The home where Sam directed me was on a cul-de-sac that backed up to greenbelt. Only three immense houses shared the little horseshoe-shaped street. When I arrived, though, it seemed as if the three families were sharing their quiet road with most of the law enforcement community of the City of Boulder. I was forced to park over half a block away on the closest cross street before I meandered over to try to track down Sam.

I joined a throng of neighborhood gawkers at a deep perimeter marked off at the end of the cul-de-sac by crime scene tape. Microwave trucks from the Denver TV stations were already setting up nearby for live remotes. As I approached the perimeter, I tried to be certain none of the news cameras were pointing my way.

Judging from the activity level that was apparent, the crime, whatever it was, was serious and had taken place in the middle of the three houses. The stately front door of the mansion faced the mountains; its backyard would welcome tomorrow’s sunrise.

My first goal was to find a Boulder cop walking the perimeter with a clipboard. There would be no getting inside the tape to find Sam unless I found whomever had been assigned to control access to the scene.

A uniformed patrol officer in his late twenties spotted me heading his way at the same time I recognized that he was the likely gatekeeper. He raised his chin a centimeter or two, and I thought he looked like he was preparing to repel me from the scene with gusto.

I smiled in an ingratiating manner and said, “Hello, Officer. I’m Dr. Gregory; I’m looking for Detective Purdy, Sam Purdy. I would be very grateful if you get him word that I’ve arrived. He’s expecting me.”

“Just a sec.” He glanced down at the board and found something with his index finger. “Are you Dr. Alan Gregory, by any chance?”

“Yes, I am.”

“May I see some ID please, sir?”

I dug my psychologist’s license from my wallet. I could have used my driver’s license for identification, but never in my professional life had I a reason or opportunity to show someone my psychologist’s license, so I thought I would take advantage of this one.

He examined the flimsy little paper card as though he’d never seen one before, which I was sure was the case.

Finally he checked his watch and said, “Come on inside. He’s waiting for you.”

I said, “Thanks,” and ducked under the crime-scene tape. I turned back to him and asked, “What’s going on over there? What happened?”

“I thought you knew. Some doctor ate his gun. Let’s go. I’ll escort you over.”

I had spent a brief but memorable period of time as a paid consultant to the Boulder County Coroner a few years back. My supervisor then had been a man named Scott Truscott. His was the first face I recognized as the officer walked me up a wide herringboned brick driveway.

“Scott? It’s Alan Gregory. How are you?”

He looked up, and he looked surprised. “Alan? Hi. They call you in on this?” He had been standing near one of the three garage doors. He took a few long strides my way, down the driveway. The officer left us, returning to his post on the perimeter.

I shook my head. “No. Sam Purdy and I are going to the Avs game tonight. I’m just picking him up here. You’ve been inside already?”

“Yeah. I’m done for now. The coroner is going to have his hands full for a while, though, with this post. You’re really going to see Gretzky and Sandstrom tonight? Damn, wish I had tickets for this one.”

Scott wanted to talk hockey, while I was getting more curious about the size of the response to this crime scene. I figured a quarter of the investigative resources of the police department were on this block. “So, you’ve been here a while? This is just about wrapped up?”

“This? Body was discovered right after lunch, I think. Lost some time getting a warrant. But this isn’t wrapped up. No. Not by a long shot. I have a feeling this one’ll have legs.”

“The cop at the perimeter said it was a doctor. Is it a physician? What, suicide?”

Scott picked at an uneven cuticle on the index finger of his left hand and then examined the other nine for flaws. He seemed to be making a judgment about the nature of my curiosity. He said, “Yes. Yes. No.”

I looked for a smile. There wasn’t one. “No? It’s not suicide?”

“I’m not even close to being prepared to recommend a determination of manner to the coroner, Alan. But it doesn’t look like any gunshot suicide I’ve ever seen. The scene is upside-down and backwards. My gut says it’ll take a lot of investigating and a lot of interviews and a lot of forensics to sort this out.”

I was surprised. Scott Truscott was a seasoned medical investigator and read the vagaries of death scenarios better than I read MMPI results. I said, “Really? The cop at the perimeter said he ate his gun. He made it sound, well, straightforward.”

Scott was not known for talking out of school, and he was apparently done sharing his secrets with me about this death. He shrugged. “It may have looked that way when the first officers arrived, but it doesn’t look that way now.” He shook his head and glanced at his watch. “Remember JonBenet? Things aren’t always as they seem. Listen, I have to run. I’m sure Sam Purdy will tell you more than I will.”

Scott took two steps toward his coroner’s van before he stopped and turned. “You wouldn’t know of anyone who has any other tickets available, would you? I mean, for the Rangers game tonight?”

“We’re using Sam’s tickets, Scott, not mine. I don’t know. I’ll ask him if he has any extras. Can he reach you on your pager?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

I figured Sam had the unused ticket for the third seat with him in his pocket. I didn’t know whether he wanted Scott Truscott to sit in that seat. Sam seemed to like to use it as a coat rack and as a place to hold his food.

As I made my way from the driveway to the front porch I ran into Mitchell Crest, the chief trial deputy of the DA’s office, Lauren’s colleague. “Hi, Mitchell. Stop here on your way home?”

He wasn’t as surprised to see me as Scott Truscott, but I didn’t feel he was pleased, either. “Hello, Alan. I wish. What are you doing here? How did you get inside the tape?”

“Everyone keeps asking me that. I’m just running a taxi service, looking for Sam Purdy. He and I have plans in Denver tonight.”

Mitchell nodded as if he didn’t really believe me. Lauren did the same thing sometimes. I suspected there were advance seminars on the technique in law school.

“I just saw him in there. I don’t think he’s quite done inside.”

“I’ll wait, I guess. Who’s the dead doctor?” I was afraid it was someone I knew.

He furrowed his brow, snapped his finger. “Edward Robilio. Dr. Edward Robilio.”

I shrugged. I had never heard the name. “I don’t know him. Does he practice here in town?”

“I only knew him as Ed from the homeowners’ association. He’s the past president, ran the meetings like a parliamentarian from the Weimar Republic. He had this obsessive thing about wanting to revoke the covenant that prohibits parking an RV on your own property in the neighborhood. He owns this cream-and-peach-colored Holiday Rambler that’s the size of a Greyhound bus. But yes, he’s a physician, although I don’t think he practices anymore. He’s a businessman of some kind. Something to do with health insurance.”

“I’m sorry if I was flippant, Mitchell. I didn’t know you knew him.”

“It’s all right. We were acquaintances, not friends. I actively supported keeping the RV parking ban. Ed took that personally, figured it made me a jerk.”

“What exactly is a Holiday Rambler? That’s an RV, like a Winnebago?”

Mitchell smiled. “Not exactly. Hearing you say that would probably make Ed turn over in his grave, if he was in one yet. Apparently, Ford is to Mercedes-Benz as Winnebago is to Holiday Rambler.”