"Well, whaddya think?" Butts repeated. "Boyfriend did it?"

"No," Lee replied. "I don't think so."

"Strangulation is typical of domestic violence cases, y'know," said Butts, his small eyes narrowing even more in the dim light of the chapel. When Lee didn't respond, he added, "You know what percentage of murder victims know their killer?"

"Eighty percent," Lee replied, bending down over Marie again.

"Yeah," Butts said, sounding surprised that he knew the answer.

Lee straightened up and stretched his cramped back muscles. At just under six foot two, he was half a foot taller than the stubby detective. He ran a hand through his own curly black hair, which was getting shaggy in the back.

Butts frowned and deepened his bite on the cigar. "So who do you think did it?"

Lee stepped aside as the men from the medical examiner's office loaded the body onto the stretcher. All around him, the forensics team members continued with their work; silent and efficient, they were the opposite of this stubby detective with his battered cigar and bad skin.

Lee looked down at his hands, feeling their uselessness. "I don't know," he answered.

Butts made a sound between a grunt and a sigh. "Humph. Okay, Doc-well, when you get some ideas, let me know."

"Oh, I have some ideas," Lee replied. "I just don't know what they add up to yet."

Butts moved the cigar to the other side of his mouth. "Yeah? Well, let's have 'em."

"It's too early yet to draw a lot of conclusions, but I don't think the attacker knew his victim."

"Really?" Butt's voice conveyed his disapproval and disdain.

"This was not a personal crime-this was a ritualistic murder."