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also covered in blood and brains, but he wouldn’t shut up.
    “No way. No fuckin’ way. Not happening. Really, really not happening. Why are we still tied up, man? I mean, like we’re really going to run off right now. Because of course this isn’t happening. Really not happening.
Get these fucking things off me!
”
    The state marshals ignored him. So did Jack-n-Jack, the crime techs from CIU. Both were already moving around the flagstone courtyard with a digital camera, capturing the scene. Deeper in, the two death investigators from the ME’s office were also diligently recording their findings. At the moment, they were standing over what might have been a man’s jaw.
    “Hey, Griffin,” Jack Cappelli said, finally looking up.
    “Look at you,” Jack Needham said, also looking up. “Ooooh, that’s gotta be Italian.”
    Griffin obligingly ran a hand down the silk-wool blend of his blue-gray sports coat. Cindy had picked it out for him. It had been one of her favorites. “Of course. Nothing but the best for this job. Now tell me the truth. Did you miss me?”
    “Absolutely,” they said in unison.
    “Jack killed your plant, Griffin,” the first Jack piped up.
    “Can’t prove it,” the second Jack said.
    “Bet I can. I shot a round of black-and-whites documenting the scene.”
    “In other words,” Griffin deduced, “it’s been a little slow lately.”
    They both nodded glumly. Then the first Jack perked up again. “But not anymore. Hey, do us a favor. Kill those choppers, Griff.”
    “Yeah, they’re messing with our scene, Griff.”
    Griffin obligingly looked up at the swarm of media helicopters buzzing the sky, then grimaced. Media choppers were such a pain in the ass. If it wasn’t bad enough to have to worry about an overly aggressive photographer capturing some sensational image of the victim, the wash from the rotor blades ruined half the evidence. He picked up his radio to contact the State Aeronautics Department just as the guy shackled to the left of Como’s body raised his hand to his blood-spattered face.
    “Stop!” Jack-n-Jack ordered as a single unit. “No touching! Remember, you are part of the crime scene. We need your face to analyze spray.”
    “Ahhhhhhh,” the guy said.
    Jack-n-Jack looked at him and snapped a fresh photo.
    Griffin suppressed a grin. Yeah, just like old times. You know, other than the fact that they’d never had an assassination at the state courthouse before. He finished securing the airspace above the judicial complex, then returned his attention to Jack-n-Jack.
    “What do we got?”
    “Single head shot. Entrance wound top of the skull. Exit wound beneath the chin. No sign of powder burns. We’re guessing a rifle with a soft-point slug, which would provide enough force to penetrate the skull and enough spread to do . . . well, to do
that.
”
    Jack-n-Jack pointed to the body. It was a good thing Griffin had seen Eddie Como’s face on TV, because he definitely couldn’t see it now. Soft-point bullets expanded on impact, creating a wonderful mushrooming effect.
    “So a steeply vertical rifle shot.” Griffin looked up. A rooftop sniper would be consistent with initial reports. Unfortunately, from this angle inside the courtyard, he couldn’t see anything tucked back from the roofline six stories up. That didn’t bode well for witnesses. On the other hand, that’s why they paid him the big bucks. He pulled out his Norelco mini-recorder and focused on the five shackled prisoners.
    “Anybody,” he said. “I’m pretty sure all of you could use the brownie points.”
    None of the guys looked particularly impressed. Finally, the first guy shook his head.
    “Man, we don’t know nothin’. We were just climbing out of the van and then boom! We hear this crack like fuckin’ lightning overhead and the next instant, we all get yanked off our feet. Look back and Eddie’s on the ground, state marshals are yelling gun, gun, and Jazz here”—the first guy