Giving up after a third try, Calhoun went downstairs and wandered into the convenience store where he bought himself a fresh pack of Antonio y Cleopatra cigars.

"I'm looking for Clyde Devonshire," he told the clerk.

"He went out early," the clerk said. "He probably went to work; he works lots of weekends. He's a nurse at the hospital."

"What time does he usually return?" Calhoun asked.

"He gets back about three-thirty or four unless he does an evening shift."

On his way out, Calhoun slipped back up the stairs and rang Devonshire's bell yet again. When there was still no response, he tried the door. It opened in.

"Hello!" Calhoun called out.

One of the benefits of not being on the police force any longer was that he didn't have to concern himself with the niceties of legal searches and probable cause. With no compunction whatsoever, he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him.

The apartment was cheaply furnished but neat. Calhoun found himself in the living room. On the coffee table he discovered a stack of newspaper clippings on Jack Kevorkian, the notorious "suicide" doctor in Michigan. There were other editorials and articles about assisted suicide.

Calhoun smiled as he remembered telling David and Angela that some strange things would pop up about their tattooed group. Calhoun thought that assisted suicide and euthanasia shared some areas of commonality and that David might like to have a chat with Clyde Devonshire.

Calhoun pushed open the bedroom door. This room, too, was neat. Going over to the bureau he scanned the articles on top, looking for photographs. There were none. Opening the closet Calhoun found himself staring at a collection of bondage paraphernalia, mostly items in black leather with stainless steel rivets and chains. On a shelf were stacks of accompanying magazines and videotapes.

As Calhoun closed the door, he wondered what the background computer search would uncover on this weirdo.

Moving through the rest of the apartment, Calhoun continued to search for photos. He was hoping to find one with Clyde displaying his tattoos. There were a number of photos attached to the refrigerator door with tiny magnets, but nobody in the pictures had any visible tattoos. Calhoun didn't even know which of the people photographed was Clyde.

Calhoun was about to return to the living room and go through the desk that he'd seen when he heard a door slam below, followed by footfalls on the stairs.

For an instant, Calhoun was afraid of being caught trespassing. He considered making a run for it, but then, instead of trying to flee, he went to the front door and pulled it open, startling the person who was about to open it from the other side.

"Clyde Devonshire?" Calhoun asked sharply.

"Yeah," Clyde said. "What the hell is going on?"

"My name is Phil Calhoun," Calhoun said. He extended a business card toward Clyde. "I've been waiting for you. Come on in."

Clyde shifted the parcel he was carrying to take the card.

"You're an investigator?" Clyde asked.

"That's right," Calhoun said. "I was a state policeman until the governor decided I was too old. So I've taken up investigating. I've been sitting here waiting for you to get home so I could ask you some questions."

"Well, you scared the crap out of me," Clyde admitted. He put a hand to his chest and sighed with relief. "I'm not used to coming home and finding people in my apartment."

"Sorry," Calhoun said. "I suppose I should have waited on the stairs."

"That wouldn't have been comfortable," Clyde said. "Sit down. Can I offer you anything?"

Clyde dumped his parcel on the couch, then headed into the kitchen. "I've got coffee, pop, or…"

"Have any beer?" Calhoun asked.

"Sure," Clyde called.

While Clyde got beer from the refrigerator, Calhoun took a peek inside the brown bag Clyde had come in with. Inside were videos similar in theme to those Calhoun had discovered in the closet.

Clyde came back into the living room carrying two beers. He could tell Calhoun had looked into his parcel. Putting the beers onto the coffee table, Clyde picked up the bag and carefully closed the top.

"Entertainment," Clyde explained.

"I noticed," Calhoun said.

"Are you straight?" Clyde asked.

"I'm not much of anything anymore," Calhoun said. He eyed his host. Clyde was around thirty. He was of medium height and had brown hair. He looked like he would have made a good offensive end in high-school football.

"What kind of questions did you want to ask me?" Clyde said. He handed a beer to Calhoun.

"Did you know Dr. Hodges?" Calhoun asked.

Clyde gave a short, scornful laugh. "Why on earth would you be investigating that detestable figure out of ancient history?"

"Sounds like you didn't think much of him."

"He was a tight-assed bastard," Clyde said. "He had an old-fashioned concept of the role of the nurse. He thought we were lowly life forms who were supposed to do all the dirty work and not question doctors' orders. You know, be seen but not heard. Hodges would have seemed outdated to Clara Barton."

"Who was Clara Barton?" Calhoun asked.

"She was a battlefield nurse in the Civil War," Clyde said. "She also organized the Red Cross."

"Do you know who killed Dr. Hodges?" Calhoun asked.

"It wasn't me, if that's what you're thinking," Clyde said. "But if you find out, let me know. I'd love to buy the man a beer."

"Do you have a tattoo?" Calhoun asked.

"I sure do," Clyde said. "I have a number of them."

"Where?" Calhoun asked.

"You want to see them?" Clyde asked.

"Yes," Calhoun said.

Grinning from ear to ear, Clyde undid his cuffs and took off his shirt. He stood up and assumed several poses as if he were a bodybuilder. Then he laughed. He had a chain tattooed around each wrist, a dragon on his right upper arm, and a pair of crossed swords on his pectorals above each nipple.

"I got these swords in New Hampshire while I was in high school," he said. "The rest I got in San Diego."

"Let me see the tattoos on your wrists," Calhoun said.

"Oh, no," Clyde said as he slipped his shirt back on. "I don't want to show you everything the first time. You won't come back."

"Do you ski?" Calhoun asked.

"Occasionally," Clyde said. Then he added, "You sure do jump all over the map with your questions."

"Do you own a ski mask?" Calhoun asked.

"Everybody who skis in New England has a ski mask," Clyde said. "Unless they're masochists."

Calhoun stood up. "Thanks for the beer," he said. "I've got to be on my way."

"Too bad," Clyde said. "I was just starting to enjoy myself."

Calhoun descended the stairs, went outside, and climbed into his truck. He was glad to get out of Clyde Devonshire's apartment. The man was definitely unusual, maybe even bizarre. The question was, could he have killed Hodges? Somehow, Calhoun didn't think so. Clyde might be weird, but he seemed forthright. Yet the chains tattooed on each wrist bothered Calhoun, especially since he'd not had a chance to examine them closely. And he wondered about the man's interest in Kevorkian. Was it idle curiosity or the interest of a sort of kindred spirit? For now, Clyde would remain a suspect. Calhoun was eager to see what the background computer check would bring up on him.

Calhoun checked his list. The next name was Joe Forbs. The address was near the college, not too far from the Gannons'.

At Forbs' house, a thin, nervous woman with gray-streaked hair opened the door a crack when Calhoun knocked. Calhoun introduced himself and produced his card. The woman wasn't impressed. She was more New England-like than Clyde Devonshire: tight-lipped and not too friendly.

"Mrs. Forbs?" Calhoun asked.

The woman nodded.

"Is Joe at home?"