Fucking amateurs. They’d done some decent work with the physical evidence, but they couldn’t see the big picture. Couldn’t see the connections. Didn’t understand a mind like Ron Corbett’s. How old was that investigator, Ramsey, anyway? Maybe thirty, tops. Probably still chugging beers at his fraternity and skipping crime-scene-procedures classes in 1986. The latest killing was a baffling mystery to him; to Downing, it was a familiar story. After their morning-long conversation, Downing was not only sure Corbett had poisoned the woman, but that the bastard was getting smarter about it. He wedged himself into the Ford’s driver seat and pulled the small spiral notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. Flipping to the section he’d headlined “Insertion Method,” he studied his notes while he peeled another grapefruit. How simple. Elegant, really. Insert the needle in a dark part of the printed foil yogurt lid, inject liquid hydrogen cyanide, seal the hole with an invisible dab of clear polyurethane, return it to the store.
