She found him in his study, but he was dead, undeniably and messily so. He was sitting upright in his high-backed desk chair, upright because long velcro straps had secured him in that position. One strap around his waist, another around his neck so he couldn’t slump forward. One around each forearm, holding them to the chair’s arms. Another around his legs, bending them back under the chair and securing them around the swivel pedestal. Someone had cut away his clothes—and then cut away more than just his clothes. His face was slack, expressionless, white as parchment. His eyes were open, because two of the things they’d cut away were his eyelids. Like twisted claws, his hands gripped the ends of the chair arms, the knuckles white as ivory. Under the chair was a plastic drop cloth that someone had spread to catch the blood—and more than blood—that had fallen from their work. It was a meaningless, macabre touch of neatness.