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than unexpected, news, and one that fully justified Chip Raymond's reluctance to approach the D.G.I. interview without having someone from Homicide along for the ride.
    "At this juncture, we're not one-hundred-percent sure," I told him. "An unidentified body washed up in the water off Pier Seventy early yesterday morning. As you know, that's only a matter of a few blocks from here. From the sound of the description you gave Detective Raymond, I'd have to say the dead man could very well be your missing Don Wolf. We'll need someone to come over to the morgue at Harborview to verify our tentative identification."
    "He was in the water? What happened, did he drown?"
    I shook my head. "It's too soon to say. There'll have to be an autopsy report. That'll take a few days, and a toxicology report will take a few weeks beyond that. My suspicion, however, is that death came instantly in the form of a wound from a single bullet."
    Bill Whitten blanched visibly. "Don was murdered then?"
    "We're investigating the case as a homicide," I corrected. "Whether or not the victim turns out to be Don Wolf remains to be seen. That's why we're here. We need someone who knew Don Wolf to come along down to the morgue and try to give us a positive I.D."
    "You want me to do that?" Whitten asked.
    I nodded. "That would be the first step. Actually, the third. Before we leave the building, I'd like to take a look at Mr. Wolf's office for a moment, and also at his car, if I may. I understand it's still parked in the garage."
    "Certainly, but—"
    "Furthermore, until we have ascertained whether or not the dead man is Mr. Wolf, it would probably be better if you didn't mention any of this to anybody, just in case the victim turns out to be someone else."
    "Not even to Deanna…to Mrs. Compton, my secretary?" he asked.
    "No," I responded. "Not even to her."
    Whitten led us out of the conference room and diagonally across the reception area to an office located in the southeast corner of the building. The door was closed, but unlocked. "Here it is," he said, opening the door into an airy, windowed room.
    Don Wolf's office was as compulsively clean and carefully organized as the furniture in a model home. Nothing at all appeared to have been disturbed. A bank of carefully framed diplomas graced one of the two nonwindowed walls. The other was covered with bookshelves. On the credenza behind the desk was a framed, eight-by-ten photo—a head shot of a smiling, glasses-wearing brunette.
    "That's his wife," Whitten told me when he saw me looking at the picture. "Her name's Lizbeth. She's still down in La Jolla, waiting for the house to sell."
    "That's enough for now," I said. "We can come back here later. Please ask that no one go in or out of this room until we do, would you?"
    Whitten nodded. "Mrs. Compton will see to it," he said. As we left Don Wolf's office, we stopped in front of his assistant's desk. "Please cancel my appointments for this morning, Deanna, and for lunch as well. This may take some time. Also, please lock up Don's office and don't allow anyone in it until further notice."
    "Certainly," Deanna Compton said, frowning up at him. "Is anything wrong?"
    "I don't know," he returned. "It's too soon to tell."
    Detective Raymond and I had arrived at the building in separate cars. If this was going to be a homicide investigation, there was no further reason for Raymond to stay involved. Down in the parking garage, he took his vehicle and headed back to the Public Safety Building while I drove Bill Whitten to the medical examiner's office in the basement of Harborview Hospital.
    Those kinds of victim identification trips, often made in the company of a grieving relative or a close personal friend of the deceased, can be emotionally devastating at times. Some survivors chatter incessantly as a device to hold back the looming reality as well as the pain. Others endure the awful ordeal in stoic silence. Moments into the ride I realized Bill Whitten was no