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more or less incoherent. She mentioned a man’s name several times. Hank, I believe.”
    “That’s her husband’s name,” Abrams offered warily. “Is he here? Maybe he’s your culprit.” Reed stepped closer to the doctor, a look of shock on his face. “She was raped?” Then he spun around to Abrams. “See,” he said, poking a finger in the other officer’s chest, completely irrational now, “this is just what I was talking about. Pricks like you who can’t keep their damn dicks in their pants. You want to know why I’m protective—”
    Abrams knocked Reed’s hand away. “Hell, I didn’t rape her. What’s wrong with you? Get a grip, Sarge.”
    The surgeon cleared his throat, and both men recollected where they were.
    “Her husband’s dead,” Reed said flatly. “What made you think it was a rape?”
    “There was sperm, but no vaginal trauma, I think.”
    While Abrams shook his head in dismay, Reed went after the surgeon. “What do you mean, you think? Was there sperm or not?” He tossed his arms in the air in frustration, his voice booming in the tiled corridor. “How’re we going to take this to court? What about chain of evidence? Don’t you guys know the rules by now?”
    The doctor remained calm, even smiling. “I’m just the surgeon, Officers. The man you should talk to is Richard Ogleby. I think he’s still down in the ER. He’s the physician who admitted her. We’re finishing all the swabbings and collecting other samples now before they move her to the recovery room.”
    As soon as the young surgeon took off down the corridor, Abrams said, “What do you think? Some maniac raped her and then shot her?”
    Reed started barking orders now as he walked, his stomach in an uproar. “Get a patrol unit dispatched over here to pick up the evidence.” He stopped and belched, stuffing his hands in his pockets, trying to find his Rolaids. The situation with Ann was far worse than he had thought. The entire investigation could be compromised now. “I want to see what they found at the scene.”
    “What if she wakes up?” Abrams said, trying to keep his own anger in check. He pulled some antacids from his jacket pocket and slapped them in his sergeant’s hand. “She could give us a description. Without a description we’re dead in the water.”
    Reed glanced at the mints and then at Abrams, a curious look on his face.
    “Occupational hazard, I guess,” Abrams said.
    “You heard what the doctor said,” Reed answered, popping a mint in his mouth. “She’s out cold right now.”
    “Hey, you’re the sergeant,” Abrams said.
    “You’re damn right I am,” Reed said emphatically. “And I’ll tell you something else, Abrams.”
    “Yeah?”
    “I’m going to catch the ape who did this and kill him with my bare hands,”
    Abrams just nodded, the same steely look in his eyes as in Reed’s.

    It was one o’clock in the morning and David Carlisle was leaning forward over his knees in the hospital waiting room when Glen Hopkins appeared in the doorway. A stocky young man, far too heavy for his height, David resembled his father: brown hair, olive complexion, squared-off jaw. Only his pale blue eyes were Ann’s, but his lashes were darker and more prominent, making his eyes his finest feature. He wore a blue cotton shirt and jeans. One comer of the shirt was sticking out, a few buttons were undone around his waist, and his dark hair was tousled. But it was the hostility shooting from his eyes that made Glen Hopkins pause before speaking. No tears, no emotion, just a cold, blank stare.
    “Hey, David,” Hopkins said softly, sitting next to him on the green vinyl sofa. “Rough go, huh? I’m sorry about your mother. How are you holding up?”
    David immediately stood and crossed the room, flipping on the television set. Instead of returning to his earlier position on the sofa, however, he took a seat on the opposite side of the room.
    “They tell me your mother is doing fine,