with glass doors. The back wall was covered with particle-board bookcases of various colors andsizes, and each shelf sagged under the weight of endless dull-colored volumes with tiny gold or silver titles. Some books were placed well back on the shelf, others stuck out half-returned, and between every few books a manila file or stack of loose photocopies projected. Under the great window was a long worktable, completely cluttered with binders, tweezers, magnifiers, plastic containers, and a hundred other mysterious tools of the forensic entomologist’s dark trade. More than anything there was paper: stacks of articles atop the bookshelves, printouts on the tables, manuscripts on the floor. The only break in the endless clutter was two narrow doorways, one at each end of the room—the only means of escape.
Kathryn stood looking awkwardly about the room. There seemed to be no other place to sit. Nick leaned forward and slid a second stool out from under the worktable, topped with a cascading pile of technical journal articles. With a sweep of his hand he sent the mound of paper back under the table and gestured to the seat.
“Don’t you ever put anything away?” Kathryn asked, sliding onto the stool.
“That is away. Away from me.”
They sat in silence for a few moments as Kathryn gathered her thoughts. Nick spoke first.
“Only one of us knows why you’re here. I’ll bet it’s you.”
So much for formalities, Kathryn thought, and plunged ahead. “As I said outside, I have a very dear friend—”
“Had a dear friend,” Nick interrupted. “When was the body discovered?”
“Early this morning—by some hunters in the woods not far from here.”
“And what was the estimated time of death?”
“They said a week ago. Maybe longer.”
“Now tell me about the disposition of the body.”
She stared at him blankly.
“How it was situated,” he explained, “how it was dressed, the position of the arms and legs, the contents of the hands …”
“I don’t know a lot of … details,” she stammered. “They said he was found lying on his back. He was still holding his pistol in his hand—the one he got in the army. He had … they say he …”She grimaced, made a gun with her right hand and held it to her temple.
“A contact wound to the right temporal region—and no doubt an exit wound on the left. The standard service sidearm is a nine-millimeter, and as they say around these parts, you just can’t keep that chicken in the henhouse.”
She glared at him hard but said nothing.
“The sheriff’s department was satisfied that this was a suicide?”
“Yes, but—”
“And the medical examiner’s office—what did they say?”
She looked at the floor. “The coroner said nothing looked suspicious to him either.”
“Maybe the autopsy will turn up something.”
“There won’t be an autopsy.”
Nick raised one eyebrow. “No autopsy was ordered?”
“No.”
“In cases of unattended death—as in the case of a suicide—an autopsy is usually ordered to verify cause of death. Things must have looked pretty straightforward.”
Kathryn had nothing to say in response.
“This dear friend of yours—I assume we’re talking about a male? He was about your age, thirty to thirty-five? Caucasian?”
“That’s right. How did you—”
“Three-quarters of all suicides are by white males. Two-thirds of them are by gunshot, generally to the head. That fits too. He did it outside, probably standing up—men usually do. Women like the comforts of home and almost always lie down. He used his own gun, which was still in his hand. And there was no note, was there? Nothing to explain his motive or timing?”
She shook her head.
He let out a sigh. “You just can’t get men to write, can you?” He paused a full measure for dramatic effect. “So, Mrs. Guilford. What can I do for you?”
Kathryn’s face was red and hot. “I knew Jimmy since we were kids together here in Holcum County. We
Kathryn stood looking awkwardly about the room. There seemed to be no other place to sit. Nick leaned forward and slid a second stool out from under the worktable, topped with a cascading pile of technical journal articles. With a sweep of his hand he sent the mound of paper back under the table and gestured to the seat.
“Don’t you ever put anything away?” Kathryn asked, sliding onto the stool.
“That is away. Away from me.”
They sat in silence for a few moments as Kathryn gathered her thoughts. Nick spoke first.
“Only one of us knows why you’re here. I’ll bet it’s you.”
So much for formalities, Kathryn thought, and plunged ahead. “As I said outside, I have a very dear friend—”
“Had a dear friend,” Nick interrupted. “When was the body discovered?”
“Early this morning—by some hunters in the woods not far from here.”
“And what was the estimated time of death?”
“They said a week ago. Maybe longer.”
“Now tell me about the disposition of the body.”
She stared at him blankly.
“How it was situated,” he explained, “how it was dressed, the position of the arms and legs, the contents of the hands …”
“I don’t know a lot of … details,” she stammered. “They said he was found lying on his back. He was still holding his pistol in his hand—the one he got in the army. He had … they say he …”She grimaced, made a gun with her right hand and held it to her temple.
“A contact wound to the right temporal region—and no doubt an exit wound on the left. The standard service sidearm is a nine-millimeter, and as they say around these parts, you just can’t keep that chicken in the henhouse.”
She glared at him hard but said nothing.
“The sheriff’s department was satisfied that this was a suicide?”
“Yes, but—”
“And the medical examiner’s office—what did they say?”
She looked at the floor. “The coroner said nothing looked suspicious to him either.”
“Maybe the autopsy will turn up something.”
“There won’t be an autopsy.”
Nick raised one eyebrow. “No autopsy was ordered?”
“No.”
“In cases of unattended death—as in the case of a suicide—an autopsy is usually ordered to verify cause of death. Things must have looked pretty straightforward.”
Kathryn had nothing to say in response.
“This dear friend of yours—I assume we’re talking about a male? He was about your age, thirty to thirty-five? Caucasian?”
“That’s right. How did you—”
“Three-quarters of all suicides are by white males. Two-thirds of them are by gunshot, generally to the head. That fits too. He did it outside, probably standing up—men usually do. Women like the comforts of home and almost always lie down. He used his own gun, which was still in his hand. And there was no note, was there? Nothing to explain his motive or timing?”
She shook her head.
He let out a sigh. “You just can’t get men to write, can you?” He paused a full measure for dramatic effect. “So, Mrs. Guilford. What can I do for you?”
Kathryn’s face was red and hot. “I knew Jimmy since we were kids together here in Holcum County. We
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