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temples.
    McBurney heard Kosmalski ask him, “Does that look like
Ahmadi to you?”
    The murderer clearly had taken his time before delivering
the moment of death. Both victims’ faces were cut, swollen, and mottled purple
with bruises but it was the woman, young and probably attractive, who had taken
the brunt of abuse. One of the investigators flashed a photograph and stepped
back—McBurney’s stomach turned. The woman’s left breast was mangled beyond
recognition. Her chest and inner thighs were awash in coagulated blood. Averting
his eyes, he saw arranged like surgeon’s instruments on the dining room table a
pair of pliers, a bloodied broom handle, and a carving knife. “Could be him,”
McBurney replied.
    He looked back in time to see an investigator’s gloved
fingers insert a hollow plastic straw into the entrance wound of Ahmadi’s
temple. An assistant held Ahmadi’s head upright while the investigator used a
protractor to establish the bullet’s trajectory. It took them less than a
minute to repeat the exercise for the dead woman.
    “I guess the neighbors heard the gunshots?” McBurney asked Kosmalski.
    “Apparently not the gunshots. Screaming and shouting,
disturbance.”
    “You’re probably right, chief,” the investigator confirmed
a minute later for Special Agent Kosmalski. “The spray patterns over the wall
and carpet are consistent with a left-handed perpetrator.”
    “Or a right-hander using his left in order to throw you
off,” suggested McBurney. “And with a silenced weapon.”
    “Actually, between torture and busting up the place, this
perp could learn a thing or two about reducing the number of clues,” Kosmalski
observed. “This isn’t the typical work of your seasoned professional.”
    “We found hair follicles and skin under the woman’s
fingernails.” The investigator pointed down at the floor. “And a pair of men’s
size nine or so, fairly light depression.”
    Kosmalski was listening with his eyes on McBurney. “A
little south-paw bastard?”
    “Looks like it. I’ll need another few minutes to verify his
eye color.”
    “Ha-ha.” Kosmalski said to McBurney, “Maybe you should step
out for some air.”
    The investigator followed Kosmalski’s gaze. “Better yet,
we’re about done here.” He caught McBurney’s eye and jabbed a thumb at the
grisly straw sticking out of the woman’s temple. “Care for a sip?”
    McBurney’s stomach did a somersault. Agent Kosmalski accompanied
him into the kitchen.
    “Every squad has its wise-ass,” Kosmalski apologized for
his colleague’s behavior.
    McBurney took a deep breath but still felt a bit queasy. “Has
anyone contacted the Iranian consulate?”
    “Not yet.”
    “So, the Secret Service bit. The woman looks familiar.”
    “I figured she might. Her name’s Katherine Prouty.”
    “The president’s Katherine Prouty?” McBurney
remembered seeing the young woman at a national security council brouhaha a
couple of years ago. Prouty had drawn the unfortunate duty of being tapped by
the president to ride herd on a bloated Homeland Security budget. He recalled
some of his colleagues fuming over having to justify their programs to a
snot-nosed academic. There were the usual rumors about her having a romp in the
Oval Office which McBurney ignored. His own impression was that Prouty was
merely in over her head. “What the hell was she doing with a character like
Ahmadi?”
    Kosmalski didn’t reply.
    “You’re kidding. The president’s favorite staffer was
screwing a terrorist?”
    “Yeah, imagine that. And she wasn’t even CIA. Listen, your
need-to-know does not include Ms. Prouty’s sexual proclivities. It’s strictly
off the record.”
    McBurney studied his host. “There’s more.”
    “Actually...you’re probably correct that somebody back home
caught wind Ahmadi was schmoozing a little too closely with Uncle Sam. I’m
thinking Ms. Prouty just got in the way.”
    “She got in the way, all right. And I