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challenging.
    Running one hand through his sun-bleached hair, Harker said, “Looks to me like whoever has point position on this is walking a high wire. One mistake on a case this high profile, the media will flush your career down the toilet.”
    â€œIf that means cooperation instead of competition,” Michael said, “we accept.”
    Carson wasn’t as ready as Michael to forgive the toe-tramping they had received from these two, but she said, “Who’s the vic?”
    â€œNight security man,” Harker said.
    While Frye remained behind, Harker ducked under the yellow tape and led them to the end of the aisle, around the corner to another long row of stacks.
    The end-stack sign declared ABERRANT PSYCHOLOGY. Thirty feet away, the dead man lay on his back on the floor. The victim looked like a hog halfway through a slaughterhouse.
    Carson entered the new aisle but did not proceed into the blood spatter, leaving the wet zone unspoiled for CSI.
    As she quietly sized the scene and tried to fit her-self to it, planning the approach strategy, Harker said from behind her, “Looks like he cracked the breastbone neat as a surgeon. Went in there with complete professionalism. The guy travels with tools.”
    Moving to Carson’s side, Michael said, “At least we can rule out suicide.”
    â€œAlmost
looks
like suicide,” Carson murmured thoughtfully.
    Michael said, “Now, let’s remember the fundamentals of this relationship.
You
are the straight man.”
    â€œThere was a struggle,” Harker said. “The books were pulled off the shelves.”
    About twenty books were scattered on the floor this side of the dead man. None was open. Some were in stacks of two and three.
    â€œToo neat,” she said. “This looks more like someone was
reading
them, then set them aside.”
    â€œMaybe Dr. Jekyll was sitting on the floor, researching his own insanity,” Michael conjectured, “when the guard discovered him.”
    â€œLook at the wet zone,” Carson said. “Tightly contained around the body. Not much spatter on the books. No signs of struggle.”
    â€œNo struggle?” Harker mocked. “Tell that to the guy without a heart.”
    â€œHis piece is still in his holster,” Carson said. “He didn’t even draw, let alone get off a shot.”
    â€œChloroform from behind,” Michael suggested.
    Carson didn’t respond at once. During the night, madness had entered the library, carrying a bag of surgical tools. She could hear the soft footsteps of madness, hear its slow soft breathing.
    The stench of the victim’s blood stirred in Carson’s blood a quivering current of fear. Something about this scene, something she could not quite identify, was extraordinary, unprecedented in her experience, and so unnatural as to be almost
super
natural. It spoke first to her emotions rather than to her intellect; it teased her to see it, to know it.
    Beside her, Michael whispered, “Here comes that old witchy vision.”
    Her mouth went dry with fear, her hands suddenly icy. She was no stranger to fear. She could be simultaneously afraid but professional, alert and quick. Sometimes fear sharpened her wits, clarified her thinking.
    â€œLooks more,” she said at last, “as if the vic just laid down there and waited to be butchered. Look at his face.”
    The eyes were open. The features were relaxed, not contorted by terror, by pain.
    â€œChloroform,” Michael suggested again.
    Carson shook her head. “He was awake. Look at the eyes. The cast of the mouth. He didn’t die unconscious. Look at the hands.”
    The security guard’s left hand lay open at his side, palm up, fingers spread. That position suggested sedation before the murder.
    The right hand, however, was clenched tight. Chloroformed, he would have relaxed the fist.
    She jotted down these observations in her notebook and then