The street had gone quiet enough for her to hear her own breath. She noticed the man only after she crossed beneath the weak cone of a streetlamp—a dark shape half a block behind her, moving when she moved, stopping when she slowed. She crossed the road without looking back too quickly, willing herself not to run. His footsteps crossed after hers. She noticed him following her from the bus stop on Wellsley a block away. 

Her pulse kicked hard against her throat. She risked a glance over her shoulder and saw him pause at the corner, his face hidden beneath the brim of his hat. For one blessed second, he turned down another street. She stopped, pressed a hand to her chest, and drew in the cold night air of Mid-April until her breathing steadied. 

She made herself walk again. In the next pool of light, her features appeared and vanished: a young professional in a long dark jacket, hat pulled low over dark hair, jaw set tight against fear. Her heels of her practical and comfortable shoes echoed against the pavement, seemingly too loud in the silence. 

Then came the sound of boots behind her, close this time, gravel grinding beneath each step. She turned, and the scream caught in her throat as a strong, vise-like hand closed around her neck. The last thing she saw was a pair of black eyes and a crooked smile cutting across a grotesque appearing face, but she knew him. 

By dawn, the quiet Wabash Street had become a crime scene a washed in blue and red lights. Six-foot four inch Mark Marteau and all of five foot two inches of Agent Anne Murphy stood over the body of a young woman with livid marks around her throat and broken capillaries reddening her eyes. Her long jacket hung open. The front of her business dress had been torn, and the cold air seemed to make the violence against her feel even more deliberate. Crime scene investigators from Spokane’s Major Crimes Unit moved around them with cameras, evidence markers, and clipped voices. 

It was Mark’s fourth homicide case and Anne’s second. He crouched first, scanning for what did not belong. He wore his signature double-breasted charcoal pinstripe suit with brown fedora from a bygone age. Anne had a page boy hair cut that complimented her Navy FBI jacket and dark slacks lowered herself beside him, careful not to crowd the medical examiner. She had once taught literature in a parochial school as Sister Anne. Now she wore an FBI badge and latex gloves, and Mark still had not decided what to do with either fact. Then he noticed the carved reference above the victim’s bra. “Wait,” he said. “Job 9:22?” 

Anne followed his gaze. The medical examiner caught it too and touched the sleeve of the technician taking photographs. “Agent Marteau, it’s a verse from the Bible—from the Book of Job.” 

“Okay, Sister,” Mark said, eyes still on the wound. “What does it mean?” 

She gave him a look over the top of her gloves. “I’m not that anymore, sir. To answer your question, I’ll quote it for you: ‘It is all the same; that is why I say, 

‘He destroys both the blameless and the wicked.’ 

23 When a scourge brings sudden death, 

he mocks the despair of the innocent. 

24 When a land falls into the hands of the wicked, 

he blindfolds its judges. 

If it is not he, then who is it? ‘ 

Mark looked from the verse to his partner. “He’s blaming God?” 

“Job is in despair because his life has fallen into ruin,” Anne said. “He blames God for suffering that feels undeserved.” 

“I know the story—the wager, the test of Job’s righteousness.” Mark straightened slightly, still studying the body. “You think this perp sees himself the same way?” 

Anne nodded. “Maybe. If he believes he has been righteous and still suffered, he may see the world as rigged against him—good and evil punished the same, innocence mocked, judgment blind.” 

“But why her?” Mark wondered. “Could he be mistaking her for a prostitute?” 

“It’s hard to say. This doesn’t match the serial killer the police are looking for. That killer uses a knotted rope, usually targets teenage girls, and has never marked a victim with scripture.” She watched as the medical examiner helped technicians ease the body into a bag and zip it closed. “And these marks are from hands, not rope. Large hands.” 

“Yeah,” Mark replied. “Huge.” The body was lifted onto a gurney and wheeled toward a black panel van marked Spokane Special Crimes in white paint. The rear doors opened, swallowed the stretcher, and closed again. 

“When do we get the autopsy report?” Anne asked as they walked toward the Dodge Intrepid Mark insisted on using. 

“When they call us, I guess.” Mark looked back once at the taped-off street. “Anything else from the initial assessment?” 

“Only that she doesn’t read like a random victim,” Anne said. “She looks like a business professional—maybe even a lawyer. Someone with authority. Someone who could make an enemy.” 

“Targeted, then,” Mark said. “Let’s talk to Howard.” 

“He would know, being a profiler and all,” she replied. She sat in the passenger seat and waited for Mark to get in. “I want to know his thoughts on the Bible verse. That has to be the key to whoever this unsub is.” 

He put the car in drive and steered around the flashing blue and red lights of the Ford Crown Victorias. He seemed to be chewing on what she had said. “It’s personal. He knew her.” 

“It does appear that way. She crossed this person somehow.” 

Mark nodded as he checked his mirrors briefly. “The police have her license. I’ll get her positively identified, find out where she worked, and see whether her job has put her in conflict with anyone recently. If the verse is about blame, then we’re looking for someone who thinks she judged him, failed him, or exposed him.” He glanced at Anne, the sarcasm gone for once. “That was a good catch.” 

“Howard, we need your eyes on something,” Mark said, handing over his notes to the FBI profiler with the wicked mutton chops. “This is what we saw at the scene.” 

Howard accepted the pages and read them at his desk, one finger tapping beside the line about Job 9:22. Chester and Hector were still undercover on another case. “Where’s Anne?” he asked. 

“Restroom,” Mark said. “That Bible verse bothers me.” 

“It should,” he replied in his distinct New England dialect that reminded Mark of Harvard-Yale football games in autumn. Howard looked back at the notes. “A public attack might be opportunistic. A verse carved into flesh is not. That suggests anger with a message attached—punishment, accusation, maybe retribution.” He looked up with a faint smile. “Carol called five minutes before you arrived. She has the same question about the verse. I told her we had someone here who could do more than guess.” 

“Did she disclose the victim’s identity?” 

Howard nodded in the direction of where Anne was returning. “Dr. Susan Clark, a psychoanalyst at Eastern State Hospital. “We were discussing this verse, Agent Murphy.” 

Anne walked in and sat on Hector’s swivel chair. “Job says he is blameless even as disaster overtakes him. Then he turns that despair outward. If the innocent and wicked suffer the same fate, he asks what kind of justice governs the world.” 

Howard nodded slowly. “So, the unsub may identify with Job—not as a sufferer seeking mercy, but as a man insisting he has been wronged.” 

Mark glanced at Anne. “And being as you were a nun…” 

“Former nun,” she corrected. “And yes, I see where you’re going. Job is not simply complaining that life is unfair. He is wrestling with a terrifying idea: that suffering may strike the righteous and wicked alike. A killer could twist that into grievance—if no one is truly protected, then why should he be restrained?” 

“In the story, the test exposes the danger of pride as much as suffering,” Anne continued. “Faith is not supposed to make a person superior to everyone else.” 

“Pride, grievance, entitlement,” Howard said. “That combination can become combustible. A person like that may see himself as blameless in every failure, then assign guilt to anyone who challenges him.” 

“So, is he mentally ill?” Mark asked. 

Howard’s expression tightened. “Maybe. Maybe not. Don’t use diagnosis as a shortcut.” 

“I’m asking whether we should look for a psychiatric history,” Mark said. 

“Before that,” Anne said, “we should not assume the offender is male just because the scene feels brutal.” 

Mark gave her a look. “The handprints say large.” 
“Large does not always mean male,” Anne replied. 
Howard raised a hand before they could keep sparring. “The hand size, force used, and victimology make a male offender more likely, but Anne is right about the principle. We follow indicators, not assumptions. As for mental illness, look for documented crises, threats, medication disruptions, or recent contact with the victim. Do not assume a diagnosis explains violence.” 

“Then what does the verse tell us?” Mark asked. 

Howard leaned back. “That the victim meant something to him. He wanted whoever found her to understand his complaint. He did not just kill her. He argued with her after death.” 

“Can you give us a baseline profile?” Anne asked. 

“A preliminary one,” Howard said. “Likely male, late twenties to mid-thirties, physically strong, and personally connected to the victim. The hand marks suggest size and control. The scripture suggests grievance. The method suggests this was not the serial offender Detective Marcus has been chasing. Her killer wanted contact. He wanted her to know he was there.” 

“She’s still on that guy, ain’t she?” Mark asked. 

“Are those the cold-case murders?” Anne asked. 

“Only the ones involving young girls strangled with a knotted rope,” Howard said. “Different victim type, different method, different message. This scene is personal.” 

“Where do we start?” Mark asked. 

“With her work,” Howard said. “Find out who she treated, opposed, reported, or threatened professionally. If there is a psychiatric history, it only matters if it intersects with Dr. Clark—recent crisis, documented threat, medication lapse, discharge dispute, complaint, anything like that. Detective Anthony is already checking the local side.” 

Mark nodded once. “Then we start with Eastern State.” He looked at Anne. “Come on, Agent Murphy. Let’s take a drive to Medical Lake.” 

Dr. Sullivan received Mark and Anne in an office that looked too orderly for the man sitting behind the desk. Patient files were stacked in precise columns, diplomas hung in heavy frames, and the doctor himself seemed frayed at the edges—red hair thinning, collar tight, fingers worrying the arm of his leather chair. “What can I do for you?” 

“Information,” Mark said. He did not sit right away. Instead, he let his gaze move over the room before returning to Sullivan. “A young woman was murdered in Spokane last night. We’re trying to identify anyone recently connected to her who may have had a grievance.” 

Sullivan’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. “I see. You understand that patient records are protected under HIPAA and state confidentiality laws. Without a court order, warrant, subpoena, or a narrow emergency exception, I cannot disclose patient files. The physician-patient relationship, like attorney-client privilege or clergy-penitent confidentiality, is not something I can disregard because law enforcement asks.” 

“We’re not asking you to disregard it,” Anne said. “We’re asking whether the description means anything to you. The victim appears to have been a professional woman, possibly a doctor or lawyer. The evidence suggests the killer felt personally judged, betrayed, or exposed by her in a professional setting.” She watched his hands instead of his face. “Does that ring any bells?” 

“And if we need a warrant, we’ll get one,” Mark added. “But if a dangerous former patient is walking around because nobody wants to say his name, that becomes a different conversation.” 

A knock struck the door with a loud and urgent rapping. “Come in!” Dr. Sullivan announced. 

A young male nurse entered and leaned close to Sullivan’s ear. Whatever he whispered drained the color from the doctor’s face. 

Sullivan stood too quickly. “I’m afraid this meeting is over, sir, ma’am.” 

“Is there something wrong?” Agent Marteau asked. 

“No,” Sullivan said, but the denial came too fast. “Nothing for you two to concern yourselves with.” 

Anne held his gaze. “Was it about the woman discovered in Spokane near North Perry?” 

“What?” Sullivan’s hand tightened on the back of his chair. “How did you know that?” 

Mark glanced at his partner in surprise. “Who was she?” 

“Dr. Susan Clark,” Sullivan said at last. “She was one of our lead psychiatrists.” He moved to the door and opened it. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” 

“We’ll be back with a warrant,” Mark said as he passed him. 

Sullivan’s grief flared into anger. “Have you no shame? A colleague is dead, and you have the insensitivity to threaten me in my own office?” 

Mark turned back. “I’m going to solve this murder. If it turns out you knew who could have done it and hid behind policy while another victim was at risk, obstruction will be the least of your problems.” He left Sullivan red-faced in the doorway. Anne followed without apologizing for him. Outside, she made sure Mark saw the look on her face. 

“Mark, wait.” She caught up as he shoved through the entry doors into the chill outside. He stopped, impatient and angry. 

“We need the warrant before he locks those files down, sanitizes his notes, or decides what story everyone here is going to tell.” 

“I understand the urgency,” Anne said, keeping her voice level. “But he just learned a colleague is dead. Shock can make people hesitate, not act. We have time to do this properly. If we go in angry and sloppy, he will use that against us.” 

Mark stared toward the hospital entrance, jaw working. “Okay,” he said after a beat. “Properly. But I want Clark’s patient files, complaint notes, and any related recordings before that man has time to breathe on them.” He tossed her the keys. “You drive. I need to draft the affidavit, and have a warrant from our district court judge, Brandon.” 

“Federal court? Mark, this is still a local homicide. Shouldn’t we seek a warrant from a county superior court judge?” 

They switched seats. Mark folded himself into the passenger side and pulled out his BlackBerry. 

“County superior court,” Anne reminded him as she started the car. 

“Yeah,” he said, already stabbing at the tiny screen with the stylus. “You’re right. Superior court. Evidence first, affidavit second, righteous indignation later.” 

Anne pulled into a law-enforcement space outside the courthouse just as Mark sent the last draft of the affidavit from his BlackBerry. He was out of the car before the engine settled, moving with the fixed purpose of a man who believed delay was another suspect. 

“How did you know what the nurse told Sullivan?” he asked. 

Anne kept pace beside him. “I heard him say Susan was dead.” 

“Remind me never to whisper around you.” Mark pushed through the clerk’s office door just as a middle-aged woman with permed brunette hair looked up from the printer. 

“You’re a little early, Agent,” she told him in a midwestern drawl. 

“I was in transit and sent the affidavit less than a minute ago.” Sheila smiled, stamped the paperwork received, and called chambers. 

“It’s Sheila Monroe. I have an affidavit packet for Judge Lee. Thanks.” 

She hung up and pointed down the hall. “His clerk will take it up. You can wait outside chambers.” 

A younger woman appeared, took the affidavit packet, and started toward the stairwell. Mark was already moving. “Let’s go.” 

They climbed to the second floor and stopped at the desk outside a closed door marked Judge Stan Lee. The same clerk glanced up from the packet and smiled. “He’ll see you now, Agent Marteau.” 

“Thanks,” Mark stated as he strolled to the door and knocked. 

“Come in,” an elderly voice called. Mark and Anne entered and closed the door behind them. Judge Lee stood from behind his desk, white shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened. “Agent Marteau. And I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” 

“Agent Anne Murphy, Your Honor.” She shook his hand briefly. 

“East Coast,” he said, hearing it in her voice. “Boston?” 

“Brookline Your Honor.” 

The judge returned to the affidavit. “I went to Harvard Law myself, though long enough ago that I no longer pretend to remember all of it. This is thin, Agent Marteau.” 

“Thin, but focused,” Mark said. “Dr. Clark may have been killed by a patient who believed she wronged him, or she may have uncovered misconduct inside the hospital. Dr. Sullivan’s reaction made him a person of interest, but I’m not asking him to search his office. I’m asking to preserve Clark’s current and recently discharged patient files—treatment notes, discharge objections, complaints, and related recordings—before anything disappears.” 

“I see, and what else are you going to do with those files?” 

Anne stepped in before Mark could oversell it. “Your Honor, the Bible reference and the victimology suggest a personal grievance. Dr. Clark’s current and recently discharged patients are the narrowest place to look for that grievance. If the records show nothing, we stop there. If they show a conflict or documented warning, we come back with more.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “But you just said you suspect another doctor,” he pointedly told Mark. 

“That part isn’t a hunch,” Mark said. “Agent Murphy recognized the reference. The killer marked the victim with Job 9:22.” 

“The entire verse?” the judge asked. 

“No, Your Honor, just where the verse came from,” Anne replied. “Job 9:22, Your Honor.” 

Judge Lee pulled a worn Bible from the corner of his desk and found the passage quickly. His expression changed as he read. “Does Sullivan know about this?” 

“No,” Mark said. “Agent Murphy tested the edges of it, but he didn’t react as if he knew about the verse.” 

Judge Lee closed the Bible and turned back to the affidavit. “I’ll authorize a narrow search of Dr. Clark’s current and recently discharged patient records, including treatment notes, discharge objections, complaint references connected to those patients, and related recordings identified in the affidavit. If this points to Sullivan or anyone beyond that scope, you come back before you broaden the search.” 

He turned the affidavit toward Mark. “Raise your right hand. Do you swear the facts in this affidavit are true to the best of your knowledge and belief?” 

“I do,” Mark replied. 

Judge Lee signed the warrant and slid it across the desk. “Search only for what I authorized. And document your chain of custody,” he added, handing it over. “I do not want to see this case fall apart because someone got enthusiastic.” 

“Understood, Your Honor.” Mark took the signed warrant. Outside chambers, he exhaled for the first time since they had entered. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry. Dolly’s before they close.” 

Anne pressed the elevator button. “Evidence first, lunch second.” 

Back at the office, Anne set the sealed evidence box on her desk as though it contained something fragile. Twenty current and recently discharged patient files sat inside, each one authorized by Judge Lee’s warrant and each one a possible bridge between Susan Clark’s death and the person who had wanted her silenced. 

She opened the first folder—Adams, Aaron—read the intake summary and began marking dates in her small black notebook: admission, discharge, medication changes, Clark’s notes, Sullivan’s signatures. Mark stood over her shoulder, hands in his pockets, watching as if skepticism alone might make the work go faster. 

“We could divide these,” she said without looking up. “Unless you plan to intimidate the files into confessing.” 

“I still think Sullivan is our man,” Mark said. “He reacted like a scared rabbit. Remember that priest at Holy Cross? Just like him.” 

Anne finally looked up. “And you are basing that on your gut?” 

“It has a strong track record.” Mark pulled a folder labeled Clark, William, skimmed the first page, and slid it back into the box. He took Dallas, Roger next, gave it the same impatient treatment, then reached for another while Anne was still building her timeline from the first file. 

“Skimming names is not reviewing evidence,” Anne said. 

“Look, we don’t have all day to map every medication adjustment and margin note.” 

“That is exactly where the motive may be hiding,” she said. “We need to know who Clark thought was unsafe to release, who Sullivan discharged anyway, and whether any of those decisions created complaints against him.” 

Mark paused with one hand on the box. “The most to gain,” he said, more to himself than to her. Then he pulled out his cellphone. “Detective Anthony.” 

“What do you want, Agent Marteau?” Detective Anthony asked, her voice carrying distinctly from Mark’s cellphone. 

“Did you interview Dr. Sullivan?” 

“No, he never came across our radar. Why, what’s up?” 

“Maybe nothing. Maybe the guy just looked guilty because he’s awkward and grieving. But if Clark’s complaints threatened his position, Sullivan had a reason to want her quiet.” 

The line went quiet long enough for Mark to imagine Carol searching her memory for something that would make his suspicion less irritating. 

“Mark, he’s clean. Where are you on those files you got from her office?” 

“Between you and Anne, I can’t seem to enjoy being unreasonable.” 

“Goodbye, Mark.” The line went dead, and Mark folded his phone, disappointment showing on his face. 

When the call ended, Anne returned Adams to the box and drew Howard, John. Howard Jones entered as she opened it, carrying coffee and the look of a man who expected to be entertained. The dwarf hopped up on a swivel chair and sipped from his cup. 

“Is there a problem, Mark?” Howard asked. 

“No,” Mark said, pulling another folder and barely opening it. “I’m just not enjoying the clerical portion of the murder investigation.” 
Anne set her pen down. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, sir.” 

“I’m implying that you still have that Academy glow. Every note matters, every box gets checked, every instructor’s ghost gets a gold star.” 

Howard sipped his coffee. “We all had that glow once. Some of us lost it under paperwork. Others buried it under sarcasm and poor posture.” 

Anne looked at Mark, not Howard. “If I stay on this case, I am going to work it correctly. I’m not going to pretend your instincts outrank evidence because you’re impatient with paper.” 

Mark stared at her, caught between irritation and something too close to respect to admit. Howard’s smile widened. Mark glared at him, then reopened the folder he had just dismissed. “Fine,” he muttered. “Evidence first.” 

The room quieted into the scratch of pens, the whisper of paper, and the occasional clack of a folder returning to the box. Howard took Peppers, Charles Oliver. Anne stayed with John Howard. Mark, grudgingly thorough now, opened Norman, John. 

After several minutes, Mark tapped the folder. “Norman, John. Dr. Clark documented bipolar disorder, recent instability, and improvement while he stayed on Aristada. Sullivan discharged him last week over her written objection.” 

Howard lifted his cup in salute. “Look at that. The file speaks when someone actually reads it.” 

Mark ignored him and kept reading. “Clark wrote that he was improving with medication support but remained vulnerable to decompensation if released without supervision.” 

Anne looked up from John Howard’s file. “If Sullivan released him anyway, then Clark’s note becomes a warning he ignored.” 

“And if Norman deteriorated after release,” Mark said, “Sullivan had a reason to resent the warning. It made him accountable.” 

“There’s your pattern,” Howard said. “Not just who could have killed her. Who benefits if the paper trail disappears.” 

Anne turned John Howard’s file toward them. “Same pattern here. Premature discharge over Clark’s objection, a medication-support concern, and a copy of a complaint against Sullivan. Clark wrote that discharge decisions appeared driven by bed pressure and funding concerns rather than patient stability.” 

Howard set down his coffee. “Two patients, two objections, two complaints.” 

“And one doctor in the middle,” Mark said. 

Anne closed John Howard’s file. “Then we verify before we accuse. We find Norman and Howard, confirm their status, and see whether the files match the people. If Sullivan is manipulating releases, the patients will tell us more than your gut can.” 

Mark checked the address page in Norman’s file. “John Norman is at a halfway house on West Third. Howard is listed at the VA Hospital.” He tapped the folders into a neat stack. “Norman first.” 

They left the cubicle and headed for the elevator bank. “You did good, probie,” Mark said as the doors opened and Hector Gonzales and Chester Smith stepped out in work boots, jeans, and contractor jackets—street clothes for an undercover OSHA assignment tied to a New Jersey construction company. Mark caught himself and added, quieter, “I mean it.” 

“Hey there, Sister,” Hector said warmly to Anne. Then he looked at Mark. “You two find the perp yet?” 

“Maybe,” Mark said, keeping it vague. “Come on.” He stepped into the elevator with Anne, catching Hector’s quizzical expression just before the doors closed. 

“You seemed standoffish,” Anne said. 

Mark shrugged. “He got the construction case with Chester. Mafia ties, OSHA cover, the whole thing. I got patient files and a Bible verse.” 

“Jealousy is one of the deadly sins, Agent Marteau.” 

“It is also human,” Mark grumbled as the elevator opened into the underground garage. He retrieved the keys from Pops and cut a straight line toward the Dodge Intrepid, which sat under the fluorescent lights like it had been waiting for him personally. 

Once they were inside and Mark had started the engine, Anne said, “So it is more about the Mafia connection than the shoddy work practices.” 

Mark stared at her, then nodded once. “Exactly. Hector gets a feather in his cap while I get…” 

“Me?” 

Mark winced. “That came out wrong.” 

“It usually does,” Anne said. “For what it’s worth, Hector did not complain when we worked together last year. He treated me like an agent.” 

“Then why does he get away with calling you Sister?” 

“Because he says it with affection. You say it like a verdict.” Anne looked through the windshield instead of at him. “I am Catholic. I was a nun. I am also your partner. If we’re going to work together, I need you to decide which fact matters most in the field.” 

The halfway house on West Third looked ordinary at first glance: brick walls, narrow front steps, a cement walkway split by weeds. Only the locked wrought-iron gate over the front door suggested how carefully the ordinary had been reinforced. 

Mark pressed the call button beside the gate. “Agent Marteau, FBI. We’re here to speak with one of your residents.” A moment later, the inner door opened and a black-haired woman in scrubs came out with a key ring. She unlocked the gate and gave them a practiced, cautious smile. 

“Who are you here to see?” she asked. 

“John Norman,” Mark replied. 

“Right this way,” she said. “Can you tell me what this is about?” 

“One of his doctors from Eastern State was found murdered,” Anne said. Her eyes moved to the locked gate behind them. “Is that secured all the time?” 

“Yes,” the nurse said. “Most residents are doing better than when they were admitted to Eastern, but some still need structure, medication support, and supervision. The gate protects residents as much as staff or neighbors.” 

“What if there’s a fire?” Mark asked rhetorically. 

“Every bedroom has an emergency window release tied to the smoke detectors and fire alarm,” she said. 

Mark and Anne exchanged a look but let it pass. The nurse stopped outside a closed bedroom door. “This is John’s room.” 

She unlocked it. Inside, John Norman sat on the edge of his bed, rocking forward and back, hands clenched around his knees. “John,” the nurse said in an overly bright voice, “these visitors would like to speak with you.” 

“I need my meds,” John said, the words coming out sharp and frightened. He did not look at the nurse. His vacant gaze settled on Anne. “Hi. I’m John. Do you have my Aristada? It’s the only thing that helps.” 

Anne lowered herself slightly, so she was not looming over him. “When did you last receive it, John?” 

His rocking slowed. “Two days ago? I can’t remember.” 

“He received his dose last night,” the nurse said quickly. “We administered it through the IV we set up.” 

Mark watched John resume rocking. “Is this typical for him?” 

“He can become agitated when routines change,” the nurse said. 

Anne kept her voice gentle. “How was Dr. Clark with you?” 

John blinked several times. “She was okay. I liked her.” 

Mark stepped in carefully. “And Dr. Sullivan?” 

John recoiled so hard the bed frame squeaked. “No, no, no. He wanted me to hurt her, and I told him no.” His eyes snapped to Mark. “I want my meds.” 

The nurse moved between them and John. “That’s enough for now.” 

“Agreed,” Mark said. He and Anne backed out while the nurse closed and locked the door. In the hallway, he looked at Anne. “You have the address for Howard?” 

“VA Hospital,” Anne said. “And I don’t like where this is going.” 

“What could possibly go wrong?” Mark asked, but the joke had less air in it than usual. The nurse led them back outside, unlocked the gate, and let them through. 

On the walkway, Anne stopped. “That was not your gut. That was a witness. John says Sullivan wanted him to hurt Clark, he refused, and now he is deteriorating after release. That makes Sullivan more than negligent.” 

Mark looked back at the locked door. “And you got him to say it without scaring him silent.” He opened the car door. “But Norman’s statement won’t carry this alone. We check Howard. If the pattern repeats, Sullivan’s running out of shadows.” 

“Then why was Norman released at all?” Anne asked when they got in. “He needs a higher level of care. And I do not believe he received that dose last night.” 

Mark said nothing as he drove. He took Third to Spokane Street, then Second toward Lincoln, the city sliding past in blocks of brick, glass, and early-afternoon traffic. By the time the VA Hospital rose ahead on Assembly Boulevard, the silence between them had turned into something heavier than disagreement. 

The VA Hospital’s Acute Psychiatric Unit smelled faintly of disinfectants, coffee, and floor wax. At the reception desk, an auburn-haired woman in casual pants and a floral blouse looked up from her monitor. “Hello. Can I help you?” 

Anne showed her credentials. “We’re here to speak with John Howard. He was recently discharged from Eastern State and transferred here.” 

Recognition crossed the receptionist’s face, followed by something softer and worse. “John Howard,” she said. “I’m sorry. He was found this morning in the parking lot. From what we understand, he made it to the roof and jumped.” She looked from Anne to Mark. “I assumed the police had notified you.” 

Mark’s jaw tightened. “They didn’t.” He swallowed the first thing he wanted to say and forced himself back to the case. “Do you have surveillance covering the unit and roof access?” 

“Yes, but you’ll need a warrant or an authorized request through hospital administration before anyone releases footage.” 

“Then we’ll be back with one,” Anne said. “Please make sure the footage is preserved.” 

They left the hospital without speaking. In the Intrepid, Mark’s cell rang before he had the key fully turned. “Yeah, Howard.” He put the call on speaker and set the phone on the dash. 

“Mark, old boy, I found one more name in the box,” Howard said. “Roger Dallas. His address is uncomfortably close to where Dr. Clark was found—1517 East Decatur. I’ll meet you there.” 

“Howard—” Mark began, but the line was already dead. 

Anne looked toward the hospital entrance receding behind them. “First Norman, then Howard, now Dallas. The file box is becoming a map.” 

Howard was already waiting across from the bungalow on East Decatur when Mark parked. The house sat low behind a weed-thick yard and a chain-link fence. A pit bull threw itself against the gate, barking hard enough to rattle the metal. 

Mark stopped at the curb. “That dog looks personally offended by federal jurisdiction.” 

“Let’s not give him a reason to escalate,” Anne said. Mark’s hand moved near his holster anyway, more reflex than decision, just as a bare-chested man stormed out of the house. 

“Hey, man, what are you doing?” the man shouted. He grabbed the dog’s studded leather collar, dragged the snarling animal inside, and slammed the door before returning to the fence. “He’s just a dog. You don’t need to reach for anything.” 

Howard stepped forward with both hands visible. “Roger Dallas, I presume?” 

“Yeah,” Roger said. Brown hair hung past his shoulders, and gray threaded the edges of his beard. His anger faded as he saw their badges. “What’s this about?” 

The three agents identified themselves. Roger’s face lost color. Howard kept his tone conversational. “We’re looking into what happened near Perry and Wabash last night around eleven. Can you tell us where you were?” 

“Here,” Roger said too quickly. “I was here. That’s a long walk from here, man. I wouldn’t walk all the way down there.” 

Howard tilted his head. “We’d like to ask you more questions downtown. You are not under arrest at this moment. You can decline, and you can stop talking to us unless that changes. If you do choose to speak, lying to federal agents can be a crime.” 

Roger tried to square his shoulders. “What if I don’t want to?” 

Anne’s voice stayed calm. “Then say no. We are merely on a fact-finding investigation and am curious why your name is in her records.” 

His eyes flicked from Anne to Howard. “Fine. But I swear I didn’t do that.” 

“Do what?” Anne asked. 

“Whatever you think happened to Dr. Clark.” 

Mark watched him carefully. “Nobody said her name was Susan Clark.” 

Roger’s mouth opened, then closed. The bravado went out of him. He opened the gate and walked toward Howard’s Crown Victoria without another protest. 

“Before you ride with me,” Howard said, “I’m going to ask for consent to pat you down for weapons. You can still decline to come voluntarily.” He concurred to the pat down, then Howard placed him in hand cuffs before getting inside the car. 

After Howard drove off with Dallas, Mark started the Intrepid. Anne fastened her seat belt. “We still need the VA surveillance.” 

Mark nodded. “Howard dies right after Clark’s complaint exposes his discharge. Dallas lives near the murder scene and knows more than he should. Either someone pushed Howard, talked him into jumping, or used him to erase the trail.” 

“Was Howard documented as a suicide risk?” Anne asked. 

Mark looked over. “How should I know? You’re running the file.” 

“Touché,” she said. “The file noted self-harm connected to schizophrenia, but no prior suicide attempts.” 

“Then someone may have steered him toward the roof,” Mark said. “Maybe literally. Maybe not. Either way, we need that tape.” 

Howard sat in the interview room with city detective Carol Anthony, both positioned across from Roger Dallas without crowding him. Carol wrote steadily in her notebook. Howard wore the mild, almost pleasant expression he used when he wanted a suspect to keep talking. 

Roger kept glancing at the door. “Where are those other two FBI agents?” 

“Following another lead,” Howard said. “Before we begin, you came here voluntarily. You are not under arrest, and unless that changes, you may stop this interview and leave. Do you understand?” 

“Mr. Dallas,” Carol said, “how do you know Dr. Susan Clark?” 

Roger swallowed. “She was the one killed last night, right?” When neither Howard nor Carol answered right away, he leaned forward. “I was her patient at Eastern State. Three years ago, I had an episode after I got hold of some bad dope. I was a mess, and she helped me get straight. I’d do anything for her.” His voice climbed. “But I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t.” 

Howard let the denial hang for a beat. “What size shoe do you wear?” 

“Eleven.” Roger’s eyes moved between them. “Why? Was that the size?” 

Carol glanced at his hands on the table. “And you’re strong enough to handle yourself.” 

“I don’t know what you’re getting at.” He drew his hands back into his lap. “I guess so.” 

“Dr. Clark was strangled by someone who left large hand impressions and a shoe print consistent with that size,” Carol said. Her tone was flat, not accusing, which somehow made it worse. 

“I told you, I didn’t kill her.” Roger’s voice cracked. A knock sounded at the door. Howard stood and opened it. Mark waited outside, nodded once toward Carol, and handed Howard a videocassette. 

Howard closed the door and held up the tape. “VA Hospital surveillance, Mr. Dallas. You still understand that you are here voluntarily and may stop this interview?” 

Roger stared at the cassette. “I wasn’t there last night either.” 

Carol’s pen stopped. “Who said anything about last night?” 

Howard inserted the tape and pressed play. The grainy image showed Roger at the VA Hospital, walking beside John Howard in the corridor. John moved stiffly, his shoulders hunched. Roger guided him toward a stairwell door. The next camera picked them up on the top floor. Roger opened a fire door, followed John outside, then returned alone. The time stamp read 2008 hours. 

Howard stopped the tape. “Eight o’clock. John Howard was found dead the next morning. Tell us what happened on that roof.” 

Roger’s face collapsed. “I was told to take him up there.” 

Carol leaned forward. “Who told you?” 

“Dr. Sullivan,” Roger said. “He said Howard was unstable, that he needed air, that nobody would listen if anything happened because Howard already had a history. He was angry about Dr. Clark filing complaints against him. Said she was ruining everything.” 

Carol closed her notebook. “Roger Dallas, at this point you are under arrest in connection with John Howard’s death. Before we ask anything further, you have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can be used against you in court.” 

“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed before questioning if you want one. Do you understand these rights, and are you willing to continue speaking with us?” 

Roger nodded too quickly. “Yeah. But that’s not all.” 

Howard’s voice softened. “Then tell us carefully.” 

“Can I sit down?” Roger asked, as if only then realizing he had half risen from the chair. 

“Sit,” Carol said. “Then start with Sullivan.” 

Roger dropped back into the chair. “He was releasing people too early and cutting off medication support, so they’d crash and come back through the system. More admissions, more funding, more control. At least that’s what he told me.” 

“Why would he tell you that?” Carol asked. 

Roger looked down at the table. “Because I found out. Dr. Clark told me enough to understand she was filing another complaint. I told Sullivan what she knew, thinking maybe I could get money out of him to keep quiet. Then everything got worse. If you want to know who had a reason to want Dr. Clark gone, look across the hall from her office.” 

After Carol took Roger Dallas out to be booked, Howard returned to the bullpen, where Mark and Anne were waiting at their desks. Neither had to ask whether Dallas had talked. 

“Sullivan is at the center,” Howard said. “Not as cleanly as Mark wanted, but more solidly than we had an hour ago. Dallas puts Sullivan near John Howard’s death, confirms the pressure Clark was documenting, and gives the DA a witness who can explain why those complaints mattered.” The landline at Mark’s desk rang, and Mark lifted a hand for Howard to stop. “Agent Marteau. Hector? Hang on—I’m putting you on speaker.” 

“Y’all hear me okay?” Hector asked. 

“Yes, yes, dear boy. What have you got?” 

“We’re at this watering hole not far from the site. There’s an intoxicated guy here making all kinds of claims about how some doctor hired him to hurt some woman. It sounds like the case you guys are working on.” 

“Where are you exactly?” 

“Solicitors’ Inn,” Hector replied before hanging up. 

Howard’s expression sharpened. “Bring him in. I’ll start the next warrant packet for Sullivan’s complaint records and related communications. If Dr. Clark documented motive, we need the court to let us collect it cleanly.” 

Mark and Anne were already moving toward the elevator. Howard watched the doors close behind them, then picked up the phone and called Judge Lee’s chambers. “Your Honor, I believe we need another warrant. I’ll be by in twenty minutes with the affidavit. Thank you.” 

The Solicitors’ Inn looked too polished for the man shouting near the bar. Brass fixtures gleamed under warm pendant lights, lawyers and contractors nursed drinks in expensive shirts, and a black-haired man with glassy eyes was daring three construction workers to make the mistake of taking him seriously. Hector and Chester were nowhere in sight. 

“I was a merchant marine,” the man announced, swaying as he jabbed a finger at the nearest worker. “One of the toughest men alive. I’ll take all of you on.” His bravado collapsed into a sudden, twitchy grin. “Anybody holding? I need something to take the edge off.” The workers exchanged looks but kept their hands around their beers. 

Mark approached with his badge already visible. “Sir, I need you to step outside and talk with us.” He took the man lightly by the elbow, guiding rather than dragging him toward the door. The spring day had cooled into a sharp evening, wind moving along the sidewalk as the bar noise fell behind them. 

“Where are you taking me?” the man snapped, pulling against Mark’s grip. “I was having fun with those clowns.” He slapped at Mark’s hand, then swung wildly—one punch toward Mark’s ribs, another toward his face. 

Mark moved inside the second punch, turned his hips, and took him down onto the asphalt with practiced efficiency. He pinned one wrist, brought the other behind the man’s back, and secured the cuffs just as a patrol car rolled to the curb. “You’re under arrest for assaulting a federal agent,” Mark said, breathing hard but keeping his voice even. 

The patrol officer stepped out. “You want me to transport him?” 

“FBI headquarters,” Mark said. “We’ll follow.” He gave the officer the man’s name once he had it, then straightened his pin-striped suit and reset his fedora with more dignity than the moment deserved. 

Anne watched the patrol car pull away. “Are you hurt?” 

“Pride, maybe.” Mark brushed grit from his sleeve. “He telegraphed the punch from a mile away.” 

“Did you notice his face before he swung?” 

“I noticed his fist.” 

“His expression was vacant, and his thoughts were jumping all over the place,” Anne said. “He may be in the middle of a psychotic episode.” 

Mark looked toward the departing patrol car. “If he talks, we may finally know how Sullivan connects to Clark’s murder.” 

“Not if he can’t understand what he’s saying,” Anne replied. 

Mark started to argue, then stopped at the look on her face. “You’re going to tell me this is where the case dies if we get impatient.” 

“This is where the case survives if we do it correctly,” she said. “A qualified clinician needs to assess whether he understands his rights and can participate meaningfully before anyone questions him. If we push him while he’s actively psychotic, anything he says may be unreliable and may not survive a suppression hearing.” 

“Dr. Sullivan?” Mark offered weakly. 

Anne stared at him. 

“Bad joke,” he said. 

“There’s Frontier Mental Health,” Mark said, more serious now. “I’ll get one of their clinicians to evaluate whether he understands what is happening and whether we can ask him anything at all. Ethically and legally.” 

Anne studied him for a moment, deciding whether to believe it. “Good.” 

Mark got into the driver’s seat and started the car. For once, he did not fill the silence. Anne sat beside him, watching the patrol car’s taillights turn toward the federal building, and the space between them felt less like argument than warning. 

Anne found Dr. Randy Dunlap from Frontier Mental Health in the observation gallery. He was short, bespectacled, and careful in the way he studied the man pacing inside the interview room, as if every movement mattered. “Name?” he asked. 

“Peppers, Charles Oliver,” Anne said. Through the glass, Peppers seized a chair and hurled it at the two-way mirror. The impact cracked through the gallery like a gunshot. 

“Get me out of here!” Oliver screamed, grabbing another chair. 

Dunlap did not flinch, but his mouth tightened. “He is highly agitated.” 

“Can you assess him?” Anne asked. 

“Only enough to determine whether questioning should happen at all.” 

Anne kept her eyes on Charles. “He may be connected to Dr. Clark’s murder.” 

“Then we proceed carefully,” Dunlap said. “If he is actively psychotic, disorganized, or unable to understand his rights, any statement may be unreliable and legally vulnerable. First priority is safety. Second is capacity. Homicide questions come last.” 

“Thank you, Doctor.” Anne left the gallery and found Mark at his desk. “Dr. Dunlap will assess him first. This is not attention-seeking, Mark. He is in crisis, and if we mishandle him, anything useful he says may be worthless.” 

Mark opened his mouth with the wrong answer already forming, then stopped. He rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know what to do with people like him,” he admitted. “You and Dunlap handle Oliver. I’ll take Sullivan when Howard gets back. We compare notes in twenty.” 

Anne hesitated. “This is about more than Peppers, isn’t it?” 

Mark looked away. “My mother dropped dead from a heart attack. No warning. My father, I understood—he’d had one before, then had open-heart surgery. But Mom was healthy. Even with bad knees, she walked the neighborhood every morning with her friend Alice.” 

“You still look for a reason,” Anne said. 

“Maybe.” He straightened as voices sounded down the hall. “They’re here. Go talk to Oliver. You’re better suited for that room than I am. I’ll talk to Sullivan. Then we put the pieces together.” 

Anne returned to the interview room with Dr. Dunlap and a uniformed FBI security officer waiting outside the door. She unlocked it, felt the old instinct to say a prayer, and let it settle into steadiness instead. When she stepped inside, her voice carried the authority of both an agent and a former teacher. “Mr. Peppers. Sit down, please.” 

Charles spun toward her. “Where’s the man who threw me down? I want him. I can bench eight hundred pounds. My hands are lethal weapons.” 

“Then keep them on the table,” Anne said. “This is Dr. Dunlap. He is here to make sure you understand what is happening.” 

Oliver righted a chair with one jerky motion and sat. “I understand plenty.” 

Dunlap sat across from him at an angle rather than directly opposite. “Charles, can you tell me where you are right now?” 

“FBI building,” Oliver said. “Because the little man in the hat got scared.” 

Anne opened a folder but did not look down at it. “Before anyone asks about what happened, I need to advise you of your rights. You have the right to remain silent. If you choose to speak, anything you say can be used against you in court. You have the right to an attorney, and if you cannot afford one, one will be provided before questioning if you want one. Do you understand?” 

Oliver laughed once, too loudly. “Everybody says that part.” 

Dunlap leaned in slightly. “Tell me what it means in your own words.” 

Oliver’s grin sharpened. “Means I can shut up if I want. Means I can get a lawyer if I want. But I don’t need one.” 

Dunlap gave Anne the smallest nod. She accepted it without changing expression. 

Anne kept her voice neutral. “Do you believe you are blameless, Charles?” 

Oliver’s eyes brightened. “You read the Bible too. I knew you would. That verse was perfect for her.” 

“Why was it perfect?” Anne asked. 

“Because she thought she could judge him,” Oliver said. “She thought she could judge my father. But I am Jeremiel. I was given permission to punish the treacherous.” 

Dunlap’s voice stayed even. “Who is your father?” 

“Samuel Sullivan,” Oliver said reverently. “That is his earthly name.” 

Anne let the silence stretch. “Did Dr. Sullivan tell you to kill Dr. Clark?” 

Oliver blinked, suddenly puzzled by the simplicity of the question. “No. I did it for him. To please him.” 

Anne closed the folder. “We’re done for now. Dr. Dunlap will arrange a secure mental health hold, and the court will order full competency and criminal responsibility evaluation. Charles, do not speak to anyone else about this without an attorney present.” 

Dr. Sullivan sat between Mark and Howard in the interview room; his hands folded too neatly on the table. The careful doctor from Eastern State had returned, but the sweat at his hairline betrayed him. Mark opened the folder slowly. “We have questions about your relationship with Dr. Clark.” 

Howard set a copy of the complaint log beside the folder. “She filed several complaints against you, Doctor. Not one. Several.” 

Sullivan looked at the paper without touching it. “Professional disagreements are not crimes.” 

“Then explain one,” Howard said. “Pick the least damaging.” 

Sullivan exhaled through his nose. “Dr. Clark preferred keeping certain patients in our facility longer than I believed was clinically or administratively advisable. Long-term placement is expensive. Beds are limited. Every decision has consequences.” 

Mark leaned back as if considering it. “That sounds reasonable.” 

Sullivan looked up too quickly. “It does?” 

“Sure,” Mark said. “You run out of beds; you move people along. Oliver, Norman, Howard—hard cases. If they crash later, that’s unfortunate, but maybe not your problem. Maybe Clark was making your job impossible by writing down every warning.” 

Howard gave Mark a measured look, playing his part. “Agent Marteau, that is not how clinical responsibility works.” 

Mark ignored him and kept his attention on Sullivan. “But that’s the pressure, right? Budgets, beds, oversight, Clark filing complaint after complaint. She made you look careless. Maybe even dangerous.” 

“No,” Sullivan said, but the word lacked force. “I was trying to get them placed elsewhere. The system is overburdened. I did what I could.” 

“Except the records show medication support was interrupted after discharge,” Mark said. “Norman deteriorated. Howard died. Dallas says you knew Clark was documenting the pattern. Oliver calls you his father. That’s not an overburdened system, Doctor. That’s a trail.” 

Howard slid another page forward. “This complaint is about medication continuity. This one is about premature discharge. This one names Oliver specifically. Dr. Clark believed your decisions created foreseeable risk.” 

Sullivan stared at the page. “She misunderstood the pressures.” 

“She understood them well enough to put your name on paper,” Mark said. “That made her dangerous to you.” 

“It was a professional disagreement,” Sullivan said again, but now it sounded rehearsed. 

Mark closed the folder. “No. A professional disagreement ends in a meeting, a memo, maybe a lawsuit. This ended with Susan Clark dead, John Howard on the pavement, Norman destabilized, Dallas ready to testify, and Oliver calling you his father.” He stood. “Dr. Samuel Sullivan, you are under arrest on probable cause for obstruction, witness tampering, reckless endangerment, and conspiracy related to Susan Clark’s death. The DA will decide whether the evidence supports a homicide charge.” 

Sullivan’s composure finally cracked. “I never told him to kill her.” The room went still. Mark and Howard exchanged a glance. Sullivan seemed to hear himself a second too late. “I mean—I did no such thing. My lawyers will have your jobs.” Mark advised him of his rights while Howard cuffed him. Together they walked him to a holding cell on the lower level near the parking garage, a cinder-block wall separating custody from the ordinary traffic of the building. 

After the arraignments, Mark sat at his desk with Anne’s interview notes in front of him. “Oliver said Sullivan didn’t order the murder,” he said. The frustration was still there, but he held it in check. “Tell me exactly what he said.” 

Howard leaned against the edge of Mark’s desk. “Whether Sullivan directly ordered Oliver to kill her or cultivated the conditions that led to it, the case is no longer a hunch. Dallas ties him to Howard’s death. Norman says Sullivan urged him to hurt Clark. Peppers believed he was acting to please him. And Clark’s complaints give us motive, notice, and a paper trail.” 

Mark rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “So maybe not a clean murder charge.” 

“Maybe not clean,” Howard said. “But clean was never what Sullivan gave us. He released patients in crisis over documented objections, disrupted medication support, and tried to turn their deterioration into cover. The DA can decide what sticks. The medical board will do its own damage. Either way, Clark’s records make sure he cannot call this a misunderstanding anymore.” 

Anne looked toward the sealed evidence boxes near Howard’s desk. The verse, the complaints, the premature releases, the interrupted medication, and the damaged people Sullivan had tried to use all pointed in the same direction now. It was not as clean as a confession, and it would not bring Susan Clark back, but it was finally a case built on more than instinct. 

For Anne, that mattered. Job had cried out against a world where the blameless and the wicked seemed to suffer alike. Susan Clark had tried to draw a line between care and convenience, between treatment and disposal, and someone had decided that made her dangerous. The law could not answer every theological question carved into her skin, but it could still follow the evidence she left behind. 

Mark stood beside Anne without speaking. For once, he did not rush to fill the silence with sarcasm. He looked at the boxes, then at her notebook, then at the verse she had copied hours earlier. Whatever justice came next would be imperfect, argued over by lawyers and doctors and judges, but it would begin with the thing she had insisted on from the start. 

“Evidence first,” Anne stated. “But I am satisfied with the outcome.” 

Mark gave her the smallest nod. “Evidence first,” he repeated. “Me too.” 

end