Ray pushed the iPad across the table. “Now, it’s all here in a couple of days: the report, photos, everything but the toxicology. All neatly typed and organized by Samantha Redding, M.D., Fellow, AAFS.”

Hannah glanced at the screen. “Rule one in medicine, never read an autopsy before cappuccino.”

“I’d be happy to do that,” said Ray, putting down the iPad, “but there’s a problem. Something isn’t right. I’m not going to complain about technology again, so I’ll say it’s mostly my technique or lack thereof. The shots I make are bitter, and all I do is warm the milk up—big bubbles, no micro foam.”

Hannah set Simone on the floor. “Come here,” she ordered. “It’s time for Barista 101. We start with the grind.”

She inspected the grinder. “The first problem is that someone messed with the settings. Or maybe it just got out of kilter in the move.” She pointed to a mark she had made with a Sharpie on the adjustment scale. “This is where you want it. It took me several weeks to find the sweet spot and get this dialed in.” She poured in some beans, then pushed the “on” button until the change in sound indicated that all the beans in the hopper had been ground. Then she worked through the rest of the process, filling the portafilter and tamping the grounds. She frothed some milk and pulled the shot. Standing at Ray’s side, she offered gentle coaching as he repeated the procedure.

Settling again at the table, Hannah moved the iPad close to her. “Have you read this?”

“Just started. I was getting mired in the boilerplate.” Ray watched in silence as she carefully studied the report, occasionally moving the text backwards to review a paragraph or two. He got up and gave Simone her breakfast. A few minutes later she was at the door, demanding his attention and a walk with a sharp, command bark.

Hannah was still concentrating on the screen when they returned from their stroll around the neighborhood. Ray made her another cappuccino and then repeated the process for himself.

Finally she looked up, held him in her gaze, and asked him a second time how much of the autopsy he had read.

“Like I said, just the beginning.”

“This is all so interesting. For an old guy, Fox was in awfully good shape. He had some plaque buildup in his coronary arteries, but it wasn’t too bad for a man of his age who’d been eating the American diet forever. His muscle tone was quite remarkable.”

“So how did he die? What killed him?”

“Fox had a pacemaker. Did you know that?”

“No. His daughter never mentioned it.”

“Did you see the note on the burn marks on his neck consistent with the kind made by a stun gun?”

Ray stared at her. “Where’s that?” he said, pointing at the iPad.

“Several pages into the report.” She pushed the tablet in his direction, pointing to the section. She pulled it back, flipped through multiple pages, then slid her chair close to his and pointed at the photograph showing burn marks on the left side of Fox’s neck, below the collar line.

“What was he wearing when you saw the body?” she asked.

“His usual costume: jeans, a shirt with a sweater of some sort, and an old buckskin jacket. He had a boot on one foot, it was missing on the other.” He zoomed in on the burn marks. “I can see how the medical examiner might have missed the stun burns,” he admitted, “given the conditions where he made his preliminary observations.” Ray sat for several minutes absorbing the information. “Why would someone do that?”

“The perpetrators were trying to snatch him off the street, right?”

“That’s a likely scenario.”

“Fox was probably a tough old bird, much stronger than his assailants expected,” said Hannah. “He wasn’t going to go anywhere without a fight.”

“But who carries a stun gun?”

“You tell me. You’re the cop.”

“Well, under current law only people in law enforcement-related activities can carry Tasers. Of course, the legislature could change that in the next few months.”

Hannah was keying on the iPad. Then she was flipping screens. “There are only a few hundred sites selling Tasers and stun guns. Here’s one with Christmas specials. I can’t tell if the page is left over from last Christmas or out there for people who do their shopping early.”

“I can’t believe it,” Ray said. “I thought Fox had been grabbed by some people thinking that he really knew where the Capone treasure was, and that they could pressure him into leading them to the gold. The use of a stun gun just makes it all seem incredibly sinister.”

“What we are capable of almost defies imagination. You should spend some time in a war zone,” Hannah answered, her tone dark, tension in her voice.

Ray let her comment hang for a long time. “So what killed him?”

Hannah shrugged. “Here the pathologist equivocates a bit. Because of the absence of bruising, she doesn’t think that he was constrained for any period of time. And there’s no evidence that he was ever bound at the hands or feet. She speculates that the stun gun was used during the initial assault and wonders what effect that may have had on his pacemaker. She notes the literature on this type of weapon and its potential effects on pacemakers are extremely limited. Three citations to recent articles are appended at the end.”

Ray got up and carried his mug to the sink.

“What are you thinking?”

“You see, I’ve invented two scenarios. The first one involved a couple of our locals: somehow I’m seeing two middle-aged guys, down on their luck, not incredibly bright, who got started into this whole thing by stealing a copy of Fox’s book. They quickly figured out that they weren’t going to find the money based on the descriptions or maps, so they grabbed Fox off the street, and, based on the burns on his foot, tried to get information out of him by holding his foot against their wood-burning stove. I can see the interior of the house, the stove their only source of heat.” Ray returned to the kitchen table, pulled his chair away from Hannah’s, and sat down. “Unfortunately, Fox just up and dies on them. The guys panic, load him in their car or truck, head up the road 15 or 20 miles from the scene, and dump the body.”

Hannah nodded. “Okay, what was the other scenario?”

“Much simpler. Someone saw him make the big win at the casino and abducted him off the street hoping to get the money.”

“And the burns to the foot?”

“Same motive as the first; when he didn’t have the cash on him, they tried to use torture to find out where it was.”

“How about just modifying your scenarios. They’re just crazy, sick, and weird. They use a stun gun to aid in the kidnapping. If you search the APA list of mental disorders, you will probably come up with a multisyllabic, multiword Latinate definition for this type of behavior.”

They sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, Hannah asked, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to make breakfast.”

“And if I weren’t here?”

“I might start by splitting wood. Then I’d go to the office and try to make something happen. I’d create diagrams and lists, look through old files, think about our usual cast of characters. There would be no breakthroughs, but somehow just being active makes me feel better. Then I’d go for a long, fast paddle until I was totally exhausted.”

“So is that what you want to do?”

“The office part, no. It’s a waste of time. It’s just me trying to cope.” He smiled at her. “And I’m glad that you’re here. What would you like to do? It’s really blowing outside. I think kayaking is out.”

Hannah spooned the last of the foam out of her cappuccino cup. “How about taking Simone for a really long walk on the beach and then going shopping.”

“Shopping? I didn’t think you…?”

“For food. You know the right places. We could get a duck or a chicken or a pot-roast, something that takes hours to cook. Vegetables or squash, and we’ll bake something. We fill the house with lovely aromas, we drink tea or maybe a little wine, and we listen to some quiet music to go with the day, things like the Goldberg Variations. I’m sure you have a good….”