65 Proof

65 Proof Read Free

Book: 65 Proof Read Free
Author: Jack Kilborn
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fifteen bucks. Each tool had a cute pink handle and a corresponding compartment that it snugged into. This kit contained a hammer, four screwdrivers, a measuring tape, and eight wrenches. There were also two empty slots; one for needle nose pliers, and one for something five inches long and rectangular.
    “The utility knife,” I said.
    Herb nodded. “She owned the weapon. It’s looking more and more like suicide, Jack. She has a fight with Hale. He dumps her. She kills herself.”
    “You find anything else?”
    “Nothing really. She liked to mountain climb, apparently. There’s about forty miles of rope in her closet, lots of spikes and beaners, and a picture of her clinging to a cliff. She also has an extraordinary amount of teddy bears. There were so many piled on her bed, I don’t know how she could sleep on it.”
    “Diary? Computer?”
    “Neither. Some photo albums, a few letters that we’ll have to look through.”
    Someone knocked. We glanced across the breakfast bar and saw the door ease open.
    Mortimer Hughes entered. Hughes was a medical examiner. He worked for the city, and his job was to visit crime scenes and declare people dead. You’d never guess his profession if you met him on the street—he had the smiling eyes and infectious enthusiasm of a television chef.
    “Hello Jack, Herb, beautiful day out.” He nodded at us and set down a large tackle box that housed the many particular tools of his trade. Hughes opened it up and snugged on some plastic gloves and booties. He also brandished knee pads.
    Herb and I paused in our search and watched him work. Hughes knelt beside the vic and spent ten minutes poking and prodding, humming tunelessly to himself. When he finally spoke, it was high-pitched and cheerful.
    “She’s dead,” Hughes said.
    We waited for more.
    “At least four days, probably longer. I’m guessing from hypovolemic shock. Blood loss is more than forty percent. Her right zygomatic bone is shattered, pre-mortem or early post.”
    “Could she have broken her cheek falling down?” Herb asked.
    “On this thick carpet? Possible—yes. Likely—no. Look at the blood pool. No arcs. No trails.”
    “So she wasn’t conscious when her wrist was cut?”
    “That would be my assumption, unless she laid down on the floor and stayed perfectly still while bleeding to death.”
    “Sexually assaulted?”
    “Can’t tell. I’ll do a swab.”
    I chose not to watch, and Herb and I went back into the kitchen. Herb pursed his lips.
    “It could still be suicide. She cuts her wrist, falls over, breaks her cheek bone, dies unconscious.”
    “You don’t sound convinced.”
    “I’m not. I like the boyfriend. They’re fighting, he bashes her one in the face. Maybe he can’t wake her up, or he thinks he’s killed her. Or he wants to kill her. He finds the toolbox, gets the utility knife, makes it look like a suicide.”
    “And then magically disappears.”
    Herb frowned. “That part I don’t like.”
    “Maybe he flushed himself down the toilet, escaped through the plumbing.”
    “You can send Crouch out to get a plunger.”
    “Lieutenant?”
    Officer Crouch had returned. He stood by the kitchen counter, his face ashen.
    “What is it, Officer?”
    “I was doing the door-to-door. No one answered at the apartment right across the hall. The superintendent thought that was strange—an old lady named Mrs. Flagstone lives there, and she never leaves her home. She even sends out for groceries. So the super opens up her door and…you’d better come look.
    Mrs. Flagstone stared up at me with milky eyes. Her tongue protruded from her lips like a hunk of raw liver. She was naked in the bathtub, her face and upper body submerged in foul water, one chubby leg hanging over the edge. The bloating was extensive. Her white hair floated around her head like a halo.
    “Still think it’s a suicide?” I asked Herb.
    Mortimer Hughes rolled up his sleeve and put his hand into the water. He pressed her

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