Saska skims the report and examines the photos. Milo stands near the door and glowers. I sit and wait.
Saska turns to me. “They haven’t fed the blood-spatter patterns into a computer to determine flight paths, angles and velocities yet?”
“We’re still waiting on it,” I say.
“Offhand, I’d say this was a torture scene. The killer hit her more than a hundred times, whipped her in the same spots again and again to inflict maximum pain.”
“Milo thought a hundred and twenty-six lashes. Anything you can add?”
He flips through the photos again and thinks about it. “This riding instructor had on a white shirt with a collar. If he did the whipping, when he swung the riding crop, the top of the swing arc was behind him, and blood droplets would have flown from the riding crop’s tip in that direction. Check the shoulders and collar of the shirt at the back of the neck. You should find blood spatter there.”
Milo forces out a curt thank-you and exits Saska’s office.
“What’s his problem?” Saska asks.
“He’s a smart kid, but not as smart as he thinks he is. Whenever someone questions the greatness that is his, he gets a vitutus ”-a dick grows out of his forehead.
Saska laughs.
“I have to work with him,” I say. “How do you think I should handle him?”
“You’re right, he overestimates himself. For instance, it’s not possible to determine if the victim was struck exactly a hundred and twenty-six times. If I were you, I’d just wait. Sooner or later he’ll make a king-sized fuckup. When he does, he’ll feel his big big brain deflate. He might be a good cop after that.”
“Good advice. Thanks.”
I shuffle our documentation into a sheaf and go back to Milo’s office. He folds his arms and stares at me. “Saska confirmed everything I said. Maybe now you won’t treat me like a fucking punk.”
The headache is creeping back. It makes me caustic. “Milo, are you saying we’re not friends? My feelings are hurt.”
He pauses, uncertain if I’m teasing him or not.
I raise my voice. “Milo, you’re right. We’re not fucking friends. In fact, I don’t have any fucking friends, I don’t want any fucking friends, and if I had a fucking friend, it wouldn’t be you.”
He cringes, twitches, stares nervous at the floor. Then he smiles, then giggles, then looks at me and laughs. “Damn, you’re a real fucking hard-ass. You know that?”
I ignore the commentary, don’t clue him in to whether I was kidding or serious. “We needed Saska’s opinion. You didn’t find everything. In fact, we fucked up. We didn’t check the back of Rein Saar’s shirt for blood spatter. We have to get it done now.”
He ignores the criticism, waits while I call forensics and ask them to look at the shirt.
I finish the call and Milo says, “Think about it. Rein Saar and Iisa Filippov had an affair going back a couple years. Ivan Filippov claims he knew nothing about it. He can’t be that stupid. He lied.”
“But consider the logistics,” I say. “How would Filippov know for certain when his wife would be with Rein Saar, and when she would be in a location where he could have the opportunity to kill her?”
Milo’s smile reflects glee. “I have an idea about the hows and whys.”
“Please share.”
“He’s fucking his secretary Linda and wants his wife out of the way.”