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She’d felt it in Ottawa the short time they worked together. It was the reason she’d detoured on a last-minute whim off the 417 to find him. She’d been surprised that he’d sought her out for this job. She hadn’t decided yet whether to trust him.
    Rouleau filled her in as they walked. The house was divided into apartments and rented as student housing. The woman’s body was found in the basement by the upstairs tenant. Apparently there was a lot of blood. They passed a couple of beat cops in navy uniforms on their way inside the limestone house. The officers appeared to know Rouleau and let her inside only because she was with him. One cop directed them to the basement.
    Rouleau introduced Paul Gundersund, who met them at the bottom of the stairs. She felt dwarfed by the size of the man. He was over six foot, close to two hundred pounds, and appeared slightly out of shape. A scar marked the left side of his face, giving him the look of a street fighter. His blue-grey eyes were surprisingly pretty for a guy with a face like his. She shook his outstretched hand, his fingers long and slender.
    “It’s not good, boss,” he said as he led them down the dark hallway. Kala’s eyes lifted to the unlit bulb hanging from the ceiling socket, obviously not working. It would have given the attacker cover as they waited, if that’s what they’d done. She made out the squat shapes of a washer and dryer angled deeper into the gloom. Gundersund stopped and handed them white suits and covers for their shoes. Kala stepped into the suit and shivered as the cool dampness seeping from the basement’s concrete walls wrapped itself around her bare arms. She quickly pulled the suit up over her shirt.
    The apartment door stood open, the putrid smell of death getting stronger as they approached. Down the length of the hallway, the forensics team in white suits worked in the bedroom. She could see a trail of dark blood on the floor, pooled in spots, where the woman looked to have dragged herself toward the apartment door.
    Kala stepped closer and saw that the blood trail detoured left. She carefully negotiated the blood splatter as she followed behind Rouleau and Gundersund into the living room. They stepped aside to make some space for her. She looked from their grim faces to the floor near the coffee table where the coroner kneeled next to a woman lying face down, one of her arms stretched in front of her as if she’d been trying to swim away using the front crawl. A purse had spewed its contents onto the carpet; a blood-covered cellphone lay near the woman’s curled fingers.
    Kala swallowed back the urge to gag. Congealed blood covered the woman’s face and matted the long, dark hair on the back of her head. It had seeped from her body and surrounded her in sticky globs. It had spread from her midsection in a circular pool. The smell of rotting flesh and blood and feces was overpowering.
    Rouleau touched Kala’s shoulder and motioned her to take a few steps closer. A photographer who’d been taking pictures of the body signalled that she’d gotten enough. The coroner looked from her to Rouleau.
    “I’m ready to turn the body,” he said.
    Rouleau’s eyes swept the scene, ending with a long study of the woman. Finally, he nodded and the coroner rolled the woman onto her back, her one arm remaining awkwardly extended above her head. Kala looked past the bruising, discoloured skin and dried blood and saw that the girl had been attractive: late twenties, masses of black hair, medium height, with a muscular physique. Someone had gone to great lengths to disfigure her beauty. The coroner held up the palm of one hand.
    “Her fingers are broken.” He traced upward along the underside of her arm. “Cigarette burns.” He turned to the photographer.
    “Make sure you get close ups.”
    “How long…?” asked Rouleau.
    “It’s a guess, but I’d say twenty-four hours based on the rigor mortis. I couldn’t say how long she was