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labs worked at, who knew when she’d get those back.
    They’d also collected the usual – fingerprints, trace, and fibers – which were now being analyzed. Ballistics were in possession of the gun and cartridges, and Reilly was planning on calling down there the following morning to see if they’d come up with anything of interest.
    In the meantime, she was doing what she did best, going over the scene in her mind, trying to recreate the kill, taking into account the evidence they’d uncovered, and hoping for something, anything, that might just help move this case forward.
    But so far, all Reilly could come up with was that something didn’t feel right.
    She sat forward in her seat and for the umpteenth time picked up the photos of the victims taken at the scene before their removal. Again, she studied the blood and brain spatter on the headboard; much of the gray matter had spewed over the dead girl’s face and hair – some even landing as far away as the pile of books on her bedside table. The blowback blood droplets on the headboard and wall behind were to be expected, traveling in the opposite direction to the path of the bullet. Her gaze moved downward to the gun’s resting position on the bed where it had ended up after falling out of the dead shooter’s hand.
    What was it? she thought, kneading her forehead in the vain hope that the answer might somehow be released. What was it that about this whole situation that was bothering her? Given the gun’s caliber, trajectory and shooting distance, as well as the residue found on the guy’s hand, the results all looked consistent, yet there was something telling her that there was more to this, that she was missing something. Something important.
    But what?
    Chasing evidence, hoping to find answers – sometimes Reilly felt it was all she’d been doing her whole life.
     
    For some reason, Chris always felt like a naughty schoolboy talking to the state pathologist. Karen Thompson was typically so brusque and businesslike (and so damn creepy) that he felt intimidated in her presence.
    When he stepped into her office, she was just finishing up a phone call and waved at him to sit down. Lowering himself into a chair, he looked around. Everything was immaculate, orderly, organized – he’d bet even the books were alphabetized.
    The dead girl had been positively identified as Clare Ryan. She was twenty-two years old, in her final year studying psychology at UCD, and as far as her distraught parents were concerned, was ‘way too busy with her studies’ to have had time for a boyfriend.
    ‘Too busy studying. How many times have I heard that one?’ Kennedy muttered when they’d finished interviewing the parents the day after the shooting. ‘And what kind of numbskull parents would believe that a looker like her wouldn’t have guys sniffing round her?’
    Chris shrugged. ‘So, they didn’t know everything that was going on in her life – it’s not that unusual. Not everyone has the same approach to parenting as you do.’ Kennedy had two teenage daughters and, from what Delaney had seen over the years, was a strict taskmaster. ‘Anyway, all we’ve established so far is that they didn’t think Clare had a boyfriend. And if she did have one, her college friends will likely know who she was seeing.’
    He and Kennedy had arranged to conduct interviews at the university that morning but following a call from Karen Thompson, Chris had taken a quick detour to the medical examiner’s office at the opposite end of the city.
    ‘There were signs of sexual activity between our two victims,’ Karen said, bringing him sharply back to the present.
    ‘What?’ He hadn’t actually noticed that she’d finished her phone call. As usual, she was straight down to business. ‘So if it is a boyfriend, we can rule out robbery or a sexually motivated attack?’
    ‘Not necessarily. I said there was sexual activity – Clare’s vaginal fluid was found on our mystery guy,