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out to be cocaine—to the estate once the case was closed.
    Given the situation, I realized that my first line of inquiry would be based on the premise that the killer knew his victims, at least to some extent.  I also realized that no matter how thorough my search, all forensic evidence now being gathered would probably prove useless until we had a suspect.  Aside from a close scrutiny of friends and family, the most likely way to obtain said suspect was through an informant or via a confession that could be corroborated with physical evidence.  My instinct told me neither would be forthcoming.
    Art Walters, the coroner’s investigator, arrived at a little after noon.  A man and woman from the sexual-assault unit accompanied him.  After a brief consultation, I led the new group to the master bedroom.  By then the SID team had finished, and the room displayed a patina of ferric oxide on any object the killer might have touched, along with numbered stickers designating the locations of fluid and fiber samples taken throughout the area.
    Normally an ample repository of gallows humor, even Walters fell silent as he inspected the bodies.  Both assault-unit officers stood to one side, awaiting their turn.  Five minutes into it I noticed the male member of the assault team turning green.  “Why don’t you and your partner go grab some air?” I suggested.  “We’ll call when we’re ready.  No sense making you guys wait around.”
    “Thanks.”  The man smiled weakly and headed for the stairs.  The woman stayed, shooting me a look that said if I could take it, so could she.
     
    For the next hour I remained at Walter’s side as the bodies were uncovered, examined, and turned.  The man’s hands and feet were found bound with plastic ties.  Additional teeth marks became visible on the woman’s shoulders and buttocks.  Saliva swabs were taken, blood and fibers gathered and labeled, wounds counted and recorded.  Throughout each exam, the photo technician took shots from various angles.
    At one point Walters noted the fingernail cuts on Susan Larson’s palms.  “Son of a bitch probably did most of this while she was still alive.”
    “That’s how I figured it,” I said.
    “Think it’s the same psycho who killed that family in Mission Viejo?”
    “That’s the second time someone’s asked me that.”
    “And?”
    “I didn’t hear much about it.”
    “Damn, Kane, don’t you read the papers?”
    “Just the sports page.”
    “Hmmm.  Had you figured for the funnies.”  Walters glanced around the room.  “Same m.o.—bites, knife wounds, candles.  They didn’t mention the eyelids on the news, though.”
    “If it’s the same guy, Orange County probably held back that detail.”
    “Yeah.”
    Falling silent once more, Walters pulled a PERK—physical evidence recovery kit—from his briefcase and proceeded to take scrapings and fingernail clippings from Susan Larson’s left hand.  After marking the evidence, he slipped a paper sack over her hand and taped the bag shut.  Following the same procedure, he did the other hand, then those of the husband and child.  Next he moved on to the hair-sample section of the kit, using tweezers to pluck comparison hairs from different areas of each victim’s head, arms, legs, and pubis.
    When Walters was finished with the woman, the assault team moved in, procuring pubic combings and oral, vaginal, and anal swabs.  At my direction they gathered similar materials from the husband and son.
    Two hours after arriving, Walters removed his gloves and signaled he was finished.  Attendants from the morgue had arrived and were waiting on the street.  I thought carefully, ensuring I hadn’t forgotten anything.  I made a mental note to have the SID unit take the bed sheets once the bodies had been removed.  I also reminded Walters that I wanted comparison fingerprints rolled on each victim, as well as impressions taken of the bite lesions.  He assured me it