Jill O’Donnell brushed blond bangs off her forehead, and smoothed her navy jacket and skirt in one motion as she stood on the far side of the bed when Suter and Bohannon walked into her husband’s private room. Apart from a chrome bed railing and the florescent tube light mounted on the wall over the bed’s wooden headboard, the room could have been part of a suite in a nice hotel. Mauve drapes covered the windows, and tasteful artwork hung from the walls. Bohannon almost tripped, stepping from the linoleum-floored hallway on to the carpet in the room.
The head of Peter Newsome’s bed was slightly elevated, but he appeared to be asleep, on his side curled around a sizable lump under the covers.
“Are you Mr. Suter?” she said, looking tired.
“Yes, ma’am. Special Agent Suter. This is Detectiv
