I glanced at the shattered door. “Where’s the woman?”

He jerked his head down the hall. “In the kitchen. A Rescue guy’s with her.”

“She all right?”

“Yeah. A little shaky.”

“Okay. I’ll see her last.”

George nodded and led the way to the back. He pulled open the splintered remains of the door and ushered me through.

J.P. Tyler, the departt=", the dment’s only detective with any forensic training, was standing in the yard with his back to us. He was taking a photograph. “Look at the shoe,” he said without turning around.

On the top step, lying on its side, was a loafer. I leaned down and picked it up. It was expensive-glove leather, designer label, more of a moccasin really. Real terrorist apparel.

About six feet from the foot of the steps, surrounded by a dazzling white circle of flood lamps, lay the body. Like the cat, it was flat on its back, arms and legs outstretched. For a second I thought of when I used to lie like that in the snow, as a kid, making snow angels. But here the gentle arc formed by the arms was uninterrupted by a head. A tall man in a pea jacket rose from his crouch by the body-Alfred Gould, the regional medical examiner.

Gould walked over to us. “Morning, Joe.”

I nodded to him. “Hi, Al. Anything to add to the obvious?”

Gould half smiled and shook his head. “I would like to talk to the old lady, if that’s all right.”

“Sure, be my guest.” I stepped out of the way and let him pass.

The snow all around the body had been trampled by a small army.

“Were there any prints before all this happened?”

“Nope, just his. I got shots of it all.” J.P. put his camera down, a pleased look on his face-a man in love with his work. “I’m wrapping up out here. I still have to check out the gun. Hit the lights when you’re through, okay?”