he finds out. Hurley told me to stay away from Karen’s autopsy, but he didn’t say anything about learning what the evidence might reveal. Besides, if I’m going to be investigating cases, I need to know all this stuff.
Arnie leans back against the countertop and wags a finger at me. “See, now that’s where you’ll go wrong every time. Lesson number one: Why do you think she was shot to death?”
I blink at him in confusion. “I was there at the scene. I saw her.”
“What did you see?”
“A woman with a bullet hole in her chest and lots of blood all around.”
“How do you know it was a bullet hole?”
I think about that. “Because the cops said it was.”
“Don’t believe what you hear. Only believe what you know to be true based on your own observations and research. Are you absolutely certain the hole in her chest couldn’t have been made by something else?”
“No,” I admit.
“For the sake of argument, let’s assume it was a bullet hole. How do you know the bullet killed her?”
“Well, she was dead. And I do know dead,” I assure him. It’s amazing the things I can take pride in.
“But how do you know she was shot while she was still alive? How do you know she wasn’t killed by some other means and then shot to cover up the real method?”
I think Arnie is getting a bit farfetched now, but I’m starting to get into it. Besides, he has a point. The clues have to be carefully and scientifically evaluated. I’m beginning to see how jumping to conclusions can be dangerous.
“Well, there was a lot of blood,” I tell him. “If she was already dead when she was shot, her heart wouldn’t have been pumping and there wouldn’t have been so much blood. Plus, there were some sprays of blood, from arterial pressure. If she’d been dead already, she wouldn’t have had any arterial pressure.”
Arnie gives me a look of surprised pleasure. “Very good,” he says. “That’s the type of observational skills that will serve you well around here.”
I beam at him, feeling like a character in an Agatha Christie novel.
“Now, let’s look at the other evidence we have on that case.” He turns toward the countertop and picks up a clipboard.
“We have lots of trace evidence,” he says, scanning what appears to be a checklist on the clipboard. “We have the bullet that killed her—it’s from a .357 Magnum and we can match it to a specific gun if we find one. We also have some trace evidence Izzy found on the body that doesn’t appear to have come from the location where the victim was found: two blond hairs, each one about an inch or so in length, and three wool fibers in a teal blue color, most likely from a carpet.”
I feel my skin grow cold. David’s hair is blond and the carpet in our living room is teal-colored wool.
“Then there’s this,” Arnie says, showing me a picture. It’s the back of a shoulder, the white skin marred by three, oval-shaped bruises. In my mind I replay the scene where David leapt from the couch and grabbed Karen by her shoulders, shaking her. Somehow I know his fingers will fit those bruises perfectly.
I must look as shaken as I feel because Arnie is staring at me kind of funny and asks, “Are you all right?”
I nod.
“You weren’t there during the autopsy this morning, were you?”
I shake my head but offer no explanation.
“Why not?”
There is a long silence while I stare at the walls and Arnie stares at me. Then I have a brainstorm. “I’m sorta kinda too close to the case,” I tell him. “I know the victim.” I hope this will be explanation enough. At the hospital, it was always understood that no one would work on anyone they were related to if it could be avoided. I feel certain the same principles apply here.
“Know her how?” Arnie persists.
I let out a perturbed sigh, realizing that Arnie won’t give up until he knows it all. “I think I might be a suspect,” I admit.
“A suspect?” I expect Arnie to throw me out of his lab immediately. Instead he says, “Wait, let me guess. Your almost ex was dipping his wick in the victim.”
“Yeah,” I say, surprised and impressed by Arnie’s ability to ferret out the truth. Later I’d learn the dink had known the whole story all along and had, in fact, assisted Izzy on the autopsy in my absence.
“So did you do it?” Arnie asks.
“No! Of course not.”
“Bet you would have liked to though, huh?”
I start to utter another protest but quickly realize Arnie will see right through it. “The thought might have crossed my mind a time or two,” I admit sheepishly.
“Good.”
“Good? I admit to contemplating the homicide of a woman who is now dead and you say good?”
“Absolutely. One of the most important things you’ll learn in this job is who you can trust. Had you told me you’d never thought about killing the woman who stole your husband, I’d know you were lying to me. It’s perfectly natural to hate the other woman, to wish all kinds of pestilence on her, and to dream up at least six miserable ways for her to die, preferably with you as the executioner.” He stops and gives me another long look. “Though I gotta say, if your husband was baking his cake in someone else’s oven when he had you at home, he must be a total idiot.”
I’m flattered. And more impressed with Arnie each passing minute. “Thanks,” I say, bestowing him with my best smile.
“So do you think your old man might have offed her?”
My mood does an immediate nosedive. I don’t know what has me more upset, the thought that David might have killed Karen or the fact that I even care.
“I don’t know. I don’t think he did it. But I saw—”
I stop, realizing I’m about to tell Arnie about the argument I witnessed. Until I have a chance to evaluate things a little more I don’t want that information to get out. But Arnold Paranoianegger zeroes in right away. “What? What did you see?” he pushes. I know in my heart he’ll never let it go and I resign myself to spilling the beans. But then the phone rings and I realize that for once, the Fates are on my side. My salvation proves painfully short-lived, however.
“Yeah, she was here,” Arnie says into the phone, widening his eyes at me. “But she just this second left. Want me to see if I can catch her?” He listens, says, “Hold on,” and then hits a button that sends the caller to Hold Hell. “It’s Detective Hurley,” he tells me. “You know him?”
“Oh, yeah.” I roll my eyes and lick my lips. Talk about conflicted!
“He wants to talk to you. Should I tell him I wasn’t
