The 1st Deadly Sin

Their oysters were brought, and they looked down at them, beaming. They went through the business with the horse-radish sauce and the hot stuff. They swallowed, looked at each other, groaned with pleasure.

“All right,” Ferguson said. “What do you want?”

“About your report on the Lombard-”

“How did you get my report?”

Delaney looked at him steadily. “You said you didn’t want to know.”

“That’s right; I don’t. All right, what about the report?”

“I have a few questions.” Delaney took a short list out of his side pocket, put it on the cloth before him, donned his heavy glasses, consulted it, then leaned toward Ferguson.

“Doctor,” he said earnestly, “your official reports are most complete. I don’t deny it. But they’re couched in medical language. As they should be, of course,” he added hastily. “So?”

“I have some questions about what your medical terms mean.”

“Edward, you’re jiving me.”

“Well…really what the significance is.”

“That’s better,” Ferguson smiled. “You can read a PM as well as a third-year medical student.”

“Yes. Also, I happen to know, doctor, that you include in your official reports only that which you objectively observe and which could be substantiated by any other capable surgeon doing the identical post-mortem. I also know that in an autopsy-in any investigation-there are impressions, feelings, hunches-call them what you like-that can never be part of an official report because the physical evidence doesn’t exist. And its those impressions, feelings and hunches that I want from you.”

Ferguson slipped a dipped oyster into his mouth, swallowed, rolled his eyes.

“You’re a bastard, Edward,” he said amiably. “You really are a bastard. You’ll use anyone, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Delaney nodded. “I’ll use anyone. Any time.”

“Let’s start from word one,” Ferguson said, busily stirring his oyster sauce. “Let’s start with head wounds. Much experience?”

“No. Not much.”

“Edward, the human skull and the human brain are tougher beyond your comprehension. Ever read a detective novel or see a movie where a man has a single bullet fired into his head and dies instantly? Practically impossible. I’ve had cases of victims with five bullets in their heads who lived. They were vegetables, true, but they lived. Three years ago I had a would-be suicide who fired a bullet at his head with a low calibre revolver. Twenty- two, I think. The slug bounced off his skull and hit the ceiling. Literally. Commit suicide by firing a bullet into your temple? Forget it. The slug could pass completely through, come out the other side, and you still wouldn’t be dead. You might live hours, weeks, or years. Maybe you couldn’t talk, or move, or control your bowels, but you’d be alive. How are your oysters, Edward?”

“Very good. Yours?”

“Marvelous. There’s only one way of committing sure suicide-instantaneous suicide-by a gunshot to the head. That’s by using a pistol or revolver of reasonably heavy calibre, say a thirty-eight at least-a rifle or shotgun would do as well, of course-put the muzzle deep into your mouth aimed at the back of your head, close your lips and teeth firmly about the barrel, pull the trigger, and splatter your brains onto the opposing wall. Some of these little oysterettes, Edward?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Now about the Lombard homicide. The entry was made from the back, low on the crown. About halfway to where the spine joins the skull. The only other spot where death might be instantaneous.”

“You think the killer had a surgeon’s knowledge?”

“Oh God, no,” Ferguson said, signaling the waiter to remove their emptied oyster plates. “Yes, to hit that spot deliberately would require a surgeon’s experience. But the victim would have to be on an operating table. No killer swinging a weapon violently could hope to hit it. It was luck. The killer’s luck, not Lombard’s luck.”

“Was death instantaneous?” Delaney asked.

“Close to it. If not instant, then within a few seconds. A half-inch to the right or left and the man might have lived for hours or weeks.”

“It was that close?”

“I told you the human skull and brain are much tougher than most people realize. Do you know how many ex-soldiers are walking around today with hunks of shrapnel in their brains? They live normally, except for occasional crushing headaches, but we can’t operate. And they’ll live out their normal lives and die from smoking too many cigarettes or eating too much cheese.”

The mutton chop, broiled kidney, and salads were served. Ferguson got his home-fries, a big plate with plenty of onions. After consultation with the head waiter, who was 343 years old, they ordered a bottle of heavy burgundy.

“To get back to Lombard,” Delaney said, digging into his broiled kidney, “was it really a circular wound?”

“Oh you’re so smart,” Ferguson said without rancor. “You’re so fucking smart. My report stated it appeared to be a circular penetration. But I had the impression it could have been triangular. Or even square. Look, Edward, you’ve never probed a brain penetration. You think it’s like pounding a spike into modeling clay, and then you pull out the spike and you’ve got a nice, clean perfect cavity? It’s nothing like that. The wound fills up. Brain matter presses in. There is blood. Bits of bone. Hair. All kinds of crap. And you expect me to-How’s the kidney?”

“Delicious,” Delaney said. “I’ve been here before, but I forgot how much bacon they give you.”

“The mutton chop is fine,” Ferguson said, dipping into his little dish of applesauce. “I’m really enjoying this. But about that Lombard wound…In addition to the impression I had that the opening was not necessarily circular in shape, I also had the feeling that the penetration curved downward.”

“Curved?”

“Yes. Like a limp cone. The tip of the weapon lower than the shaft. A curve. Like a hard-on just beginning to go soft. You understand?”

“Yes. But why are you so uncertain about the shape of the wound and the shape of the penetration? I know what you wrote, but what do you guess?”

“I think, I guess that Lombard fell forward with such force that it wrenched the weapon out of the killer’s hand. And that the killer then bent forward and twisted his tool or weapon to remove it from Lombard’s skull. If the spike was triangular or square, the twisting would result in a roughly circular shape.”

“And it would mean the weapon was valuable to the killer,” Delaney said. “He took the time to recover it. It was valuable intrinsically, or valuable because it might be traced to the killer. Murderers who use a hammer or pipe or rock usually wear gloves and leave the weapon behind.”

“Beautiful,” Dr. Ferguson said, draining his wine. “I love to listen to you think.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t a hammer,” Delaney said. “I never really believed it was.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve handled three hammer cases. In two of them the handle broke. In the third, the head snapped off.”

“So you knew how tough the human skull is? But you let me talk.”

“That’s the name of the game. Anything else?”

“What else? Nothing else. It’s all smoke. On the evidence, the penetration was circular, but it might have been triangular. It might have been square. It hit the one spot that killed the man instantly. Do I think the killer has surgical knowledge? No. It was a lucky hit.”

“Dessert?” Delaney asked.

“Just coffee for me, thanks.”

“Two coffees, please,” Delaney ordered. “Any ideas, any guesses, any wild suggestions at all as to what the weapon might have been?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Was there anything inside the wound you didn’t expect to find? Anything that wasn’t in your report?”

Ferguson looked at him sternly a moment, then relaxed and laughed. “You never give up, do you? There were traces of oil.”

“Oil? What kind of oil?”