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wooden door. To her delight, it was partially open.
    “Now, if only there are stairs leading to the main level,” she whispered, pushing her way into the dark and damp, musty room.
    Even without a light, she quickly found the staircase. Hurrying to the top, she crossed her fingers and tried the door. This time, luck was on her side. Cautiously, she stepped into the kitchen.
    The only clock she saw was the digital display on the microwave. Moving quickly from room to room, it took only a few minutes to find the stately antique piece of furniture. Peering into the den, or maybe it was a library—it was hard to tell—she saw it. Entering the room, Mariana clearly heard the distinct ticking of the old clock.
    Taking hold of the tiny metal handle, she gave it a firm tug, but the glass door didn’t budge. Seeing a keyhole, she instinctively began feeling for a key along the long the top of the cabinet. Almost instantly, her efforts were rewarded and in seconds, the door was swinging wide.
    Dropping to her knees, Mariana meticulously examined the bottom panel. It did appear to be loose! Carefully sliding the end of the key into the crack, the thin board easily lifted out. Looking into the hole, she saw nothing at first, but turning over the board, the persistent woman discovered a long white envelope taped to the bottom. On the outside the words “She’s Dead,” were printed in block letters. Beneath that was a date. The date of the murder!
    Eyes wide and her heart pounding, Mariana tore open the sealed envelope. Several photos slid into her hand and her heart skipped a beat when it became clear the pictures were of the victim. One by one, she examined the photographs. Halfway through the stack, the D.A. was struck by one glaring fact. In each picture, the girl’s body was in a different pose, yet oddly, none showed her in the position of the official crime scene photos taken by investigators.
    The morbid sight was nauseating. Mariana felt like she was going to puke and looked away, trying to re-gain control of her stomach muscles. The different poses obviously represented a disturbed individual with a sick mind. Who would take the time and make such an effort to revel in the young girl’s tragic murder? Whoever it was, they would had to have been there before the crime scene had been processed. Grimly, Mariana realized the photographer was also most likely the killer. With a tingling down her spine, she wondered if the caller the night before had been telling the truth. Had she talked to the murderer?
    Not necessarily, she decided. The photos didn’t prove Ethan Rafferty wasn’t guilty, and she wasn’t prepared to accept that. Then, thumbing through the pictures again, a chilling thought occurred to her. Arranging the body in the various positions would not have been easy. Working with all that limp weight would have required time. Lots of time. Quickly, she counted the photos. Twenty-four. A whole roll of film. Calculating in her head, she realized with dismay that it didn’t look good for her case. Even if the photographer had worked at a feverish pace, managing to snap the shutter every two minutes, the job would have taken at least forty-eight minutes. To accomplish each new pose in just two minutes though, was highly unlikely. In each photo, the girl’s hair was brushed and her clothes were not mussed; not even so much as a wrinkle.
    It didn’t take a genius to figure it out, and though she wasn’t ready to admit it, Mariana knew what it all meant. The timeline, which she knew well, couldn’t be avoided. Dr. Setherman, the coroner, had placed the time of death at 9:15, allowing a ten-minute leeway in either direction. Natasha Wyman had been killed somewhere between 9:05 and 9:25 that night. The two witnesses had placed Ethan on the street at 9:30 and 9:33. The receipt from the convenience store, showing the suspect had purchased a cup of coffee and a doughnut at 9:36, corroborated this. Mr. Rafferty’s