EDWARD SURVEYED THE STREET below his office as he chewed over the previous night’s disquieting events around Building 3C. For a moment his gaze drifted along the main street and lingered at the intersection where his wife, Karen, had died two years ago. After a deep sigh, he returned to his desk. Hovering over it, he rapped his knuckles on its surface as he remembered Constable Paul Dickenson’s askance expression and not-too-subtle reference to the empty scotch glass and uncapped bottle on th...