“No reason. She was out alone this evening, dressed like that.” Breton closed his eyes. I did it — I killed my wife. “I let her go alone.”

“We still have to make a positive identification; if you like, one of the patrolmen will drive you to the morgue.”

“It isn’t necessary,” Breton said. “I can do that much.”

The refrigerated drawer rolled out easily on oiled bearings, forming an efficient cantilever, and a stray thought intruded determinedly on Breton’s mind. A good machine. He looked down at Kate’s cold, dreaming face, and at the jewels of moisture curving precisely along her eyebrows. Of its own accord, his right hand moved out to touch her. He saw the blackness of oil rimming the fingernails, and willed his hand to stop. Thou hast not a stain on thee.

Lieutenant Convery moved into a corner of his field of vision, close at hand yet light-years away across a universe of pulsating fluorescent brilliance, “Is this your wife?”

“Who else?” Breton said numbly. “Who else?”

An indeterminate time later he learned Kate had been clubbed, raped and stabbed. A forensic expert added that they could not be sure of the order in which those things had happened. Breton contained the knowledge of his guilt successfully for a matter of days, while going through senseless formalities, but all the while he knew he was a bomb in which the charge had already ignited, that he was living through the nanoseconds preceding his disintegration into human shrapnel.

It came, with the spurious gentleness of a filmed explosion, on the day after Kate’s funeral. He was walking aimlessly through the city’s north side, along a street of time-defeated buildings. The day was cold and, although there was no rain, the sidewalks were wet.