Law enforcement has its own incentives, of course. Nobody’s pure. But I knew the folks who’d worked Adam’s case. They were good people, honest people. Nor could I see a reason for them to lie. To the contrary: In sticking to her guns, Kat was courting Rick Valois’s wrath — and the wrath of his lawyer.
The second autopsy of Adam Valois took place on September 24, 2026, at TruPath in San Carlos. Their website menu of services included mesothelioma investigation and neuro workup. A limited exam involving a single organ system cost $7,600.
Rick and Liz had paid $13,500 for the full monty, plus $1,480 for another tox screen.
The pathologist was Dr. Philip Schue. Assisting him were Victor Ramirez, RN, and autopsy technician Wendy Davis. A boxed paragraph stated that photographs had been taken but not included; clients wishing to review them should call the office to consult with a staff member.
Translation: You don’t want to see this. Like, really. Trust us.
Schue went into greater detail than Judy had — appropriately, considering his fee — and his writing style was fluid, aimed at an educated layperson. Where she documented the torso slashes and went on, he named them as propeller wounds and cited PubMed references. He identified the chest tattoo as a triskelion, a Celtic triple spiral. He summarized the processes of postmortem change, explaining how cold interfered with timeline determination and providing average water temperatures for San Francisco Bay in the week prior to discovery.
Nowhere did Schue state that the head trauma had occurred prior to death. Good reason: Given the decomposition and disfigurement, no one could make that claim. Maybe he’d speculated verbally to the Valoises, but he’d avoided committing it to paper.
In essence, his interpretations matched Judy’s, idea for idea, if not word for word.
Until the very end.
Regarding the manner of death, our conclusion is that this case is a possible homicide.
I gritted my teeth.
By law, there are five — and only five — manners of death.
Natural. Homicide. Suicide. Accidental. Undetermined.
By law, Coroner’s Deputy Kat Davenport had to issue a ruling under one — and only one — of those categories. She didn’t have the luxury of hedging with customer-centric adjectives like possible or potential or who knows, manner of death is a construct.
This was Schue, justifying his price tag.
The second toxicology report came from none other than FML Inc.
Furnish More Lucre.
Same results. Ketamine. Cannabis. Ethyl alcohol. Lexapro. Versed. Cyclobezaprine, here tagged not as Flexeril but under a different brand-name, Amrix.
I read the list; read it again.
My own memory creaked open.
I recognized that combination.
I’d seen it before.
The last time I’d texted with Kat Davenport was three years ago. The night of my goodbye party at Drake’s Barrel House. She’d written Don’t be a stranger.
Now I typed Hey Kat.
She answered immediately. Hey yourself
I smiled. Are you at work?
Going in tonight
Mind if I stop by? I wrote. Q for you
Anytime
Great thanks
Whats the q she wrote.
Adam Valois
Her reply this time took several seconds. I saw the three bouncing dots as she typed and deleted and typed and deleted, settling at last on:
Can’t wait
Chapter 4
The county facility at Peralta Oaks Court, where the Coroner’s Bureau shares office space with the public health lab, sits on a hilly, wooded plot backing up to parkland. It’s convenient to my house, the route hardwired by thousands of repetitions.
Fifteen minutes in bad traffic.
That evening, after the kids were down, I did it in eight.
I didn’t get out of the car right away but sat in the visitor lot, staring up at the building, its square shoulders rising against the cloudy sky. I’d spent thirteen years — the majority of my adult life — inside those walls, performing a job too repellent and depressing for most cops. To me it represented the highest form of service: speaking for those who cannot speak for themselves, comforting and guiding the bereaved.
It had been a calling. My calling.
Then it ended, not on my terms. Under circumstances I’d created but hadn’t chosen.
I never wanted to leave. I fled without looking back.
I guess that’s love, of a sort.
The security booth was unoccupied. I rang the callbox.
A female voice said, “Hello?”
“Clay Edison for Kat.”
“Be right down.”
I didn’t recognize the deputy who stepped from the elevator and crossed the lobby to admit me. Her name tag read C. Lopez.
She said, “Heard a lot about you.”
“Good or bad?”
She laughed. “Depends who you ask.”
We rode up to the third floor. Approaching the squad room, my hand went to my hip, feeling for a phantom keycard.
Lopez buzzed us through.
Kat Davenport was waiting in the hall, her wiry frame enlarged by a boxy shirt, her limp brown hair pulled tight. She looked a little older, a little harder, than the last time I’d seen her, that night at Drake’s.
“The man, the legend,” she said.
I dropped my bag to accept a bear hug.
“Welcome home,” she said.
Night shift runs a skeleton crew: two deputies and a sergeant. The lights were dim, coffeepot one-third full. We passed my old cubicle. Unfamiliar snapshots tiled the fuzzy gray walls. The sign read Grant. Another newcomer.
Kat and I sat to catch up. I showed her photos of my kids. She showed me photos of her wife, currently seven months’ pregnant.
“Outstanding,” I said. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks, dude.”
“We have a garage full of baby gear. You can have it all.”
Kat grinned. “Does that mean you’re done?”
“It means my family is perfect just the way it is. How much time are you planning to take?”
She shrugged, propped her boots on the desk. Steel toes, cracked black soles. I’d thrown mine out long ago.
“We’ll see. Things are kinda tricky, staffing-wise.” A beat. “Shoops is retiring.”
“No way.”
“January 1.”
Lisa Shupfer had been my closest colleague. We hadn’t spoken much since I’d left the bureau. I’d always attributed the lapse to her not being a “chat on the phone” kind of person. But the same held for Kat — for everyone I’d left behind.
I said, “Retiring to do what?”
“She and Ron got a place in Idaho. They’re gonna raise horses or goats or some crap.”
“End of an era.”
“That’s for damn sure.”
“Is there gonna be a party?”
“Clay. This is Shoops we’re talking about.”
“No party,” I said.
“Might want to give her a call.”
“I will. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Sure. So.” Kat dropped her boots with a clomp. All business. “What’s your interest in Adam Valois?”
“The family hired me to review the case.”
“Not much to say, Clay. There’s just no evidence.”
“The more you tell me, the easier it’ll be to convince them of that.”
She sighed. “Only for you.”
She called up the Valois file, went to the Images folder. The first picture, taken at night, showed the entrance sign for Coyote Hills Regional Park.