Three Libras - BLACKBIRD book 4

10. depth

Gillian drove across town toward the Historic District. The morning traffic was already jammed enough to stay focused on it, and she did her best to keep her mind from straying.

It'd been one long, hideous night for her. Mostly because she knew how much worse Brock's was. She'd been about to call him a thousand times, if only to apologize. But she also knew it was useless. Hearing from her would only make it worse.

By two a.m. she'd made up her mind. Their priority was solving this case. So she would do everything she could to make it happen. Closing the case would bring Brock some peace of mind. Then she would send him a whole box of Blue Label and make solemn vows, on Connor's life, to stay out of his way for good. Not that she expected that would persuade Brock to forgive her. But it was just the least she could do, considering the hurt and grief she'd caused him. And maybe in twenty or thirty years, he wouldn't feel such an urge to grab his Glock and shoot down whoever reminded him of her existence. Only she suspected she was overly optimistic about Brock's capability to ever forgive her.

She let out a sigh. Dammit. She still found it hard to believe she'd screwed up so big, and ended up doing something like this to Brock. Right now, all she could think about was making it up to him, somehow. She would have plenty of time to regret the consequences later on. Actually, she'd most likely have the rest of her life to do it.

Once she checked in at the police station front desk and got her visitor badge, she headed straight to the Coroner's lab. There she found Hank in a white coat, leaning over a microscope plugged to a computer.

"Hey, Reg," he said when she came in. "Anything new from the scene?"

"Some nasty theories. Here?"

Hank pointed at two clipboards on the worktable. "Nina Evans' full report and Amy Fernandez' preliminary. Riley is working on her right now. Well, both of us are."

"Please don't find anything new," she muttered, grabbing the clipboards.

"I sure hope we don't."

They stayed in silence while Hank resumed his tests and Gillian read the reports. Out of the corner of his eye, he had a glimpse of Gillian's frown, then he saw her move her forearm back and forth, changing the position of her wrist. So he turned his stool to her.

"What."

"Something's off here..." She looked up at him. "Did you finish the 3D model of the knife?"

Hank searched the computer and opened a picture. "Here. The 3D printer will take a while longer to finish it, but this is how it looks like. One to one scale."

It was a big hunting knife, with a jagged section on the back of the blade. It was meant to hurt deep on its way in, and rip flesh apart on its way out. Gillian ignored the cruelty implied by the weapon of choice and stretched her hand along the screen, to get an idea of the blade's length.

"You said Riley's with Amy's body?" she asked.

Hank led her to the next room.

Riley, the PD coroner, paused his work when they came in. His eyes showed the smile the mask hid. "Hey, Reg, it's been a while."

"Hey, Doc. Sorry to bother you, but..."

Riley's chin pointed at the clipboard in her hand. "Something got your attention. What is it?"

"Do you have a ruler?"

Riley chuckled. "There should be one on my desk."

"I'll get it," said Hank.

Gillian circled the slab where the second victim lay. She grabbed a mask and held it to her mouth as she leaned in to inspect the body.

"I'm listening, Reg," said Riley, always a smile in his voice.

She saw Hank was back and showed Riley one of the reports. "It's the stab wounds."

The coroner removed his latex gloves to grab the clipboard.

Gillian explained, "We assume the attackers held the knife with different hands—one with his right hand, one with his left hand—due to the entrance angle of the stabs, right? But why does the depth of the wounds vary so much from one subject to the other?"

"Position in relation to the victim's, physical strength, state of mind at the moment of the attacks. Many things can affect it," replied Riley.

"Okay, and what about the angles? Can you show me how the stabs were made?"

Hank showed he held a one-foot long, old-fashioned wooden ruler. "Here, this is our murder weapon," he said.

Riley handed him one of the clipboards. Hank took it, read and moved his arm, pretending to stab the air with the ruler. Then he frowned. Gillian arched her eyebrows.

"Weird..." Hank muttered.

"C'mon, guys, say it already," said Riley, folding his arms.

Hank moved closer to the slab, ruler and clipboard in hand. "Look, Doc. To get the wounds inflicted by the right-handed subject, he must've moved his arm like this..." Hank bent his arm and raised his right hand, holding the ruler up to his shoulder. Then he swung down, taking the ruler's end to the body on the slab.

Riley nodded. "Yes. That's the natural move for a descending stab on somebody smaller than the attacker, like these girls."

"Height wouldn't be such an issue," said Gillian. "They'd already been shot down when the subjects stabbed them. But you're right, it's the classic descending stab."

"Now watch this, Doc," said Hank. He checked something on the report and handed it over to Riley. Then he changed the ruler to his left hand, leaned forward over the body and mimicked a couple of short, lateral stabs.

Riley frowned. "You're right," he muttered. "The descending arch is way shorter. And it's a funny angle to stab someone lying right in front of you. Too... sideways."

Gillian nodded. "You owe me a coffee, Doc."

"And bet you want it now. I could use one, too." Riley stepped away from the table. "Hank?"

"Decaf, please?"

"Jeez, man up!"

"I'm enough of a man to choose what's gonna ruin my lever. And I'd rather have good wine do it."

Gillian scoffed and pointed at the ruler in his hand, then stretched out her arms. "Here I am. How would you do to get those wounds."

"Crap. I should've picked something sharper."