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distinct line between inside – where he lived his solitary existence – and the rest of the world.
    Robert Freitag’s small row house was just such a place. From the moment she entered Jessica could sense Freitag’s seclusion, his desire to be shut off from others.
    Against the wall to the left was an inexpensive sofa; to the right, at a precise ninety-degree angle, a matching chair. The coffee table had a pair of remotes aligned perfectly next to each other, along with a candy dish with three pinwheel candies in it.
    The wall unit across from the sofa held a twenty-seven-inch LCD television. On either side were books, mostly paperbacks on top, with two rows of hardcovers on the bottom. At first glance Jessica could see that many were novels popular in the eighties and nineties. Jessica wondered if the books had come with the house.
    Above the couch was a generic landscape print, something you might see on the wall at a budget interstate motel. There was nothing else on the walls in the living room or the attached dining room.
    Jessica and Byrne fell into a familiar rhythm: Byrne headed downstairs, Jessica went up.
    On the second floor were two bedrooms and a bathroom. Jessica walked down the short hallway to the first bedroom. It was empty, save for a pair of laundry baskets. One of the hampers held a pair of blue bath towels. The other, a white undershirt and a pair of boxer shorts.
    The bathroom was as tidy as the rest of the house. Jessica opened the medicine cabinet: Tylenol, Listerine, Arid Extra Dry, dental floss. No prescription medications.
    She walked down the hall to the other bedroom.
    A bed, a dresser and a small vanity. A month of passing street traffic had shaken loose dust. A thin film covered all the smooth surfaces in the room.
    Inside the closet were two dark suits, a pair of navy sport coats, a half-dozen or so short-sleeve dress shirts, just as many striped ties. There were a pair of V-neck sweaters on the shelf, along with a 1970s-vintage Samsonite suitcase. Jessica took down the suitcase, put it on the bed, snapped it open. The case was empty, save for a small plastic bag with travel-sized bottles of shampoo, conditioner and body lotion. All appeared unused. Jessica put the suitcase back on the shelf. She checked the pockets on all the items of clothing, found nothing.
    No matter how many times she did this, Jessica always felt as if she were violating the rights of the victim. While she had no problem frisking a suspect, and subsequently going through their possessions, when the items belonged to the victim it was different. She often thought about what her own closets and drawers and suitcases would yield.
    She opened the drawers in the dresser. Socks in one drawer, underwear in another, T-shirts in yet another. Robert Freitag’s was a life of mathematical order.
    Jessica walked back downstairs, stepped into the kitchen. Like the rest of the house, it was way too clean. The refrigerator door handle had no smudges, the kitchen drawer that held the cutlery and carving knives held no crumbs. The house was not spotless, but it was close.
    As Jessica moved from room to room she took dozens of pictures, mostly for her own reference. She never printed them off, for the simple reason that they might become mixed in with official crime scene photos, and in this era of PhotoShop it would leave the door open for a savvy defense attorney to have all photographic evidence come under suspicion.
    While Jessica was upstairs, Byrne had taken the contents of the small living-room desk and spread it out on the dining-room table.
    ‘Anything in the basement?’ Jessica asked.
    Byrne shook his head. ‘Washer and dryer, a Christmas tree in a box, a folded treadmill. That’s about it.’
    Jessica stepped into the dining area. On the table was a soup bowl with a coffee mug upside down it. Next to these items was a folded linen napkin and a silver spoon. All were clean, perhaps set up for a meal Robert Freitag would