Jack said. “Penalty phase starts next week.”
“Let’s hope the bastard gets what he deserves,” Andy said.
The man on trial was responsible for the brutal slaying of Alec’s first wife nearly two years ago. At the time of her murder, Alec had been a criminal profiler with the FBI. He’d retired only months after his wife’s death so that he could, with his usual tenacity, devote every moment of his time to bringing down her killer.
Alec didn’t know how to fail at anything. It was one of the things Jack admired about his brother. It was also one of the characteristics that at times could get under Jack’s skin.
He moved farther into the room, careful to stick with a straight path that he could later backtrack. “What do you have so far?”
Andy had closed in on the body’s right side and seemed to be examining its position. “The victim is a 36-year-old male. Cause of death appears to be gunshot to the head at very close range. By the look of it, he didn’t go right away. Too much blood.”
“I assume we have a name?”
“Dan Dawson. Local doc.”
At the name, Jack looked up from the body, everything inside him tightening. If this was Dr. Daniel Dawson, then that made the woman in the other room… Not a stranger.
Andy, who had been examining the floor beneath the victim, stuck his head above the desk edge, but didn’t seem to record Jack’s reaction to the name.
“I completed the video and sketches, as well as the preliminary 35 mms and a few digital shots. There was a nickel-plated .357 revolver on the floor on the victim’s right, and I found powder residue on the victim’s right hand, right cheek and shirt collar.”
“So you think it was self-inflicted?” Jack asked, and waited tense seconds for Andy’s answer.
“You’ll have to ask the medical examiner that one.”
“I’m asking for your opinion, Andy.”
The crime scene tech looked up from what he was doing. Jack wasn’t surprised to encounter speculation in his eyes. Andy was probably wondering what was different about this murder, why his boss had just asked him to comment on an aspect of the scene that was clearly the M.E.’s territory.
After nearly a half minute, Andy looked down at the corpse. “I obviously haven’t moved the body, so the most I can tell you is that the bullet appears to have entered just behind the right condyle and then exited low on the left side of the skull.”
“Not the usual positioning of the weapon for a suicide,” Jack said.
Shrugging, Andy started to collect items from the desktop. “The bullet trajectory pretty much did away with any chance of survival. Which is usually the goal.”
“Damn,” Jack whispered. “What drives a man, a seemingly successful one, to just give away his life?”
Andy picked up a photo that had been facedown on the desk. Blood dripped from the frame edge as he held it for Jack to see. “Maybe losing something like that.”
Both men knew who she was. Andy because he would have seen her when he arrived, and Jack because they’d met once before—under very different circumstances.
The photograph was a close-up and had been cropped so there was no background—just hair and face. An interesting face with a strong chin and steel-gray eyes so direct that some would find them intimidating. Then there was all that dark gold hair, not smooth and neat, but full and, from the looks of it, hard to restrain. What the picture didn’t show was the supple, well-muscled body. Jack’s fingers curled into a loose fist as he tried to forget the warm, satiny skin.
Andy placed the frame in the box with other items that would be transported to the lab for evaluation.
Jack scanned the room again. With the exception of the evidence markers scattered about like a toddler’s toys, the space looked tidy. Definitely no signs of a struggle.
“Were there any indications of forced entry?”
It was Shepherd who responded this time. “No. At least not on the first floor. When I finish up in here, I’ll check upstairs.”
Andy had collected a pile of manila files from one corner of the desk and was placing them in another cardboard box.
“What are those?” Jack asked.
“They look to be patient charts.”
As Jack moved closer to the victim, he was still very aware of where he placed his feet. “It appears as if he may have been sitting here reviewing them.”
On the surface, the pieces seemed to fit, but…
Jack lifted his hand, intending to massage the stiffness in his neck, then realized he was still gloved, and allowed it to drop again. “He brings work home with him, and then stops in the middle to put a gun to his head? Why look over charts if you have no intention of seeing or treating the patients?” Jack paused. “Unless you were being sued?”
“And the charts belong to women who might be called as witnesses at a trial?” Andy had keyed in on the direction Jack was going. “He realizes he’s screwed and reaches into the drawer…. Bam. No suit. No trial.”
“Just happy trails,” Shepherd chimed in.
Jack took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Or he brought the charts home because he hadn’t had time to take care of them at the office. Someone comes in here and puts a gun to his head.” He looked over at Andy. “The powder residue on his hand—any possibility that it got on him when he was trying to grab the gun from someone else at the time it went off?”
“Sure.”
Shepherd moved in closer to the body. “The only entrance is in front of the desk. If he didn’t do this to himself, then whoever did knew him well enough to get in close and personal.”
Jack scanned the room again. Shepherd was right. There was no way anyone could’ve snuck up on him.
Shepherd handed the dusting powder back to Martinez. “My money is on the ex-wife.”
Jack’s mouth tightened. The possibility that the woman in the other room—the same woman who had too briefly shared his bed two months ago and who had haunted his mind ever since—had put a gun to a man’s head and pulled the trigger left him feeling exposed.
LEXIE HAD BEEN SITTING in the kitchen’s breakfast nook for nearly two hours now. For the last hour, she’d been answering questions asked by Detective Joe Fitz. He was somewhere deep into middle age and had one of those Moon Pie faces that would go unnoticed in a group photo.
“So you arrived around eleven-fifteen?” Fitz asked.
“No. I arrived at eleven-thirty.” How many different ways were there to ask the same question? She leaned back, pressing her spine against the hard surface of the bench. She was so tired. Not just physically exhausted, but she was weary of answering the unending questions from the police.
“I know you’re
