Mental head slap.
I took Kessler’s photo to the scope, flipped it, and viewed the notation under magnification.
October, 1963. M de l’H.
What I’d taken to be the digit 1 was a lowercaseL. And Ryan had been right. The firstH was actually a smearedM. M de l’H. Musee de l’Homme. Jake must have recognized the abbreviation, flown to Paris, visited the museum, and dug up an accession number for the Masada skeleton.
LaManche wears soft-soled shoes and keeps his pockets empty of coins and keys. No scuffs. No jingles. For his bulk, the man moves extraordinarily quietly.
My mind was shaping the next “why?” when my nose sent it the scent of Flying Dutchman.
I swiveled. LaManche had entered through the histo lab and was standing behind me.
“Ready?”
“Ready.”
LaManche and I took seats, and I placed my reconstructions between us.
“I’ll skip the basics.”
LaManche smiled forgivingly. I bit my tongue.
Picking up the segment that had comprised the right posterior of Ferris’s skull, I pointed my pen.
“Oval defect with radiating fractures.”
I indicated the spiderweb of intersecting cracks on that segment and on two others.
“Concentric-heaving fractures.”
“So the entrance is behind and below the right ear?” LaManche’s eyes remained on the segments.
“Yes. But it’s complicated.”
“The beveling.” LaManche zeroed in on the problem.
“Yes.”
Returning to the first segment, I pointed to the external beveling adjacent to the oval defect.
“If the gun barrel is in tight contact with the skull, ectocranial beveling can be created by the blow-back of gases,” LaManche said.
“I don’t think that’s the case here. Notice the shape of the defect.”
LaManche leaned closer.
“A bullet entering perpendicular to a skull’s surface usually produces a circular defect,” I said. “A bullet entering tangentially produces an irregular perforation, often more oval in shape.”
“Mais, oui. A keyhole defect.”
“Exactly. A portion of the bullet actually sheared off and was lost outside the skull. Thus the external beveling at the entrance.”
LaManche looked up. “So the bullet entered behind the right ear and exited the left cheek.”
“Yes.”
LaManche considered that.
“Such a trajectory is uncommon but possible in suicide. Monsieur Ferris was right-handed.”
“There’s more. Take a closer look.”
I handed LaManche a magnifying lens. He raised and lowered it over the oval defect.
“The rounded end looks scalloped.” LaManche studied the oval for another thirty seconds. “As though the circle is superimposed on the oval.”
“Or the reverse. The border of the circular defect is clean on the skull’s external surface. But check inside.”
He rotated the segment.
“Endocranial beveling.” LaManche grasped it immediately. “It’s a double entrance.”
I nodded. “The first bullet hit Ferris’s skull straight on. Textbook. Outside border clean, inside border beveled. The second struck the same spot, but at an angle.”
“Producing a keyhole defect.”
I nodded. “Ferris’s head moved or the shooter’s hand twitched.”
Fatigue? Sadness? Resignation? LaManche sagged as I voiced my ugly conclusion.
“Avram Ferris was shot twice in the back of the head. Execution style.”
That night Ryan cooked at my place. Arctic char, asparagus, and what we from Dixie call smashed potatoes. The spuds he baked, peeled, then worked with a fork, adding green onions and olive oil as he mashed.
I watched in awe. I’ve been called insightful. Brilliant even. When it comes to cooking, I have the vision of a guppy. Given an eon to ponder, my brain would never conceive a road map to mashed potatoes that did not pass through boiling.
Birdie was immensely appreciative of Ryan’sfruits de mer, and spent the evening trawling for handouts. Later, he settled on the hearth. His purring said feline life didn’t get much better.
Over dinner, I shared my conclusion regarding manner of death in the Ferris case. Ryan already knew. The investigation was now officially homicide.
“The weapon’s a Jericho nine-millimeter,” he said.
“Where was it?”
“Way back in a corner of the closet, under a cart.”
“Did the gun belong to Ferris?”
“If so, no one knew about it.”
I reached for more salad.
“SIJ recovered one nine-millimeter bullet from the closet,” Ryan went on.
“Only one?” That didn’t fit with my double-entry scenario.
“In a ceiling panel.”
Nor did that.
“What was a bullet doing overhead?” I asked.
“Maybe Ferris went for the shooter, they struggled, the gun discharged.”
“Maybe the shooter placed the gun in Ferris’s hand and pulled the trigger.”
“Simulated suicide?” Ryan.
“Every TV viewer knows you gotta have gunshot residue.”
“LaManche didn’t find any.”
“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t there.”
I munched and thought.
LaManche had recovered one bullet fragment from the victim’s head. SIJ had dug one bullet from the ceiling. Where was the rest of the ballistic evidence?
“You said Ferris may have been sitting on a stool when he took the shots?” I asked.
Ryan nodded.
“Facing the door?”
“Which was probably open. SIJ’s going over the office and hallways. You wouldn’t believe how much crap is stacked in this place.”
“What about casings?”
Ryan shook his head. “Shooter must have collected them.”
That didn’t make sense either.
“Why leave the gun, then turn around and collect the bullet casings?”
“An astute question, Dr. Brennan.”
I had no astute answer.
I offered salad to Ryan. He declined.
Ryan changed gears. “Dropped in on the widow again today.”
“And?”
“The lady won’t be topping my Miss Congeniality ballot.”
“She’s grieving.”
“So she says.”
“You don’t buy it?”
“My gut says there’s something to gnaw on there.”
