Tinkham nodded. "You want to write?" he said.

Diamond said, "Yes."

Tinkham squatted down again beside the woman. "Female," he said.

"Black, age"-he shrugged-"twenty to thirty, white slacks, yellow halter top, black sling-strap high-heel shoe (one), one shoe missing, gold hoop earrings." Diamond said, "You sure there's two?"

"You want to turn her head and look?" Tinkham said.

Diamond said "No" and continued to write in his notebook.

"Large gold ring on index finger of right hand, picture of a queen on it." Diamond said, "What?"

"Picture of a queen," Tinkham said. "How the fuck do I know who it is.

You know?" He looked at Newman.

Newman leaned closer. You get used to anything. The woman's hand was sprawled out away from her body and Newman could look at the ring without seeing the shattered skull.

"Nefertiti," he said.

Diamond looked at him. Tinkham said, "Or at least not often."

"It's the King Tut craze," Newman said.

Diamond said, "Never mind."

"Victim is prostrate on left side, appears to have been shot several times in right rear quarter of head. No evidence of rape or sexual abuse. No sign of struggle. No bruises or abrasions on visible parts of body, neck, right arm. Face obscured by blood and disfigured by apparent gunshot wound."

Newman realized he'd been hearing the siren for a time without noticing. Then a blue Massachusetts State Police car pulled in beside the Smithfield cruiser. Behind it, another Smithfield cruiser.

"Inside of right arm shows marks of probable hypodermic injections," Tinkham said.

Two big troopers got out of the Massachusetts State Police car. They wore campaign hats and black boots. Their faces glistened with the closeness of their shaves. Their uniform shirts were pressed with military creases. Their gunbelts glowed with polish. Their hair barely showed under the hats. The sideburns were trimmed short. One was black.