," he said, pulling back the sheet on the first body, "just the heads ..."

The bodies were both supine, naked, with the heads resting on shaped wood blocks. I'd seen the same kind of headrests in a TV program on Egyptian mummies, used in their embalming process. Commonality of form and function. They still looked d.a.m.ned uncomfortable. Both mouths were open, eyes open, a little mucus in the nostrils of the first one. Part of the thawing process.

External examination of the two victims revealed nothing out of the ordinary, with the exception of the three gunshot wounds. Each had a couple of routine tattoos, poorly drawn and poorly executed, on their upper arms. Their initials, apparently, with M.F.D. underneath.

"What's 'M.F.D.' stand for?" asked Nancy, in a hoa.r.s.e-sounding voice.

"Mean f.u.c.king Dude," said Shamrock. Her voice sounded a little weak.

"Oh."

"Got an eraser? I had it down as Mighty f.u.c.kin' Dumb." I chuckled.

Actually, it went rather well, as autopsies go. I tended to get in quite close, and had to back away for Shamrock several times. She was having no problems at all, which was kind of too bad, as I had all sorts of "Shamrock" and "green" lines ready. Well, she was a bit pale, maybe. Mostly the smell, I think.

There were very clear "tattoos" on each of the three entrance wounds. Perfect circles made by the impact of unconsumed particles of gunpowder moving out of a gun barrel at several hundred feet per second. Because the particles are so small, they disperse and slow very quickly. Perfect circles such as these meant the end of the gun barrel was in contact with the skin when the shot was fired ...

"Contact wounds," said Dr. Peters. "No doubt about it."

You just can't get closer than that.

He washed the head of Victim Number One, filling the drain gutters in the table with pale pink water, which ran down toward the body's feet, and into a clear tube which was plugged into a large container. With the dried blood out of the way, the tattooing was even more p.r.o.nounced. "Victim Number One, Royce Colson," he intoned into his recorder.

"We won't probe," said Dr. Peters. "We'll do sections. The X rays have the gross angles for us ..."

With that, he incised the skin in a half circle around the top of the skull, and proceeded to fold the scalp down over the victim's face. He picked up a small rotary saw, and began cutting around the circ.u.mference of the head, being very careful not to disturb the wounds. As he was beginning to cut, I peered in closer, and saw the entry wound. Small dark hole, with reddish and bluish discoloration around it. Big bruise, or, at least, it would have been. Fascinating to see one under the skin. The cracking of the skull was just barely visible. Not like a fissure or anything, just a hairline crack.

The smell of the hot bone under the saw, coupled with a fine mist rising from the work, lent sort of a surreal air to things. The whine of the saw was occasionally interrupted by a deeper tone as it encountered more pressure when Dr. Peters had to change position.

Nancy left the room. Wise move. I've never understood the derision some people heap on those who have sensibilities. I, for example, can look at blood and entrails all day without a twinge. Yet, if somebody vomits, I likely will, too. Which is the main reason I appreciated somebody having the courtesy to leave before they tossed up their lunch. But I also respected their judgment.

Dr. Peters removed the brain, and placed it on a small cutting board that rested on the victim's chest. "Let's see where this one ended up," he said, shining a light into the cranial cavity. "There! See, the dark spot right there ..."

He was pointing to what looked at first like a small lump of clumpy bluish blood. If you looked really close, though, you could see it was a misshapen slug, in a glossy dollop of what appeared to be mucus. Cerebrospinal fluid, plus membrane.

"See," said Dr. Peters. "It was coming just about straight down the pipe, so to speak. Just missed the foramen magnum. Good thing, lot harder to find if it went down that road."

We stood back, while Dr. Peters used a probe to indicate the location of the slug for Shamrock, who took three photos with each camera. Dr. Peters then picked the bullet up, and used a very sharp probe to scratch an initial in the base of the round. He placed it in a bag, and initialed it, along with the date, time, place, and his name.

Dr. Peters moved over the victim's chest, to the brain which rested on the cutting board. With all the commentary he was muttering into his tape recorder, and with all the sight-seeing he was helping us with, I couldn't help noticing that he was very, very gentle with the cadaver. Almost like it was capable of being injured further. He reached over to a stainless-steel tray, and picked up a large knife. Looked to me every bit like a large piece of cutlery you'd find in a kitchen. Complete with a black plastic handle.

"Where'd you get the knives?" I was just making conversation, really. Mildly curious.

"Katie's Kitchen Korner," said Dr. Peters, as he judiciously sliced into the brain. "Set of four a.s.sorted sizes. Great for this sort of thing." He laid a large portion of the brain aside. "Not nearly as much as they'd ask for the same sort of equipment in a surgical supply store. And surgical supply stores rarely have sales." He probed the tissues with gloved fingers. "Don't need a scalpel for this... it's not like we have to worry about scars or healing ..."

"Oh." I was imagining a TV commercial ... And, wait, there's more ...

"Wonderful set," he continued. "Great place to shop."

"Sure is," said Shamrock. "I got a ten-inch frying pan and a French whisk there last month."

"The whisks that were on special, near the checkout counter?" asked Dr. Peters.

"You bet," she said. "Great for meringue ..."

That got her points.

"Ah, here we are," said Dr. Peters. "The bullet's track."

He pointed at the sectioned brain, and I was very hard put to see what he was talking about. "Where?"

"Here. Tissues swell back after the pa.s.sage of a projectile like this one ... but see the perforation in the membrane here ... and the depression in this white tissue here?"

That I did. We studied the track for a few seconds. No real reason, but it was important evidence, even though we ourselves wouldn't be testifying about it. After a few moments, Dr. Peters began hunting for the second bullet. He looked at the X rays. "Should be right about here ..."

With the brain on the board, I had a difficult time maintaining my orientation between it and the holes in the skull. Not Dr. Peters.

"Here we go ... fragment ... and here ..."

He pointed the track and fragments out to us. We "studied" them, too. While we did, Dr. Peters was slicing some very fine tissues off the brain, and preparing them for the laboratory examination that would be done.

He opened the chest and abdomen, and we continued our tour. No remarkable evidence turned up. That was good. We sure as h.e.l.l weren't expecting any. Dr. Peters did complain about the pain in his hands, though. Very, very cold inside the victims. You could see little sparkles of frost underneath as he removed the liver.