Criminal

witnessed enough preliminary exams to know what Sara was thinking. She noted the position of the body—he was lying prone on the mattress. She noted that the sheet and bedspread were neatly folded down at the foot of the bed. She noted that the victim was dressed in a white, short-sleeved T-shirt and white boxer shorts.
    And that beside him on the table was a black velvet manicure kit.
    The tools were neatly laid out: nail clippers, a tiny pair of scissors, a nail buffer, three types of metal files, an emery board, tweezers, a clear glass vial that held the white, crescent-shaped clippings of his father’s fingernails.
    Will had never seen the man in the flesh. His mugshot photo showed swollen features marred by dark bruises. Months after his arrest, a newspaper photographer had managed to snap a blurred image of him leaving the courthouse in shackles. Those were the only two photos Will knew of. There was no background information in his file. No one knew where he was from. No friends came forward. No parents. No neighbors claimed that he had always seemed so normal.
    The AJC had been two newspapers back then— The Atlanta Journal and The Atlanta Constitution . Both editions covered the court proceedings, but there was no trial. His father had pleaded guilty to kidnapping, torture, rape, and murder. With the death penalty rendered illegal by the Supreme Court, the only enticement the prosecutor could offer in exchange for not having to prove his case at trial was life with the possibility of parole. That everyone assumed that possibility would never roll around was understood.
    So, in the scheme of things, Will supposed his father was lucky. Lucky to miss the ultimate punishment. Lucky the parole board finally released him. Lucky to die on his own terms.
    Lucky to kill one last time.
    Sara began the examination with his face. That was where rigor always started. She tested the laxity of the jaw, pressed against the closed eyelids and mouth. Next, she checked the fingers, flexed the wrist. The nails glinted in the sunlight. They were trimmed down to the quick. The cuticle on his thumb had bled before he died.
    Sara said, “My best guess—and it’s only a guess—is that he died sometime within the last six hours.”
    Amanda didn’t let her off that easily. “Care to hazard a cause of death?”
    “Not really. Could be a heart attack. Could be cyanide. I won’t know until I get him on the table.”
    “Surely, there’s something else you can tell me about him?”
    Sara was visibly annoyed by the question. Still, she answered, “He’s in his mid-to-late sixties. He’s well nourished, in good shape. His muscle tone is appreciative, even in rigor. His teeth are false, obviously penal-system quality. He has what looks like a scar on his chest. You can see it in the V-neck of his undershirt. It looks surgical.”
    “He had a heart attack a few years ago.” Amanda frowned. “Unfortunately, they managed to save him.”
    “That might explain the trach scar on his neck.” She indicated the metal bracelet on his wrist. “He’s diabetic. I’m not going to move his clothes until after he’s photographed, but I imagine we’ll find injection sites on his abdomen and legs.” She took off the gloves. “Is there anything else?”
    Faith stood in the doorway. “I have something.” She had a computer disc in her hand. She wouldn’t look at Will, which told him that the victim’s identity came as no surprise. She was a better liar than he’d thought. Or maybe not. At least he understood why she’d been so quiet on the drive over.
    Amanda said, “We can watch it in the other room.”
    The three of them stood in a half circle as they waited for Faith to load the DVD player. Amanda was between Will and Sara. She took her BlackBerry out of her purse. Will thought at first that she was reading her emails, but it was easy to look over her shoulder. The screen was shattered like a spiderweb. He recognized the news site.
    Amanda read the headline, “ ‘Recently paroled con dies in Midtown hotel room.’ ”
    “They were hoping for somebody famous.” Faith picked up the remote control. “Idiots.”
    “The story isn’t dead yet.” Amanda kept scrolling. “Apparently, a hotel employee tipped them off to a heavy police presence over the last few days.” She told Will, “This is why we try to make friends.”
    “Here we go.” Faith pointed the remote at the player. The security camera showed an empty