I grabbed a scalpel off a surgical cart and his demeanor abruptly changed. He backed off, suddenly unnerved because I was about to start cutting, so now I had that problem to cope with, too.

"Have you ever seen an autopsy?" I said to him.

"A few." He looked like he might throw up "Why don't you go sit down over there," I suggested none too kindly as I wondered why Chesapeake had assigned him to this case or any case. "Or go out in the bay."

"It's just hot in here."

"If you get sick, go for the nearest trash can." It was all Danny could do not to laugh.

"I'll just sit over here for a minute." Roche went to the desk near the door.

I swiftly made the Y incision, the blade running from shoulders to sternum to pelvis. As blood was exposed to air, I thought I detected an odor that made me stop what I was doing.

"You know, Lipshaw's got a really good sharpener out I wish we could get," Danny was saying. "It hone-grinds with water so you can just stick the knives in there and leave them."

What I was smelling was unmistakable, but I could not believe it.

"I was just looking at their new catalog," he went on.

"Makes me crazy all the cool things we can't afford."

This could not be right.

"Danny, open the doors," I said with a quiet urgency that startled him.

"What is it?" he asked in alarm.

"Let's get plenty of air in here. Now," I said.

He moved fast with his bad knee and opened double doors that led into the hall.

"What's wrong?" Roche sat up straighter.

"This man has a peculiar odor." I was unwilling to voice my suspicions right then, especially to him.

"I don't smell anything." He got up and looked around, as if this mysterious odor might be something he could see.

Eddings' blood reeked of a bitter almond smell, and it did not surprise me that neither Roche nor Danny could detect it. The ability to smell cyanide is a sex-linked recessive trait that is inherited by less than thirty percent of the population. I was among the fortunate few.