The only common element in all three cases was the history. Each patient had been treated for cancer with varying mixtures of surgery, chemotherapy, and radiotherapy. Of the three treatment modalities, only chemotherapy was common to all three patients.

David was well aware that one of the side effects of chemotherapy was a general lowering of a patient's resistance because of a depressed immune system. He wondered if that fact could have had something to do with the rapid downhill courses these patients experienced. Yet the oncologist, the expert in such matters, had given this common factor little import since in all three cases the chemotherapy had been completed long before the hospitalization. The immune systems of all three patients had long since returned to normal.

The pager on David's belt interrupted his thoughts. Looking at the LCD screen he recognized the number: it was the emergency room. Replacing the charts, David hurried downstairs.

The patient was Donald Anderson, another one of David's frequent visitors. Donald's diabetes was particularly hard to regulate. It was the main source of his frequent medical complaints. This visit was no exception. When David entered the examining stall he could immediately tell that Donald's blood sugar was out of control. Donald was semi-comatose.

David ordered a stat blood sugar and started an IV. While he was waiting for the lab result, he spoke with Shirley Anderson, Donald's wife.

"He's been having trouble for a week," Shirley complained. "But you know how stubborn he is. He refused to come to see you."

"I think we'll have to admit him," David said. "It will take a few days to get him on a new regimen."

"I was hoping you would," Shirley said. "It's difficult when he gets like this with the kids and all."

When David got the results of the blood sugar he was surprised that Donald hadn't been even more obtunded than he was. As David walked back to talk with Donald, who was now lucid thanks to the IV, David did a double-take. Looking into one of the other examining stalls he saw a familiar face: it was Caroline Helmsford, Nikki's friend. Dr. Pilsner was at her side.

David slipped in alongside Caroline, opposite Dr. Pilsner. She looked up at David with pleading eyes. Covering the lower part of her face was a clear plastic mask providing oxygen. Her complexion was ashen with a slightly bluish cast. Her breathing was labored.

Dr. Pilsner was listening to her chest. He smiled at David when he saw him. When he finished auscultating, he took David aside.

"Poor thing is having a hard time," Dr. Pilsner said.

"What's wrong?" David asked.

"The usual," Dr. Pilsner replied. "She's congested and she's running a high fever."

"Will you admit her?" David asked.

"Absolutely," Dr. Pilsner said. "You know better than most that we can't take any chances with this kind of problem."

David nodded. He did know. He looked back at Caroline struggling to breathe. She looked so tiny on the big gurney and so vulnerable. The sight made him worry about Nikki. Given her cystic fibrosis, it could have been Nikki on the gurney, not Caroline.

"You've got a call from the chief medical examiner," one of the secretaries told Angela. Angela picked up the phone.

"Hope I'm not disturbing you," Walt said.

"Not at all," Angela answered.

"Got a couple of updates on the Hodges autopsy," Walt said. "Are you still interested?"

"Absolutely," Angela said.

"First of all, the man had significant alcohol in his ocular fluid," Walt said.

"I didn't know you could tell after so long," Angela said.

"If we can get ocular fluid it's easy," Walt said. "Alcohol is reasonably stable. We also got confirmation that the DNA of the skin under his nails was different from his. So it's undoubtedly the DNA of his killer."

"What about those carbon particles in the skin?" Angela asked. "Did you have any more thoughts about them?"

"To be honest, I haven't given it a lot of thought," Walt said. "But I did change my mind about it being contemporary with the struggle. I realized the particles were in the dermis, not the epidermis. It must have been some old injury, like having been stabbed with a pencil when he was in grammar school. I have such a deposit on my arm."

"I've got one in the palm of my right hand," Angela said.

"The reason I haven't done much on the case is because there's been no pressure from either the state's attorney or the state police. Unfortunately, I've been swamped with other cases where there's considerable pressure."

"I understand," Angela said. "But I'm still interested. So if there are any more developments, please let me know."

After hanging up Angela's thoughts remained on the Hodges affair, wondering what Phil Calhoun was doing. She'd heard nothing from him since she'd visited the man and had given him his retainer. And thinking about Hodges and Calhoun made her remember how vulnerable she'd felt when David had left in the night to go to the hospital.

Checking her watch, Angela realized it was time for her lunch break. She turned off her microscope, grabbed her coat, and went out to the car. She'd told David that she wanted to get a gun, and she'd meant it.

There were no sporting goods stores in Bartlet, but Staley's Hardware Store carried a line of firearms. When she explained what she wanted, Mr. Staley was instantly helpful. He asked her what her reasons were for wanting to purchase a gun. When she told him protection of her home, he talked her into a shotgun.

It took Angela less than fifteen minutes to make her selection. She bought a pump-action twelve-gauge shotgun. Mr. Staley was more than happy to show her how to load and unload the rifle. He was particularly careful to show her the safety. The firearm also came with a brochure, and Mr. Staley encouraged her to read it.

On the walk back to the car, Angela felt self-conscious about her package even though she'd insisted that Mr. Staley wrap it in manila paper; the object within was still quite recognizable. She'd never carried a gun before. In her other hand she had a bag containing a box of shells.

With definite relief Angela put the rifle in the trunk of the car. Heading around to the driver's side door she looked across the green at the police station and hesitated. Ever since the confrontation with Robertson the previous morning she'd felt guilty. She also knew David had been right; it was foolhardy for her to make an enemy of the chief of police despite the fact that he was such a dolt.

Letting go of the car door, Angela walked across the green and into the police station. Robertson agreed to see her after a ten-minute wait.

"I hope I'm not bothering you," Angela said.

"No bother," he said as she entered his office.

Angela sat down. "I don't want to take much of your time," Angela said.

"I'm a public servant," Robertson said brazenly.

"I've come to apologize for yesterday," Angela said.

"Oh?" Robertson said, clearly taken aback.

"My behavior was inappropriate," Angela said. "And I'm sorry. It's just that I've really been overwhelmed by the discovery of that dead body in my house."

"Well, it's nice of you to come in," Robertson said, clearly flustered. He hadn't expected this. "I'm sorry about Hodges. We'll keep the case open and let you know if anything turns up."

"Something did turn up this morning," Angela said. She then told Robertson about the possibility of Hodges' killer having a deposit of carbon from a pencil on his arm.

"From a pencil?" Robertson asked.

"Yes," Angela said. She stood up and extended her right palm and pointed to a small, dark stain beneath the skin. "Something like this," she said. "I got it in the third grade."

"Oh, I see," Robertson said, nodding his head as a wry smile turned up the corners of his mouth. "Well, thank you for this tip."