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Broslin Medical Center in ten minutes, an old strip mall that had been converted into various doctors’ offices two years ago when the owner decided to give the property a face-lift. The new setup drew a better clientele than the tattoo parlor and the pawnshop had. The previously empty spaces were filling up too, only three remaining empty.
    They parked in front of Suite 1025. No other cruisers yet. Before business hours, only half a dozen cars stood scattered around in front of the various doctors’ suites.
    Neither Joe nor the captain rushed. Noticing the details was more important at this stage. You never got a second chance to get a first impression of your crime scene.
    Philip Brogevich, MD the brass plate announced discreetly next to the entry, then below that, Psychiatrist . The handicap ramps were new, a sign on the railings warning that the paint was fresh. The door stood half-open.
    Joe glanced up and around. The pawnshop’s security cameras had been removed when the building was renovated. Either Philip hadn’t gotten around to putting new ones up yet, or he hadn’t thought he would need that kind of security in Broslin.
    The captain strode in, and Joe followed him into the reception area where the receptionist sobbed, standing by her desk, wringing her hands as she spotted them. Doris Paffrah was in her late fifties, a grandmother of six, widow of a local fireman, the type who was first to offer help if anyone needed it.
    She gestured with a limp, helpless hand toward the half-open door that led to the office. “He’s—he’s—” She sobbed again, unable to finish, and the knot inside Joe’s stomach grew harder.
    He took her by the arm. “Why don’t you sit down, Mrs. Paffrah? We’re here now. We’ll take care of it.” He grabbed a cup of water from the water cooler and handed it to her before stepping after Bing.
    Oh hell. Joe stopped on the threshold, rubbed a hand over his eyes as he took in the scene before him.
    Phil sprawled on the floor on his back, blood covering his head. A single deathblow, judging by the damage, delivered with a blunt object.
    Sorrow hit, a sharp jab of grief. What a terrible waste of a life, of a decent man who deserved better. No matter how long he’d be a cop, Joe didn’t think he’d ever get used to senseless violence—an affront to him, always personal. This was his town, the people he had sworn to protect and serve.
    An antique black Bakelite desk phone lay in the corner, covered in blood. “Looks like we have the murder weapon.” Joe scanned the phone, then looked back at Phil.
    His friend had gained a good twenty pounds since they’d played on the high school football team together. He had a receding hairline now and circles under his eyes. Probably because he wasn’t getting much sleep with the new baby. Joe had vaguely noticed those things when they’d had a beer the other night, but now everything came into sharper focus as he catalogued the crime scene in his mind. He stepped forward. “Fresh clothes.”
    The captain liked to talk cases out. He believed it made investigators think more clearly. So Joe followed with, “He didn’t spend the night at the office. Had just come in when he was attacked. Suit and tie neat, shoelaces tied in tidy loops. Doesn’t look like he rushed or was particularly upset when he dressed this morning. He didn’t know he was walking into trouble.”
    He glanced toward the back door patients used to leave after their sessions so they wouldn’t run into the next patient waiting at the reception, avoiding any awkwardness. Open or locked? Better not touch the knob until it’d been dusted for fingerprints.
    The captain straightened. “The coroner will determine time of death, but I’d say he was killed within the last hour or so.”
    “Looks like it.” The blood hadn’t coagulated yet. “Office hours are from nine to four. It’s eight thirty now. If he’s been dead for the past hour, that means he was killed around