The doctor held up the film to the light of the windows. ‘You’re right. It looks like my predecessor missed everything but the cause of death. It’s a skull fracture. I can’t tell if it rendered her unconscious, but it certainly stunned her. The fracture agrees with a blunt object. I could swear to that much.’
Next, Riker handed him an enlarged photograph of Natalie’s right hand. ‘This is the burn shot.’
Dr Slope shook his head. ‘Can’t help you on this one. No way to tell if the flesh was burned before the insects got at it.’
Riker consulted a transcription of Louis Markowitz’s notes and pointed to a line of type. ‘Right here. Lou says the hand was burned.’ And another argument had begun.
‘That’s because of the roaches,’ said Charles, stepping into the conversation in the role of a peacemaker. ‘Louis saw them clustered on her hand. That would indicate the presence of grease. If it was hot from the frying pan – ’
‘Speculation,’ said Edward Slope. ‘I only testify to facts.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Unless there’s something else – ’
‘About Sparrow,’ said Riker. ‘Maybe you could just talk to her doctor on the – ’
‘Not a shot in hell,’ said Dr Slope. ‘Now Charles could take on that lightweight intern. He knows all the jargon.’
‘Sparrow’s dying,’ said Riker. ‘I need a medical opinion.’
‘If it’s coma related, then Charles is your man.’ Edward Slope walked toward the door, saying, ‘I promise you, nobody on that hospital staff knows more about the human brain.’
The door closed, and a defeated Riker slumped into a chair behind the desk. ‘Sparrow’s doctor hates cops. He won’t even talk to me. Can you help?’
‘Well, Edward exaggerates,’ said Charles. ‘I only published one paper on the comatose brain. However, I could probably negotiate a conversation with her doctor.’
‘Sounds good. Thanks. But Mallory doesn’t need to know, okay?’
Riker closed his eyes and put his feet up on her desk, a sign that she was not expected back for the duration of a catnap. And Charles was left to wonder why Riker would keep the hospital visit a secret. Surely his own partner had an equal interest in this crime victim. It was an interesting problem, and the solution lay in the certain knowledge that Mallory would not forgive any act of concern for an enemy.
Both men jumped at the sound of a crash in the next room.
‘Kids.’ Riker’s feet hit the floor. ‘You can’t turn your back on ‘em for a second.’
When they entered the office kitchen, they found Ronald Deluthe dressed in a replica of Natalie Homer’s apron, ruffles and all. He was holding an unplugged electric skillet. There were spills on every surface and puddles of water on the floor. Wet enlargements of crime-scene photos were spread across the tabletop.
‘This is my fault,’ said Riker. ‘I told him to work out a fly-on-the-wall scenario.’
Charles looked down at a splash of water near the stove. ‘So that’s supposed to be grease from Natalie’s sausages?’
‘Yes, sir. Watch.’ Deluthe filled the frying pan with more water, then treated them to a demonstration of backswings and overhand strikes. Most of the liquid spilled behind him, and the remainder sloshed forward toward an imagined assailant, splattering an innocent refrigerator. His right hand was wet, and the rest of him remained dry. ‘It never spills on the apron. So she wasn’t using the frying pan for a defensive weapon. I figure the killer was holding it.’
‘That makes sense,’ said Riker. ‘Slope confirmed the skull fracture. Maybe the perp used the pan on her head. Good job, kid.’
‘Now clean up the mess.’ Mallory had materialized in the doorway. Her eyes roved over the wet floor and the rivulets streaming down every wall. She turned to Deluthe in stone silence.
He scrambled to grab a sponge from the sink, then knelt on the tiles and began to wipe the puddles.
‘You’re wrong about the frying pan,’ said Charles. ‘Natalie did use it as a weapon. But the mistake is understandable.’ He pointed to the electric skillet with its built-in computer panel for timing meals. ‘That’s aluminum, and the handle never gets hot.’
‘What?’ Deluthe slowly rose from his crouch on the floor.
Charles excused himself for a few moments, then returned to the kitchen, holding the frying pan found at the crime scene. ‘This is Natalie’s – solid iron. The handle would’ve been very hot. She’d need a potholder.’ He pointed to one of the pictures on the table. ‘See the hooks on this wall? Here by her stove – one hook for each potholder, and they’re all in place. But the sausages weren’t done yet. See? The front burner is still glowing. She was interrupted.’
‘Right,’ said Deluthe. ‘She died.’
‘But first – something less dramatic,’ said Charles, ‘like a knock on the door. Natalie had time to hang her potholder on a hook before she opened that door to her murderer. She wouldn’t leave sausages unattended for long, so you know the fight began immediately.’ He took the sponge from Deluthe and wiped spots offa crime-scene photo. ‘Judging by the number of sausages, I’d say you used too much water for your experiment.’ He glanced at a photo of Natalie’s apron. In Mallory’s enhancement, the longest borders of the grease stain were more sharply defined. Louis Markowitz’s notebook entry had been correct. This was not a splash or a splatter. It was a smear.
After separating one photo from the rest, Charles pointed to a mass of roaches on Natalie’s right hand. ‘Let’s assume she burned her hand. She also had a bad fall, and it knocked her out or stunned her. Natalie never got to swing the skillet. But she intended to use it as a weapon. Oh, and the killer never touched it at all.’
Deluthe folded his arms. ‘How could you know if – ’
‘Because your apron is dry, and the rest of the kitchen isn’t.’ Charles ran the frying pan under the tap, then returned it to the stove’s front burner. ‘Natalie’s facing her killer. No time to pull down a potholder – she grabs the skillet – ’ He grasped the handle and raised the pan quickly, spilling a bit of the water on his hand and arm. More liquid hit the floor behind him on the backswing. ‘The hot iron and grease burn her hand. Natalie lets go of the handle before she can swing the skillet forward.’
Charles released the pan, and it clattered to the floor beside him. ‘The killer advances. She backs off.’ He edged away from an invisible man. ‘She has grease on her shoes and loses traction. Her legs fly out from under her, and she falls facedown.’
Deluthe was in denial. ‘How do you know she fell? Or how she landed?’
‘Logic,’ said Charles. ‘If all the facts only fit one scenario, that’s the way it happened. May I?’ He held out one hand to take the proffered apron, then spread it on the floor. ‘Natalie’s down. She’s not moving. Probably hit her head on the corner of the stove. I know her skull fracture wasn’t made by an iron skillet. That would’ve caved in her skull.’ He straightened up and turned to Deluthe. ‘You’ll notice that my grease puddle is smaller than yours. It’s covered by the breast of the apron.’ He tapped the photo of the garment. ‘The edges of the grease stain wouldn’t be this straight if she struggled. So she was stunned or unconscious when he dragged her across the floor.’ Charles reached down and pulled the apron toward him. When he picked it up, the wet spot was the size and shape of the stain on Natalie Homer’s apron.
‘And that’s what the fly on the wall saw.’ Charles’s tone was almost apologetic when he said to Deluthe, ‘I’m sure you could’ve worked this out. But you’ve never cooked anything, have you?’
The floor had been recently mopped, and it bore the same chlorine odor as the city morgue. Riker could hear Charles Butler speaking to the young intern in the hallway outside the hospital room.