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Does that mean you’re going to be away longer?”
    “It looks like it. I’m sorry.”
    “You need to stop doing that, Momma-Smoky.”
    Bonnie has been aged well before her time, both by circumstance and her own gifts. Her mother’s murder and what came after scarred her inside, gave her a terrible emotional maturity. Her gifts lie in her art—she is a painter—and in the depth of her insight. But “Momma-Smoky,” the title she bestows on me when she tries to comfort me, or sometimes for no reason at all, never fails to make me smile inside. It’s evidence of a younger heart, the voice of a child.
    “Doing what, babe?”
    “Apologizing for something you can’t control anyway. People don’t get murdered on a schedule, you catch people who murder, so your life isn’t on a schedule. I’m fine with that.”
    “Thanks, but some Momma-things just don’t bow down to logic. I’m still sorry for being away.”
    I hear the sound of AD Jones’s shoes against the tile and turn to see him looking at me. He nods his head toward the observation window.
    “I have to go, sweetheart. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
    “Smoky?”
    “Yes?”
    “Is Aunt Callie really getting married?”
    I grin.
    “She really is. Good night, honey.”
    “Night. I love you.”
    “I love you back.”
     
    DR. JOHNSTON POINTS TO A pan containing Lisa Reid’s heart.
    “Her heart was punctured. The hole was small, on the right side of her rib cage.” He points this out to us. As he said, the hole isn’t very big, but the bruise it created is the size of both of my hands put together. There are vertical slits above and below the hole. I’d missed the wound earlier in my shock at finding out Lisa was Dexter.
    “That makes sense,” AD Jones says. “Lisa had a window seat and her killer was seated on her right.”
    “What could do that?” I ask.
    “Anything long, cylindrical, and sharp. The killer would need strength, determination, and some basic knowledge of anatomy.” He makes a fist and pumps it once by way of demonstration. “One clean thrust, through the lung, up into the heart, and it’s done.”
    “She’d have to be drugged for him to do that on a plane,” I murmur.
    Johnston nods his massive head in agreement. “Yes. Death would be very quick, but it would be very painful too. It would have been to his benefit to anesthetize her in some way.”
    I consider this. “He would have wanted something he could administer orally,” I say. “Nothing that would have required a hypodermic, nothing that would induce seizures. Any theories?”
    “GHB, ketamine, or Rohypnol would all work, but they all pose problems. All can bring on vomiting. Ketamine can induce convulsions.” He crosses his gi-normous arms. “No, if I were him, I would have gone old school. Chloral hydrate.”
    “Mickey Finns,” AD Jones opines.
    “It works best with alcohol, and I smelled some in her stomach contents. It’s fast, and he could have given her an overdose amount to induce unconsciousness quickly.”
    “True,” I say. “He wouldn’t have been worried about her dying of an overdose. You’ll check for all of this on tox?”
    “Yes. I’ll rush it through. I should have it tomorrow afternoon, along with my findings.”
    Something else occurs to me. “I wonder how the hell he got whatever he stuck her with onto the plane?”
    Dr. Johnston shrugs. “Not my department, sorry.”
    I give him my cell phone number. “Call me when the findings are ready and I’ll send someone to come get them. Make a single copy for yourself and put it in a safe place.” I look him in the eye. “This is a federal case for three reasons, Dr. Johnston. One, because it happened while flying the friendly skies. Two, because it involves a congressman and could be a precursor to an attack on Dillon Reid himself. Three, because it could be a hate crime. But the cloak-and-dagger is a courtesy to the Reids, not a cover-up. I want you to know that. My priority is