Part 24 (1/2)
”This trail is one of five we were able to identify. Generally, a.s.suming the blunt injury trauma is the only source of blood, or at least the first, the number of trails equates to the number of blows plus two.”
”Why plus two?”
”There wouldn't have been any blood on the first blow. On the second blow blood is picked up by the weapon and thrown off as the attacker makes the backswing for the third blow.”
”Right.”
”This medium-velocity spatter was found down low on the walls, and on the c.r.a.p stacked in the corner.”
He worked the keys again and more strings appeared, these converging on a point less than two feet above the floor.
”My opinion is that he was struck near the corner of the room, fell to the floor, and was then hit repeatedly. After that he was placed in the chair and shot.”
”Struck with what?”
Gilbert pooched out his lips. ”Pfff. Not my call.”
”Why bludgeon him then shoot him?”
”Definitely not my call.”
”If he was dragged, wouldn't that have left a trail?”
”The a.s.sailant may have wiped it up. Besides, there was so much blood everywhere, and so many people on the scene the floor was useless.”
”And the burning may have disguised some of it.”
”At least on the carpet. We may go in with Luminol, but it's not going to change what the spatters tell me.”
I was thinking about that when he spoke again.
”There's something else.”
”There's more?”
Again he worked the keys. Again a mist of high-velocity blood spatter filled the screen. But a portion of the cloud was missing, like a stencil with a cut out pattern.
”This is another shot of the wall behind the victim's head.”
”It looks like someone took a cookie cutter to it.”
”This is called a void pattern. It's produced when an object blocks the path of blood and is then removed.”
”What object?”
”I don't know.”
”Who removed it?”
”I don't know.”
As I hurried back to my office, Dorsey's words provided voice-over for Gilbert's images.
Amateur Hour. Whoever did Cherokee is going to walk.
I grabbed my phone and punched in a number. A secretary told me Jacques Roy had flown to Val-d'Or and would be unavailable until Monday. Impatient, I asked for Claudel. Neither he nor his Carcajou partner was in. I thought of pagers, again decided the situation was not sufficiently urgent, and left messages for everyone.
I had just replaced the receiver when the phone rang.
”Should I be sending the world's biggest fruit basket?”
”Hi, Harry.”
As usual my sister sounded as though she'd just completed some event requiring intense exertion.
”Why are you out of breath?”
”Akido.”
I didn't ask.
”Is my baby boy driving you back to the solace of drink?”
”He's fine, Harry.”
”Are you always this cheerful on Fridays?”
”I just heard something disturbing. What's up?”
”I suppose you know that Kit and Howard went at it again.”
”Oh?” I suspected as much, but hadn't pressed my nephew.
”It's the golf cart all over again.”
I remembered that episode. When Kit was fifteen he'd stolen a cart from the pro shop at Howard's country club. It was found the next morning, half-submerged in a water hazard on the fifteenth hole, with half a bottle of tequila in the back compartment. Daddy went ballistic and son lit out. A week later Kit showed up in Charlotte. The last leg of hitchhiking had not gone well, and he owed ninety-six dollars to a taxi driver. Katy and Kit bonded immediately, and my nephew stayed the summer.
”What was the fight about?”
”I'm not sure, but it involved fis.h.i.+ng gear. Is he behaving himself?”
”Actually, I haven't seen that much of him. I think he's made friends here.”
”You know Kit. Well, if you could let the little buckaroo stay just a little while I'd appreciate it. I think he and his daddy need some distance and some time.”
”Doesn't Howard live near Austin?”
”Yes.”