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a blowfly through a closed window. Believe me, I know—I’ve done the research myself. My friend wrote to me a couple weeks ago; he asked me to meet him here today in Philly, only he didn’t show up—and that’s not like him. I drove out here to see if I could find him, but nobody answered the door. When I walked the perimeter of the house, I spotted a number of blowflies on the west-facing window.” He pointed. “Over there. Most of them were Calliphora vicina and vomitoria , but I also noticed a couple of Phaenicia sericata —in case you’re the kind of guy who’s impressed by big fancy words. The presence of those flies indicates that something is dead inside this house—something large—and it hasn’t been dead for long.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “Because blowflies are usually the first insects to find human remains. First responders, you might call them—then they call it in.”
    “Clever,” Misco said.
    “Of course, this is all just conjecture—but I know a way we can find out whether I’m right or not.” Nick nodded at the patrol officer. “You can tell your flunky here to kick the door open so we can all go inside and take a look.”
    Misco didn’t reply—he just stepped up to the door and began to feel along the top of the frame. He bent down and lifted the doormat and looked at the damp concrete underneath; then he tipped forward the flower planters on either side of the door. He picked up a key and held it up to show Nick. “It’s a friendly neighborhood,” he said. “We don’t like to kick down doors unless we have to—it spooks the neighbors.”
    He turned the key in the dead bolt and opened the door a few inches, then motioned for the patrol officer to enter first—but when Nick stepped forward, Misco blocked his way.
    “Where do you think you’re going?”
    “Inside,” Nick said. “I thought—”
    “You thought wrong,” Misco said. “This is a police matter now, Polchak. Thanks for calling it in—now go home.”
    “But this is a friend of mine.”
    “That doesn’t make you a police officer.”
    “At least let me identify the body.”
    “Glad to—if we have any problem identifying him. Chances are we won’t.”
    “Are you seriously going to make me wait out here?”
    “I’m not making you do anything,” Misco said. “I’m just not letting you inside. You can wait here if you want to; I’ll take a look around and let you know what I find.”
    Misco stepped into the house and flashed a quick smile at Nick before closing the door behind him.
    The front of the house was in afternoon shadow and the window to the left of the door turned a faint orange when the lights in the house went on. Nick searched for a gap in the curtains that might allow him a peek inside, but there was none. There was nothing he could do but stand and wait while Misco poked and prodded Pete’s body—and that thought drove him absolutely crazy.
    It was a full fifteen minutes before the door opened again and Misco and the patrol officer stepped out onto the porch and closed the door behind them.
    Nick waited. “Well?”
    “Dr. Peter Boudreau,” Misco said, handing Nick his old friend’s driver’s license. “I’d say he’s been dead two, maybe three days by the looks of things. The body’s still in decent shape— the ME should be able to pin it down better.”
    Nick looked down at the driver’s license and saw Pete’s familiar face smiling back at him. He felt shocked and stunned by the detective’s blunt announcement, but the feeling confused him. Why was he surprised? He knew it was Pete’s body inside that house—he knew it the instant he saw those blowflies. He knew it wasn’t a cat, or a dog, or a neighbor who had stopped by to check on the house while Pete was away. He knew the same way those blowflies knew—by instinct—and Nick’s instincts were rarely wrong.
    Right now he wished they were.
    He looked up at Misco. “Were you able to determine cause of