The god-awful reality of it hit Dane when he saw his brother through the glass window in the very small viewing room at the morgue. Dr. Boyd, a tall, white-haired, commanding man, with a voice to make a sinner confess, had taken them through the security door, down the short hall into the room, and drew back the curtains. There was Michael, a sheet pulled up to his neck, only his head visible. Dane felt a lurch of pain so deep he almost gasped. He felt Delion’s hand on his shoulder. Then he saw the red dot on Michael’s forehead; it looked so fantastical, like it had just been painted on, nothing more, just a dab of makeup, some sort of fashion statement or affectation. He wanted to ask Dr. Boyd why they hadn’t cleaned it off, but he didn’t.

Dr. Boyd said very gently, “He died instantly, Agent Carver. There was just the slap of the bullet, then he was gone. No pain. I’m very sure of that.”

Dane nodded.

“You know that we’ve done the autopsy, taken fingerprints and DNA samples.”

“Yes, I know.”

Delion stepped back, his arms folded across his chest, and watched Special Agent Dane Carver. He knew what shock was, what anguish was, and he saw both in this man. When Dane finally nodded and stepped back, Delion said, “Chief Kreider wants to see us now.”

Chief Dexter Kreider’s secretary walked them into the chief’s office. The room wasn’t all that big, but the view was spectacular. The entire side wall was windows, looking out toward the Bay Bridge, a huge Yahoo! sign and a neon-lit diet Coke sign the other landmarks in view. There was a large desk, and two large cabinets filled with kitsch, something that made Dane smile, for a moment. Just about every higher-up’s office he’d been into had had at least one display case. And here, there was also a touch of whimsy-in a corner stood a colorful wooden carousel horse. Utilitarian and whimsical, a nice combination.