Part 20 (1/2)
”Why do men do such stupid things to prove their manhood?”
”Men don't--”
”Of course they do.” She laughed. ”You're really funny.”
Actually, if it was possible, it tasted worse than it looked. But as Mom always reminded little Sean, waste not, want not. I set aside the cup for later.
Into the phone, Bian said, ”I'm back, Barry,” then went into listening mode for about two minutes. She made a few verbal nods and once or twice prodded Enders to elaborate on some point, but I had no idea what they were discussing. Eventually she said, ”Okay . . . yes, I've got it . . .” Pause. ”Yes . . . Colonel Drummond's also here.” She looked at me and said to him, ”Why don't you repeat this to him directly?”
She handed me the phone. Enders said, ”I hope you two are working late, not s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around.”
”You have a filthy mind, Detective.”
Bian was looking at me inquisitively.
Enders said, ”Give me a break, Drummond. Tell me you're not thinking about it.”
I looked at Bian. ”My G.o.d, you're right. There's a female inside that uniform.”
”Who you trying to bulls.h.i.+t? The lady can make cooked spaghetti stiff again.”
Bian seemed to be seeking my attention by sort of waving her middle finger.
Well, enough male bonding. In fact, Bian's expression indicated it was beyond enough. ”Where are you?” I asked him.
”The lab. The autopsy wrapped up an hour ago, and now I'm here.”
”I wish my laundry worked that fast.”
”Slow day.” He added, ”Where were-- Oh yeah . . . the autopsy--” Then, as if reading off a page, ”Stomach contents: steak, well done, and a baked potato, with a spinach salad. That was probably dinner. Serology results: high alcohol content, point one nine, so Daniels was legally stewed. That's not uncommon with suicides, incidentally. Cause of death: gunshot to the head, fired two to three inches from Daniels's skull. Death: immediate--sometime between midnight and one.”
”Okay, that's how it looked.”
”Was it? There were no open bottles or empty gla.s.ses in Daniels's apartment.”
”So he went out and got smashed beforehand. Does it matter where where he got drunk?” he got drunk?”
”Probably not. Now guess what you saw but didn't see?”
”Let me see . . .” I knew this contradiction was coming and answered, matter-of-factly, ”Cliff Daniels was right-handed and the entry wound is in his left temple.”
A little miffed that I ruined his surprise, for a moment he said nothing. Then he found his inner voice, which was p.i.s.sed off. ”You b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You knew . . . and you never mentioned it.”
”I recall you saying my views weren't welcome.” Which was true, of course, and petty of me to bring up. I added, ”Anyway, it's irrelevant. Also, probably misleading.”
”The h.e.l.l it is. This is highly suggestive that a right-handed killer fired the bullet. Then, to cover it up, the killer had to place the gun in the victim's left hand.” As if I needed it spelled it out, he added, ”In other words, it wasn't suicide--it was murder.”
I allowed him a moment to cool off, then asked, ”Are you armed?”
”Of course.”
”Good. Work with me here.” I instructed him, ”Remove your pistol from the holster.”
”Okay . . . it's out.”
”You right- or left-handed?”
”Normal. Right-handed.”
”As was Daniels. Switch the pistol to your left hand.”
”Okay.”
”Now raise the pistol . . . now aim the barrel at your temple . . . just above your left ear.”
”There'd better be a point to this, Drummond. People are staring at--”
”Is the pistol there?”
”Yeah . . . okay, it's--”
”Quick--pull the trigger.”
He said, after a long moment, ”Very f.u.c.king funny.”
”I didn't hear a bang. I knew you were smart.”
”If you were standing here, you'd hear a bang, you son of a b.i.t.c.h.”
”How hard would it have been?”
”I got your point. But it's not natural. Unnatural things are always cause for suspicion.”
”Not always always. Sometimes they merely require alternate explanations.”
”I'm dying to hear this one.”
”Think of what you observed inside Daniels's bedroom. The television was on, a p.o.r.n flick in the video machine, the victim had an erection, and his right hand was gripped on his doolie.” I added, ”The term is mult.i.tasking.”
He did not reply.
I said, ”Cliff Daniels, not being ambidextrous, faced a choice. Which takes more strength? Greater deftness? Spanking your donkey or pulling the trigger?”
After a moment, he replied, ”I wouldn't know, would I?”
In spite of himself, he laughed, and I, too, laughed. Actually, I liked this guy. No good cop ignores his gut instincts; his were telling him this was wrong, and he was going with it. Well, it was was wrong; he just didn't know why. He lacked what Bian and I possessed, factual knowledge of Daniels's professional and extracurricular activities, or about the large and growing population who might want him dead, and why. wrong; he just didn't know why. He lacked what Bian and I possessed, factual knowledge of Daniels's professional and extracurricular activities, or about the large and growing population who might want him dead, and why.
To tell the truth, I felt a little guilty; he was one of the good guys, diligent, honest, good cop. But his concern was law and order in his county; mine was peace and security throughout the entire United States. Bottom line--you can rationalize just about anything under the guise of ”for the good of the country”; it's a slippery slope, and I might have been overstepping that line.
”Back to the autopsy,” he said, after a moment. ”Other than that, Daniels was missing his tonsils. Twice had his left knee cut on, and--”