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was running a scanner slowly over the surface of a nightstand.
    When Murdock spoke, he did so with
an inflection acquired from growing up in the mean streets of the city’s
toughest neighborhoods. His accent maintained a rough edge that served to
intimidate and repel those he encountered rather than to magnetize them. Moving
closer to the technician, Murdock leaned forward until he was level with the
technician’s ear. “How’s it going, buddy?”
    The forensics investigator
continued to examine the surface of the nightstand with meticulous study.
Beside him, the covers of the governor’s bed were in disarray. “It’s going,” he
said.
    “Any traces of blood?”
    “Not up here.”
    “Thanks.”
    Murdock exited the room and worked
his way through a mass of investigators, some wearing gloves and paper booties,
others taking photos from numerous angles and viewpoints. In the kitchen, the
body of Darlene Steele lay on the floor in a supine position, the lids of her
eyes at half-mast. A medical examiner was inspecting a bloodless hole in the
middle of her forehead. In the back of her head, the pared flesh formed a
blooming rose petal of pulp and gore. Carefully, the medical examiner picked
alien particles from the edges of the wound with tweezers and placed them in a
small vial.
    A second examiner stood at the
Jackson Pollack wall of design making a critical examination of the blood
spatter pattern, trying to determine the angle of the shot from the
configuration of blood and tissue and errant hairs that had dried on the wall.
To the examiner, there was nothing artistic about the killing or the star-like
motif that clung to this canvas.
    Murdock looked on with detachment.
He had seen this many times over his twenty-five years in law enforcement and
had steadily learned how to disengage his emotions from the many bloodbaths
visited.  
    A man wearing a gray suit and
maroon tie moved next to Murdock with pen and pad in hand, his face having the
fresh-scrubbed look of youth, movie star good looks, and frosty blue eyes that
absorbed everything with photo-like retention.
    “You’re Punch, right? Punch
Murdock?”
    Murdock stepped away without
responding. The last thing he needed right now was some kid latching onto his
lapels. 
    The young man followed, keeping up
with Murdock‘s quick pace. “My name’s Melvin Yzerman,” he said.
    “Yeah, well, good for you, kid.”
    “I’m from the Washington Post .”
    Murdock stopped in his tracks. He
knew what was coming. “How did you get in here?”
    “That’s not important. What is
important is a comment from you regarding your team. As chief of the
president’s security detail, how do you feel about your team—”
      “Okay, you’re out of here.”
    “—being killed by terrorist
extremists?”
    “Go on, get out of here!”
    “And as head of the detail, why
weren’t you—”
    “Are you deaf, kid? Get out of
here!”
    “—with your team at such a
critical moment?”
    “Officers!”
    “Answer me that, Agent Murdock.
Just give me a simple comment.”
    Responding to Murdock’s call, two
officers from the D.C. Metro Unit entered the room, one with an extended baton
in his hand.
    “Which one of you D.C. clowns let
this idiot from the Post in here?” Murdock’s face was red, the man
livid. Spittle flew from his lips as he spoke. “This is a secured area, even
from the press! Get this piece of crap out of here and maintain the premises.
Nobody in or out unless they’re from county, state, or law enforcement! Got
it?”
    The officers, galvanized by
Murdock’s tone, grabbed the reporter by the back of his arm and began to usher
him from the room.
    “Murdock!” Yzerman said over his
shoulder. “Do you want to make a comment about your team’s inadequate
protection of the pope? Any comment at all?”
    Murdock stood silent as he watched
the officers force the man toward the exit. He weighed the reporter’s question
in his mind, the words bearing an