“Could there have been any fibers from the bedding inside his mouth or nostrils?” Rob asked.
“A swab for fibers inside the nose or mouth is pretty inconclusive. Most mornings, all of us have a fair number of fibers on our lips, noses, and mouths from our bedding. We just are unaware of that. Obviously if there was a real struggle there would have been more fibers, but, just as the lack of bruising to the face reveals, it appears as though there was little if any struggle. Given Warren’s age and his level of intoxication that’s all plausible.”
“So, right now you're saying every road leads to a dead end?”
“Not at all. But in the absence of the kind of physical evidence that would make this an easier crime to solve, a good investigator has to start constructing scenarios based on plausible theories. Call it the Sherlock Holmes method. What's at the murder scene that we’re not considering at the moment?”
“Are you boys discussing murder without me?”
Both Eddie and Rob turned around to find Holly standing behind them. She was holding her usual drink—a vodka martini.
“I'm surprised to see you here," Rob said. "I thought you had a hot date."
"So did I, but the jerk called me just as I got to the bar at Poggio's to say that he couldn't make it. What's a girl to do? So I thought I'd come over here and see what you two were talking about."
Holly grabbed a chair from the empty table behind her and sat down. "Are you chatting about our dearly departed gossiping gourmet? I hope so! I need something to cheer me up."
“What is it with you and murder?” Rob asked.
“Look, I’ve read Sue Grafton from A to Y! Maybe I’ll have something to contribute here,” Holly said as she took a dainty sip followed by a less dainty gulp of her martini and then leaned in conspiratorially. “So, are you closing the circle, tightening the noose, and preparing to check Warren’s killer into the gray bar hotel?”
Eddie laughed. “Who do you think you are, Sausalito’s answer to Nancy Drew?”
“Nope. I’m just a girl hoping to enjoy a cocktail with a side of murder late on a Friday afternoon. So come on Eddie, spill! Poor Warren’s soul is calling out for justice. Who put an end to that miserable weasel’s existence?”
“Not a fan, I assume?” Eddie said with a raised eyebrow.
“Not by a longshot!”
“I was just explaining to Rob that we’ve got some good theories—always an important first step in tracking down a killer when all the obvious clues are not there.”
“Goody.” Having reached the end of her drink, Holly waved at Gladys, their usual waitress, while pointing to her empty glass.
“Hangar 1 Vodka, two olives and one onion,” Holly called out.
Gladys rolled her eyes. “I know, Holly, I know!”
“Sounds like you’re here more than once every Friday,” Eddie said teasingly.
“It's not that! I'm just a better tipper than you two tightwads.”
The proof of her claim was in how quickly Holly’s drink appeared. “Here you go, doll, just the way you like it," Gladys assured her.
Rob and Eddie exchanged knowing glances.
Holly grinned. “What can I say? She’s a fast learner.”
Rob sighed. “So, Eddie, what kind of scenarios are you considering?”
“Let’s go back to what we logically know: high-quality meat cleaver or not, an elderly arthritic is not going around whacking off the hands of their murder victims.”
“What does that tell ya?” Holly asked as she sucked on an olive.
“For starters, it tells us that over half of Sausalito’s population did not commit this crime.”
That brought a shared snort of laughter from both Rob and Holly.
“Let’s keep the obvious front and center. In life, Warren was around a hundred and sixty-five pounds, and about five-foot-eight. Dead bodies that size would require a pretty strong guy to move them around. And from the point Bradley was suffocated and laid out on the floor, where it’s reasonable to assume that he had his hands chopped off, and then—”
Holly was just about to say something, when Eddie jumped in and said, “Wait for it,” shaking his finger back and forth. “…was dressed, or at least cleaned up, carried outside, placed and posed on the back porch swing. It’s likely our killer is a male, with a strong back and in pretty good shape. I suspect he frequents the gym and has a particular fondness for strength-building exercises.”
"I imagine you know that Grant Randolph is a pretty healthy forty-something,” Holly said. “I was at one of those open houses for the artist's co-op down at the Marinship, and I saw him. Tight waist, broad shoulders, big arms. I mean, hubba hubba! He Tarzan, me Jane."
"I get the feeling you were impressed by Commissioner Randolph's physique?" Rob asked teasingly.
"You bet I was," Holly declared. Perching at the very edge of her chair, she turned back to Eddie and asked, “So, knowing that, where do you go from here?”
"I'll tell you this much, Holly: If Grant Randolph was his killer, he's a real whack job to murder Bradley at a time when he would instantly be suspect numero uno. The first thing I did was a pretty detailed background check on Randolph through the NYPD database. No priors and no record of him being involved in physical altercations of any sort. He might be physically capable of hurting Bradley, but that doesn't mean he did."
“That's good news," Holly agreed. "I would hate to see people like Alma and her crowd be right for once in their lives. If they could, they'd string him up today."
"Sounds like you’re right, Eddie, this one's not going to be easy," Rob said, finishing up the last of his
