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Slasher? I understand Dr. Meadscolari's throat was slit. Isn't that the same MO?" Several flashes went off as photographers snapped their pictures. "No comment," I said, forcing my way to my car. I didn't know how they came by that information, and I certainly didn't want to be seen on "TV or quoted in the paper confirming or denying anything. As I unlocked and opened my car door, Skyler continued her pursuit. I kept my back to her. "Inspector," she said. "Is it true that Dr. Meadscolari's husband is the suspect in her death? That he's being looked at as the Soma Slasher?" Her question shocked me more than anything I'd seen tonight. Speechless, I turned to face her, trying to keep my expression neutral. I had to know where she came by that information, and how. She was lost in a sea of cameras, microphones, rain and blinding lights. "At this time, we are not aware of any connection between Dr. Mead-Scolari's death and the Soma Slasher victims. "But what about her husband?
    Inspector Scolari?" another reporter shouted. "Hasn't he been investigating the Slasher cases? If he is the suspect, maybe his wife found something in the autopsies." I never hated the press more than I did in that one moment. I hurried into my car, then slammed the door, shutting out the voices with the tam of my engine. I maneuvered out, in my hurried attempt nearly smashing the other headlight of the car behind mine. I had no desire to be filmed running over every cameraman and reporter in sight, despite the overwhelming urge. I couldn't wait to get home, and it was close to dawn when I stepped into my apartment. The moment I did, the phone rang. I picked up. "Hello?" Silence. "Sam?" Dial tone. I dropped it in the cradle. Stared at it. Rain drummed against the roof. I was cold, wet. My partner's wife was dead ... I stripped down, took a scalding shower, then buried myself in bed, too tired to cry or do much of anything else but fall into a deep sleep, haunted by fragmented dreams of strobe lights and dead bodies. Everyone needs a vice, especially working Homicide, and mine happened to be caffeine. The expensive kind. It helped that I lived in Berkeley, since there's a coffeehouse on every corner and in every nook, which is how I spent my mornings off. It was no different this Wednesday, though a bit later than usual, as I sat down with the paper, my double latte, and a jalapefio bagel. I took a bite, but the moment I read the headlines, I tasted nothing.
     
    PATHOLOGIST MURDERED. HOMICIDE INSPECTOR WANTED FOR QUESTIONING.
     
    There was a photo of the officers setting up a tarp over the Range Rover. Even now, it was hard to believe. Scolari's wife dead-murdered.
    The article went on to say that her husband, my partner, was wanted for questioning. They might as well have come out and said he did it. What else was the reader to think when one of SFPD's own happened to be A.W.O.L. in the face of his wife's death? Not to mention their pending divorce. I hadn't finished the article when my pager went off report TO
    MANAGEMENT CONTROL. CODENVO. I still thought of them by their older and less-than politically-correct name, Internal Affairs, since that was their main function. IA was not where I wanted to be this morning, but Code Two meant now, so I got a bag for my bagel and dumped my latte into a cup to go. Forty-five minutes later I deposited my breakfast on my desk, then headed up to M wishing I'd had the presence of mind to drink my latte, while somehow ignoring my roiling stomach. My brain was on a different plateau, somewhere between numb and la la land. I could have used the caffeine. When I stepped off the elevator, I thought I saw Scolari turning the corner at the end of the hall. Not until I rounded the corner myself did I realize it wasn't Scolari, but his former partner, Ed Zimmerman. The two were similar in build, and with their graying hair, from behind were often mistaken for each other. Zimmerman, however, had a ruddy complexion that made him