Im not identifying a photo. I want to see the body.

Thats not the procedure we have here, sir. Were in the process of installing a video system so that IDs can be made via remote television, but its not functional yet. Until then, its done with a Polaroid.

Not this time.

The man tapped the photo against his palm as though trying to arouse Fiskes curiosity in it. Most people would much prefer to do it with a photograph. This is very unusual.

Im not most people, and having a brother murdered is unusual. At least it is for me.

The attendant picked up the phone and conveyed instructions to prepare the body for viewing. Then he opened the door to his office, motioning Fiske to follow him. After a short walk, they entered a small room that carried a medicinal smell several times stronger than that in a hospital. In the center of the room stood a gurney. From under the white sheet rose a number of edges representing the head, nose, shoulders, knees and feet of the body. As Fiske headed toward the gurney, he clutched at the same irrational hope that everyone in his position would leap for: that the person under the sheet was not his brother, that his family was still reasonably intact. As the attendant gripped the edge of the sheet, Fiske slid one hand around the metal side of the gurney and squeezed tightly. As the sheet rose upward, exposing the head and upper torso of the deceased, Fiske closed his eyes, looked upward and mouthed a silent prayer. He took a deep breath, held it, opened his eyes and then looked down. Before he knew it, he was nodding. He tried to look away but couldnt. Even a stranger could have looked at the slope of the forehead, the arrangement of the eyes and mouth, the flow of the chin, and concluded that the two men held some close familial bond. Thats my brother.

The sheet was replaced and the attendant gave Fiske the ID card to sign. Other than the items the police have retained, well release his personal effects to you. The attendant glanced at the gurney. Weve had a busy week, and were backed up with bodies, but we should have autopsy results fairly soon. This one looks pretty simple anyway.

Anger flared on Fiskes face but then quickly faded. The man was not paid to be tactful. Did they find the bullet that killed him?

Only the autopsy can determine cause of death.

Dont bullshit me. The attendant looked startled. I saw the exit wound on the left side of his head. Did they find it?

No. At least not yet.

I heard it was a robbery, said Fiske. The attendant nodded. He was found in his car?

Right, wallet gone. We had to trace his identity through his license plate.

So if a robbery, why didnt they take the car? Carjackings the hot thing right now. Beat the victims ATM password out of him or her, kill them, take the car and hit a few banks, load up on money, ditch the car and go on to the next one. Why not with this one?

I dont know anything about that.

Whos handling the case?

It happened in D.C. Must be D.C. Homicide Division.

My brother was a federal employee. United States Supreme Court. Maybe the FBI will be involved too.

Again, I dont know anything about that.

Id like the name of the detective at D.C. Homicide.

The attendant didnt answer, but jotted some notes down in the file, perhaps hoping that if he remained quiet Fiske would just go away.

Id really like that name, please, Fiske said, edging a step closer. The attendant finally sighed, pulled a business card out of the file and handed it to Fiske. Buford Chandler. Hell probably want to talk to you anyway. Hes a good guy. Probablyll catch the person who did this.

Fiske looked briefly at the card before putting it in his coat pocket. He settled a clear-eyed gaze on the attendant. Oh, were going to get whoever did this. The odd tone in his voice made the attendant look up from his file. Now Id like some time alone with my brother.

The attendant glanced over at the gurney. Sure, Ill be outside. Just let me know when youre done.

After the man left, Fiske pulled a chair next to the gurney and sat down. He had not shed a tear since learning of his brothers death. He told himself it was because positive ID had not been made yet, but now it had and still no tears. On the drive up, he had caught himself counting out-of-state license plates, a game the brothers had played growing up. A game Mike Fiske had usually won. He lifted the side of the sheet and took one of his brothers hands. It was cold, but the fingers were supple. He squeezed them gently. Fiske looked down at the concrete floor and closed his eyes. When he reopened them a few minutes later only two tears had collected on the concrete. He quickly looked up and a gush of air came out of his lungs. It felt forced, all of it, and he suddenly felt unworthy to be here. As a cop, he had sat with the parents of too many drunken kids who had wrapped themselves around a tree or telephone pole. He had consoled them, expressed empathy, even held them. He had truly believed that he had approached, even touched the depths of their despair. He often wondered what it would feel like when it happened to him. He plainly knew this was not it. He forced himself to think about his parents. How exactly would he tell his father that his golden child was dead? And his mother? At least there was an easy answer to that question: He couldnt and shouldnt tell her. Raised Catholic, but not a religious man, Fiske chose to speak with his brother instead of God. He pressed his brothers hand against his chest and talked to him of things he was sorry for, of how much he loved him, how much he wanted him not to be dead, in case his brothers spirit was lingering behind, waiting for this communication, this quiet rupture of guilt and remorse from his older brother. Then Fiske fell silent, his eyes closed again. He could hear each solid drum of his heart, a sound that was somehow dwarfed by the stillness of the body next to his. The attendant poked his head in. Mr. Fiske, we need to take your brother on down. Its been half an hour.

Fiske rose and passed the attendant without a word. His brothers body was going to a terrifying place, where strangers would forage through his remains for clues as to who had killed him. As they wheeled the gurney away, Fiske walked back out into the sunlight and left his little brother behind. ["C21"]CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Youre sure you covered your tracks?

Rayfield nodded into the phone. Every record of his being here has been expunged. Ive already transferred all the personnel who saw Fiske to other facilities. Even if someone figures out somehow that he came here, there wont be anyone left to tell them anything.

And no one saw you dump the body?

Vic drove his car back. I followed him. We picked a good place. The police will think it was a robbery. Nobody saw us. And even if they did, its not the sort of place where people are real cooperative with the law.

Nothing left in the car?

We took his wallet to further the robbery angle. His briefcase too. A map. There wasnt anything else. Of course we filled the radiator back up with fluid.

And Harms?

Hes still in the hospital. Looks like hes going to make it.

Damn. Just our luck.

Dont sweat it. When he comes back here, well deal with him. Weak heart and all, you never know what might happen to you.

Dont wait too long. You cant hit him in the hospital?

Too dangerous. Too many people around.

And youve got him well guarded?

Hes chained to the bed with a guard posted twenty-four hours a day outside his door. Hes being released tomorrow morning. By tomorrow night hell be dead. Vics already working on the details.

And theres nobody out there who can help him? Youre sure?

Rayfield laughed. Hell, no one even knows hes there. Hes got nobody. Never has, never will.