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hand the rest.”
    “Assuming she was strangled from the front,” Charlie added politely.
    “I thought of that, sir. You can tell from the concavity of the crescents that the strangulation occurred from the front.”
    Charlie made a little tsk-tsking sound. He didn’t want to lecture the lad in front of spectators, but he had no choice. He examined the neck. “All I can tell is that the nail on the ring finger is jagged. In a couple of days, it will grow back, so the information is of very little use. As for the crescent, the direction of the concavity can be misleading. The crescent will be reversed, as often as not. Here, I’ll show you. Jake, roll up your sleeve.”
    “Why me?” I protested. “I haven’t forgotten your electrocution experiment.”
    “It was only two hundredths of an amp, Jake, and I turned it off as soon as you went into muscular paralysis. Now be a good scout.”
    Everyone was watching, so the good scout rolled up his sleeve. Charlie looked around and spotted Pamela Maxson, who was intently studying titles of the shelved books in the small apartment.
    “Pamela, perhaps you can inflict some pain on Jake for a moment,” Charlie wondered cheerfully.
    “Gladly,” she chimed in. She placed a cool hand on my forearm and dug five fingernails deep into my skin.
    “I’ll always remember the first time we touched,” I told her, showing my All-Conference smile.
    She dug deeper, letting up just before severing the radial artery. I held up my arm, and sure enough, the crescents went the opposite direction of each nail’s shape. Charlie was explaining something about the free edge of the arch of the nail having no purchase and therefore creating the reverse crescent and how fallacious it was to infer much from fingernail marks. I just looked at the little dents in my arm and said to Pamela Maxson, “I’ll bet you leave a mark on every man you meet.”
    “With some,” she replied, “it takes a sledgehammer.”
    Having exhausted my store of witty repartee, I stood silently, surveying the scene. The apartment was sparsely furnished in Yuppie Modern—white tile and green plants, a large-screen TV, and CD player, a few bookshelves. There was a galley kitchen with a few pots and pans and a cupboard containing bran cereal, microwave popcorn, bottled spaghetti sauce, and spinach pasta from a gourmet market. The oven was practically sterile, indicating either an immaculate cook or no cook at all. The refrigerator had four different flavors of yogurt, none of which had expired, bottled water, an eye mask filled with what looked like antifreeze, and not much else. The bedroom and bathroom were down a hall, but I hadn’t seen them yet.
    Young Dr. Whitson picked up his camera and click-clicked through several rolls of film, shooting the body, the furniture, and even one or two of me. Charlie puttered around the body for a while, giving more tips to the young pathologist. Pamela Maxson walked through the little apartment, her green eyes bright, taking everything in, letting nothing out.
    Nick Fox motioned me onto the small balcony where we were alone. I looked him in the eye. I was half a foot taller, but he had impressive width. A stocky fireplug of explosive energy. “Marsha Diamond,” he said. “Ever see her on Live at Five?”
    I shook my head. Usually, I’m still working then. If not, I’m playing volleyball on the beach or fishing with Charlie. Afternoon television is for those in traction. Physical or mental.
    “I want you to be a special prosecutor and lead the investigation,” Nick said. “Present a case to the grand jury when you’ve got a suspect.”
    “Why can’t your office handle it?”
    He didn’t hesitate, just shrugged those big shoulders. “Conflict of interest. I was seeing her. Not heavy-duty. But I’d slip over here in the mornings or she’d come by my place at night. It’s sure to come out in the investigation.
    Before I could ask, he said, “I’ve been separated for