“A good guess,” I say.
I go to the closet, get down on my knees and look at the floor. A bloody crop is propped up against the inside wall. I don’t touch it, leave it in place for the forensics team to photograph it. “Found it.”
Milo comes over and takes a look.
I speak into the tape recorder. “In the bedroom closet, we discovered the probable weapon used in the lashing attack. A riding crop, a little over three feet in length, with a leather tongue on the end. It appears to be made of fiberglass, has a leather-wrapped handle, and a loop on the end to secure grip.”
We return to the bedside. Both of us stare down at her for a moment. Milo asks me, “What do you think was the cause of death?”
“She took a terrible beating, but there’s no arterial spurting. I doubt if it was blood loss. She’s got those socks stuffed in her mouth. I think he beat her with the horse whip until he got bored with it, then maybe just held her nose until she suffocated and died.”
“I tend to agree,” Milo says.
“Maybe we should call Saska Lindgren and have him come take a look,” I say. “He’s the bloodstain-pattern expert.”
Milo shakes his head. “No fucking way.”
“Why not?”
“This is my first big homicide case and I’m not sharing it with anybody.”
I raise my eyebrows.
He flushes, embarrassed at his gaffe. “Except you, of course. Listen, I’m going to tell you something personal.”
Not again. I wish he wouldn’t. I wait.
“You’ve probably heard that I have a high IQ. People make a big deal about my being in Mensa.”
“Yeah. So?”
“I have advanced development of spatial relations and mathematics. The forensics guys are going to come in here, make detailed measurements and photographs, then enter it all into a computer program that will more or less re-create the attack. I don’t need the computer program. I can do it in my head.”
I don’t quite believe him. “Then do it.”
Somebody knocks on the bedroom door frame. I look. A member of the forensics team says, “Sorry we’re late. You guys want to let us in there?”
“Give us a couple more minutes,” Milo says. “Can you loan me a viewing loupe magnifier and a measuring tape?”
She brings them.
Milo looks close up at blood droplets at various points on the walls, measures distances. He stands on the chair and examines the ceiling. This feels silly, like I’m Dr. Watson to his Sherlock Holmes.
My phone rings. It’s Kate. “Where are you?” she asks.
“At a murder scene.”
“The weather is so bad, I was worried.”
I made a mistake taking this case. I want to be at home with Kate right now and I could be. A fuckup. “I’m fine. I should have called, but I got caught up in this.”
“John and Mary will be here this evening. How are you going to be able to spend time with them if you haven’t slept?”
She sounds peeved, doesn’t realize I seldom sleep. I haven’t told her. While she sleeps, I lie in bed beside her and think. “I’ll be fine. We’ll have a nice evening, and I’ll get home as soon as I can.”
“Please try. I miss you.”
I ring off. Milo is waiting, smiling and expectant. I guess I’m supposed to share his joy.
“Okay,” he says. “I got it.”
“I’m bursting with anticipation.”
“Trajectories are three-dimensional and so have three angles of impact. I calculated gamma, the easiest angle, which is the angle of the blood path measured from the vertical surface and extended angle. Then I calculated alpha, the angle of blood spatter moving out from the surface. Then finally beta, the angle of blood pivoting around the vertical. The three angles are connected through trigonomic equations that determine the major and minor axes and angle of impact.”