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Marie Corrigan’s body, then pressed adhesive tape to where she’d lain to collect any trace evidence trapped there.
    The bloodstain hadn’t spread out too far from underneath the head, but it had soaked the carpet pretty good. Perhaps Theresa had been wrong about the steam cleaning.
    Neil Kelly and Powell apparently finished with Marcus Dean and reentered the bedroom. “Whoa,” Neil said, looking at her squat, square-shaped machine with a flexible cable protruding from its front. “What’s that?”
    â€œALS. Alternate light source.”
    â€œLike a black light?”
    â€œLike a black light.”
    â€œWhoa,” he said again, grimly. “This is going to be interesting.”
    Using a black light in a hotel room, along with reading the health department’s report on your favorite restaurant, fell into the category of Things You’d Rather Not Know. The detectives drew the curtains, and Theresa switched off the bathroom light. She passed out orange goggles and turned the machine on. After churning through a few different wavelengths, she settled on one around four hundred nanometers. This would excite certain enzymes and proteins in bodily fluids—particularly semen—and cause them to emit a bluish fluorescence. Then she picked up the small machine, warning the detectives not to trip over the cord. The room was dim, certainly, but wearing the goggles made it even darker.
    She passed the light, slowly, over the open bed, weaving from side to side, trying to cover every inch of the exposed white sheets.
    Powell let out a breath he must have been holding. “I don’t see anything.”
    â€œMe either,” she agreed. Nothing. Not a fiber, not a spot, and certainly not the glowing blob of semen she’d expected to see.
    â€œSo wherever they did it—if they did it—it wasn’t in the bed,” Neil surmised.
    Theresa threw the covers back into place so she could see the surface of the comforter. A splotch burst into a faintly yellowish glow as the light passed over it. And another. And another.
    â€œYuck,” Neil Kelly said.
    Powell, at her elbow: “What did they say about that expensive suite Mike Tyson was in? They found how many different semen samples?”
    â€œYou would think it would show up better on these white comforters and they’d have to wash them more often,” Theresa said. “Only five here. Not as bad as the Tyson suite.”
    â€œYou going to collect them all?” Neil asked.
    â€œHave to. Don’s not going to be happy,” she added, referring to the lab’s DNA analyst. She moved the light to the floor.
    â€œYuck,” Neil said again.
    â€œEww,” Powell added. “Look, it goes up the wall . I don’t know whether to be disgusted or jealous.”
    â€œThe bed, people,” Neil instructed the phantom guests. “That’s what the bed is for.”
    â€œMost of this is probably urine,” Theresa assured them. “Someone may have been incontinent or have some very odd habits. Most likely they smuggled a pet into the room. They may even allow pets in this room.”
    Neil said, “Probably. The Paris Hiltons of the world have to be indulged.”
    Theresa followed the glowing splashes around the bed, to the bathroom, to the desk, and out the door, debating on what to collect and what not to. She didn’t want to overload Don or rip up more of the Ritz’s property than she had to, but at the same time there was never a good way to explain why she hadn’t collected a piece of potential evidence. She decided to gather a swab or two from the wall between the bed and bath, take the entire comforter, and clip a few carpet fibers around the body’s resting place. Trying to find the swabs, break open the package, locate the tiny disposable plastic vial of sterile water (were those things a godsend or what?) to wet the swab, rub it on the wall, get