“We're looking for lots of blood evidence, then?” Hester was jotting down notes.

“Somewhere,” said Dr. Peters. “All things being equal, and the lab work not being back yet, the evidence suggests she was killed somewhere else, and then placed in her tub, and that her throat was cut in an attempt to make it look self-inflicted.” He nodded. “And you're absolutely right. Lots of blood. There was a large blood loss, somewhere. But don't let me mislead you. There are things I have to do yet.”

“Homicide?”

“Undoubtedly.”

Cool. Now all we had to do was find the location. Well, find a location, place somebody else there, and figure out why. But a location would be a good start.

“That much blood,” he said, “even with determined cleanup, there will be trace evidence.” “I'd better call Lamar, and then the county attorney,” I said. “They'll both need to know.”

I used the phone in the manager's little closet of an office. As I dialed, it occurred to me that, at least this far, we'd managed the media in a pretty cagey way. Anybody listening on a scanner would have heard only the page for the ambulance, Borman simply being told to go there, and him arriving. I never said where I was. Hester had been notified at home, and had called in to State Radio via her cell phone. Dr. Peters had been notified by phone, as had the lab team. Code sixty-one procedure seemed to be working.

Good security, plus the media hardly ever paid attention to suicides, anyway, unless they were either prominent people, or could embarrass prominent people. Edie was pretty much a nobody, bless her. She and her Uncle Lamar didn't even have the same last name.

Homicide had never been mentioned. Well, not till now.

I called Lamar first, both because he was my boss, and because I thought he just should know before anybody else.

He answered the phone. “Ridgeway.”

I liked that. “Hey, Lamar, it's Houseman.”

“It's not a suicide, is it?”

“Jesus, Lamar, are you psychic?”

There was what I can only describe as a moment of satisfied silence at the other end. “Just hoped, I guess,” he said. “I didn't want to think I might have let her down… ”

Yeah. With suicides, there's always that aspect. “No, not according to Dr. Peters. He wants to wait for the final lab tests, but he says he's sure enough that it wasn't self-inflicted and that we should start treating it as a murder investigation.”

“Okay,” said Lamar. “You do what you need to.”

“Right.”

“Want me to keep it quiet with my sister?”

“Maybe for a while, Lamar. Let the lab stuff come back. Or, at least hedge.”

“Do what I can.” There was a slight pause. “Any suspects?”

“Not really, Lamar. None so far.”

“I'll see what I can do, too, but I can't be directly involved. You understand?”

I sure did. A defense attorney would love to have the head of the investigation be the grieving uncle. Absolutely guaranteed a change of venue, too.

“Yep. I'm about to call the county attorney now.”

“Good. Keep in touch, Carl, and thanks. OH!”

“What?”

“I almost forgot. There was a guy wanted to talk to me. I told the office to give him to you. Sorry. Not sure what he wants. From Wisconsin.”

“Right. Sally already told me. Okay.” I could see him tomorrow. “You going to be tied up with family stuff very long?”

“Another day or two.”

“How's it going?”

He cleared his throat. “You know my sister… ” He hesitated. “You think it'll be all right if I do the interview on her? Just to get the background stuff?”

I sure didn't know anybody else who would. “That's fine,” I said.

The county attorney was a decent lawyer named Mike Dittman. As with most county attorneys in Iowa, it was a part-time job, with the vast majority of his income coming from private practice. As I dialed his number, it occurred to me that this was October, and that he would be preparing for income tax time. Lots of his clients retained him to do their taxes and their estates. This was approaching his busiest time of year in his private practice.

“Dittmans',” said a pleasant, woman's voice. His wife, Karen.

“Hi, Karen, it's Houseman.” I called there often enough that she knew just who it was as soon as I spoke.

“Oh, hello, Carl. Just a sec.” I could hear a muffled “Mike! Mike, it's for you,” as she covered the phone.

After a second or two, Mike answered. “Hello?” I could hear the click as she hung up the other phone.

“Mike, it's Houseman.”

“Oh, shit,” he said, only half kidding. “What's up?”

“We had a suicide call this morning. Lamar's niece, Edie Younger, remember her?”

“Oh, sure. Oh, that's too bad. She was getting her act together pretty well, wasn't she?”

“I think so. There's a complication, and we're probably going to need some legal advice.”

Silence.

“Dr. Peters is here. His preliminary finding is that it looks like murder.”

“Oh, crap. Oh, boy. Uh, Carl, it's my sister-in-law's birthday today, and we're just heading to Dubuque… ”

“Okay,” I said. “Just wanted you to know, and let you know we're going to need to search the whole house. I think we have enough to justify a warranted search.”

“Which 'whole house' are you talking about, Carl?”

I told him about the location, and the other residents. I also told him that the owner wasn't there.

“Look, why don't you just go with a consent search, for now, if you can. I mean, I trust your work, but I'd be happier if you could go that route for now.”

I was positive I could get a search warrant application done well enough to stand any challenge, but I also knew that he was going to have to defend it if anything went wrong.

“Okay, Mike. But I just hate to do the consent searches, you know. I mean, if they deny permission, then we have to sit on everything and do a rush application. And in this one, any of the five can say 'no' to a request.”

“No,” he said, “go for a consent search. Any of them can consent to the common areas of the home. Individuals can only deny access to their own rooms.”

I knew him well enough to stop arguing. But I was disgusted. There are a multitude of ways to get the results of a consent search tossed out of court, and the resulting evidence right along with them. In a really serious case, there is absolutely no substitute for a warranted search issued from the district court. Besides, consent was the lazy way. The way you'd proceed if you wanted to go to your sister-in-law's party in Dubuque.

Hester could sense something amiss as I sat down.

“What?”

“Mike wants us to go with a halfassed consent search,” I said.

“That's no good, unless we're really lucky.”

“Tell me.” I shrugged. “I'm thinking in terms of a search warrant application, anyway.”

“Will the county attorney be up?”

“No, he's going to a party in Dubuque.” We both smiled at the same time. This was going to be a really fast case of “Do you mind if we search this property that is under your control?” I figured we could have an application in two or three hours, max, and be back in the house within four. If…

“Dr. Peters?”

“Yes?” He knew what was coming.

“We might need some preliminary notes, before you leave… ”

Just then, this strange dude walked up to our table. He was dressed plainly, in olive slacks and a flannel shirt. I didn't know him from Adam, and it didn't appear that either Hester or Dr. Peters did, either.

“Excuse me,” he said politely. “Would any of you be Deputy Houseman?”

“I would. And you are…?”

“William Chester. I spoke with your sheriff earlier today, very briefly. May I have a minute of your time?” He handed me a business card, which proclaimed him to be William Francis Chester, MA, of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Along with his post office box, phone number, and e-mail address was the title Anthropologist amp; Bioarchaeologist.