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demands for answers were coming as fast as the hysterical headlines. Which meant that O’Brien was leaning even heavier on the detectives for a breakthrough that wasn’t easily apparent.
    So far, not one person had a bad thing to say about Clare Ryan, or could give a single reason why anyone might want her dead. Which made the bizarre circumstances of her death all the more sinister.

4
     
    ‘Reilly? Do you have a minute?’ Reilly looked up from her desk to find Lucy in front of her, a worried expression on her face.
    ‘Sure. What’s up?’
    The lab tech chewed uncomfortably at her lip. ‘Something really weird.’
    ‘So tell me.’ She continued writing, giving Lucy only half her attention – she was busy and not in the mood to play guessing games today. Lucy needed to learn to think for herself and trust her own intuition more often. While she reminded Reilly a little of herself when she was starting out in forensics, there was this slight insecurity about her that she hoped would be erased over time.
    ‘This I think you really need to look at.’
    Something in her tone of voice caught Reilly’s attention this time, and she put the pen down. ‘What is it?’
    ‘Can you just come and take a quick look?’
    Following Lucy into the lab, they approached the light microscope. ‘Just take a look and tell me what you see.’
    Reilly bent over, looked through the eyepiece and adjusted the magnification to 400X. ‘Weird …’ she remarked, studying the specimen on the slide. She looked away for a moment, trying to make sense of it.
    ‘I’m glad you think so too,’ Lucy said, quietly. ‘To be honest, I wasn’t sure whether or not I should say anything …’
    ‘No, you were right. This is important. Important but weird,’ Reilly added, almost to herself.
    ‘So what do you think it is?’
    ‘Looks like some kind of animal hair,’ Reilly said. ‘Human hair is much finer, and the scales along the shaft are a giveaway.’ She moved away from the microscope. ‘Can’t say which animal it is though, at least not until we have a comparative sample.’
    ‘Which we do – in a way,’ Lucy said, looking tentative.
    Reilly breathed out deeply. ‘Not exactly the kind of comparison we want, though, is it? Can I take a look at that paint sample again?’
    ‘Sure.’ Lucy duly prepared a second slide, this time using another piece of material evidence listed on the inventory.
    Reilly quickly examined it under low magnification. ‘Both paint samples will need to be analyzed further – and separately – using microspec,’ she said, referring to the process of microspectrophotomotery which involved electronically studying the wavelengths of energy absorbed and released by a single paint sample. ‘That will tell us if they are indeed the same sample. But if I were a betting girl – which I’m not – they look pretty alike to me.’
    ‘That’s what I thought,’ Lucy said. ‘And seeing as this and the hair were both found at the Ryan scene …’
    ‘It means that one way or the other,’ Reilly finished grimly, her head spinning, ‘we’ve got a major problem.’
    The hair and paint specimens she and Lucy had just examined were not the samples taken from the Ryan scene a few days earlier – they’d been collected the previous day from the home of a man who’d apparently committed suicide.
    Now, back in her office, and reluctant to draw any hasty conclusions, Reilly decided to contact the unit dealing with the suicide.
    She grabbed her coat and headed out the door. The station was just a few blocks away – she could use the fresh air to clear her head, and knew from bitter experience that it was always better to deal with the cops in person whenever possible.
    Harcourt Street was always busy, but Reilly seemed to have chosen the rush hour. She was directed to the relevant room by a harried-looking female cop, then left to fend for herself. The room was a mass of scruffy desks, outdated computers, and busy