Sam parked his car in the same fire zone spot in front of the main entrance to the hospital. He was still on the phone with Adrienne.

I wasn’t quite done reading the loose sheets of paper he had given me. From what I could discern from eavesdropping on their conversation, they were role-playing what Adrienne was going to say to the powers at MedExcel to blackmail them into transporting Chaney to Seattle by, let’s say, tomorrow morning. Sam offered Adrienne a few juicy tidbits from his investigation that she could use as sweeteners if they were needed in her argument.

I suspected they wouldn’t be needed. A few minutes earlier, when I had reached Adrienne on Sam’s phone and told her what was up, she was an eager volunteer. She’d made it clear that her strategy would be to plot a devastating ambush on MedExcel, not engage them in a protracted battle. She would be attacking this surgically, as though it were a particularly aggressive bladder cancer.

The notes that I was reading had been taken by the lead detective, Scott Malloy, during an informal interview with Boulder’s coroner, a forensic pathologist. I knew from experience that the findings were preliminary.

Edward Robilio had undiagnosed coronary artery disease and an enlarged prostate. He had multiple polyps in his large intestine and an ingrown toenail on his left foot that was so inflamed it must have made his last few walks around the block pretty painful.

What killed him-the cause of death-were two gunshot wounds, the first “of chest” that missed his heart and major vessels, but clipped his lung and chipped some bone in the spinal column. The wound was, according to the coroner’s assessment, of “vital reaction,” likely a slow but persistent bleeder. In the coroner’s opinion, without competent and timely emergency care, that first wound alone would have eventually been fatal to Dr. Robilio.

The second gunshot wound was “of head,” specifically, a bullet entered Ed’s face just left of his nose and exited, along with a chunk of skull the size of an apricot, behind his left ear. This shot clipped major vessels, turned gray matter into jello and was fatal within minutes.

No surprises.

A copy of the death certificate was stapled to Malloy’s notes. I searched for the coroner’s opinion on manner of death. This category is not the “why” of dying-that’s cause of death. Manner of death is about motivation or intent. Manner of death is the “how” of dying-whether by suicide, homicide, accident, or disease. And with this death certificate on Dr. Robilio, the Boulder coroner was telling his undoubtedly unhappy compatriots in the police department and district attorney’s office that the manner of death on this one was still too close to call. The words were, “Pending further investigation.”

The coroner could rule out accident. He could rule out disease. He could even rule out act of God. But he couldn’t rule out either suicide or homicide. Those manners of death were still on the table.

Malloy’s notes were comprehensive. The gunshots had both been fired from close range, estimated at one to three inches, consistent with suicide, and at angles not inconsistent with either suicide or homicide. Gunshot residue and trace metal detection tests were positive for the victim’s shirt, face, torso, hair, and shoulders. But the victim’s right hand-Dead Ed was right-handed-was so drenched by his own blood that the tests done on it for trace metals were inconclusive. Dr. Robilio’s wounds may have been self-inflicted; there was nothing to indicate he wasn’t holding the gun.

And from a forensic pathology perspective there was nothing to indicate that he was holding the gun.

The coroner raised two other points that Malloy labeled “subjective impressions.” The first was that the deceased may have been so debilitated by the first wound that he would have been physically incapable of firing the second shot, which would indicate homicide, not suicide. And second, psychological data from coroner’s assistant interviews with family and business associates provided no prodromal signs of acute depression or presuicidal activity other than the typed suicide note.

The second document that Sam gave me complicated everything I had just read. It was that typed suicide note, printed out from Ed Robilio’s tiny computer. The note was addressed to no one and was oddly formal in tone. The structure reminded me of a business memo. The note asked that Beth be thanked for her partnership and for bearing their beautiful children. The note expressed sorrow for what Robilio had done and what he hadn’t done. It left instructions on where to find some financial documents that Beth might need.

It was unsigned.

Sam held up the phone and said, “I’m done here. You need to talk to Adrienne anymore?”

“Uh, no. Would you ask her to take care of Emily for me?”

He closed up his phone and said, “She already did. After she turns you in to Dumb Friends, she’s going to start making those calls to MedExcel.”

“Good, Sam. You did a remarkable job in putting this together. You going to tell Brenda and John?”

“You kidding? Why?”

“You’re right, they don’t need to know.”

He recognized my distraction. “So what’s troubling you?”

I held the papers up off my lap. “What is it with Dead Ed? Suicide or homicide?”

“Heads or tails?”

“They really don’t know?”

“Here’s the problem with the suicide theory: Do you know what percentage of suicides use two shots to kill themselves? It’s like one in googoolplux.”

“Googoolplux?”

“It’s Simon’s word for bigger than infinity. And then there’s the little problem of where the hell did the gun go afterwards? I don’t think he drove it over to Merritt’s house in his RV.”

“But the note is good, Sam. It isn’t a garden-variety forgery. No adolescent could write it.”

“No, it’s not. So, if it’s a forgery, it’s a good forgery. One written by somebody with some knowledge, you know. It’s like a note that someone like you, maybe a psychologist type, might write.”

Sam was leaving tracks in the sand. “You’re thinking John Trent?”

“You could do it, right?”

I shrugged. I could do it. So could Sam.

“He could write it, too, then.”

This wasn’t making sense. “Why wouldn’t Robilio have fought back? The gun was so close to him.” I ruffled through the papers with the autopsy impressions on them. The coroner apparently reported no signs of struggle, no defensive wounds.

“Speculation? I’d guess he was paralyzed by the fact that there was a gun two inches from his chest. By the time the second shot was fired he was already too gorked to notice the damn gun was pointing at his face.”

“Let’s go back to motive, Sam. What good does it do Trent? So Robilio’s dead? That isn’t going to help Chaney. May even hurt her.”

“I’m not arguing for a rational state of mind. Rage and retribution are good motives. That’s sufficient at this stage of my thinking.”

“Is that how you’re putting this together? You think Trent went nuts, killed Robilio, and staged everything else?”

He turned suddenly and I tensed. His voice had the chilled hiss of compressed air. “You know something that should make me think otherwise?”

I considered what he was asking. “You won’t misinterpret my answer, Sam?”

“I’ll certainly try not to.”

“No, I don’t know anything that should make you think otherwise. But,” I paused for emphasis, “I have to wonder whether you think he’s ruthless enough to set his stepdaughter up to take the fall.”

“Should I be thinking that he’s that ruthless?”

I reminded myself to be careful. “Cold enough to trade his stepdaughter for his daughter? I think Trent would donate both his lungs to save Chaney. But-gut feeling now, okay?-I don’t think Trent would sacrifice Merritt to save her.”