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Baker knew his baby tech took a little evening nap on company time. Eventually, the tech returned relatively awake and prepared to take down my information.
    I filled in as many blanks on his form as I could, based on what information I had gleaned from Joanna Ridley. It consisted of the usual—name, address, phone number, next of kin—enough to clear the medical examiner’s office of one of its prime responsibilities: Identification of the victim.
    As Peters and I left the office, I paused in the doorway. “By the way, you might want to call Doc Baker with that now. He’s probably waiting to hear from you.” The tech didn’t look eager to pick up the phone to call Doc Baker’s home number.
    â€œYou ever hear of winning friends and influencing people, Beau?” Peters asked as we walked outside.
    â€œI don’t like people who sleep on the job. Where to next?”
    If I had any delusions of going home rightthen, Peters put a stop to them with what he said next. “We’d better check in with the department and let them know what’s up. Officially.”
    We were ready to climb into the car. I looked at him across the roof of the Porsche. “What the hell happened to you, Peters? You used to be a lot more flexible, remember? You didn’t always do things by the book.”
    He grinned at me. “Two and a half years of hanging around with J. P. Beaumont. That’s what happened. Somebody in this outfit has to go by the book, or we’ll both get our asses fired.”
    Back on the fifth floor of the Public Safety Building we sorted through our individual fanfolds of messages.
    â€œCall,” Peters said. “Five bucks says I take it.”
    â€œYou’re on.”
    â€œFull house.” Triumphantly, Peters turned his messages faceup on the desk. Three from Sergeant Watkins, two from Captain Powell. “See there?”
    â€œRead ’em and weep,” I told him, turning over my own—four of a kind, all from Captain Lawrence Powell. With a grimace of disgust, Peters slapped a five-dollar bill on the desk in front of me.
    One of the other detectives sauntered over to our cubicle. “I don’t know what you twohave been up to, but people are gunning for you. I’d lay low if I were you.”
    We never had a fighting chance of lying low. We were right in the middle of writing our reports when Sergeant Watkins showed up in a stained sweat suit and worn running shoes. He hadn’t bothered to dress for the occasion. He ignored Peters and came straight after me.
    â€œYou interested in the Officer Friendly program in Seattle Public Schools?” he demanded. “By the time Doc Baker finishes with you, that may be the only job in the department you’re qualified for.”
    â€œDoc Baker was out of line,” I returned. “So was his tech. They had no business demanding information before I had a chance to question the individual.”
    â€œ Doctor Baker,” Watty corrected, enunciating every syllable clearly to be sure I understood his meaning. “Doctor Baker happens to be the King County medical examiner, and don’t you forget it.”
    He glanced down at the forms we were working on. He sighed and headed for his desk, still growling at us over his shoulder. “When you finish those reports, you could just as well bring them by so I can see what you’ve got.”
    It was eleven by the time we were perchedon the front of Watty’s desk, waiting while he scanned our reports.
    â€œA high school basketball coach. Holy shit! I’d better get Arlo Hamilton on this right away. Can you two be here for a press briefing at eight tomorrow morning?”
    We both nodded. Unlike crooks, cops don’t get time off for good behavior. By the time I drove Peters back to his Datsun at Lincoln Towing, I could barely hold my head up.
    â€œYou satisfied?” I asked. “Is everything by the book