Liar

part of her that could be seen between pillow and sheet was her throat, which lay slashed open like a strange dark mouth.

“That was probably one of the last blows,” Rachel said. “Not much bleeding for that type of cut, no arterial spray. I think she was already dead when the killer got around to this slice. The ones over her chest and stomach bled more.”

I made myself ask, “What about spatter patterns?”

“That’s some of the best evidence-Richmond and the housekeeper didn’t touch the walls and ceiling.” She thumbed through the photos and handed me several.

“Even though there isn’t blood all over the place, you can tell that her killer really went at it,” she said. “There’s a pattern to the spray-it’s called cast-off blood, because it was projected or cast from an object, not the site of the wound; it came from the weapon, not directly from the victim, like this arterial spurting, here and here.” She pointed to large spots with long drips running down from them.

“Look at this, then,” she said, showing me other, finer drops. “A bloodstain specialist could give you a good estimate of how far, how fast, and at what angle this blood traveled from the knife, and would have been able to count the blows delivered.

“See the way the spray arcs up the walls, even to the ceiling? Look at the close-ups of the spatter-at the shape of the blood drops. See the tails on these drops? They’re more elongated as they’re more distant from the source. And they indicate two directions-up and back down. He was really putting some swing into it.” She demonstrated with a closed fist, making a motion that would bring a knife up high above the killer and back down in a powerful sweeping curve. “I’d say this killer was pissed.”

She handed me other photos, not as close up as the previous ones. “Some of the spray is blocked,” she said, pointing to places on the photos-on the ceiling and the wall nearest the foot of the bed-where there seemed to be “shadows,” or areas where something blocked the spray of blood. “See here?” she said, “and here?”

I nodded, and tried not to think about throwing up.

“There was some spatter on the floor, but according to the reports, this housekeeper had started cleaning up before the scene was secured. Mopped the floor and opened the windows to let some air in. Neither action helped out as far as preserving evidence goes, but the blood traces were found with chemicals used by the lab guys. There was a single bloody footprint impression found on the farther side of the sheets, probably made when he got up off the bed. And in the hallway going to the front door, they did find a series of very faint bloody footprints. So there were probably footprints in the room before she started mopping.”

“From a bare foot?” Travis asked.

“No, the sole of a man’s shoe.”

“So the killer was male?” I asked.

“Yes, probably,” she said.

“What size shoe?”

She looked through the file, then said, “Eleven.”

“A big man, then.”

“Possibly. Most men wear between an eight and a ten-and-a-half.”

“Do you know your father’s shoe size, Travis?”

He shook his head. “I could probably find out.”

I was trying to picture the killer’s actions from what she had told us. “He stood on the bed?”

“No. I think the killer straddled her, pinned her arms down with his knees-there was some bruising there- muffled her screams with the pillow-used his left hand to hold the pillow on her face. Her hands were beneath the covers, no chance to scrape or claw him-nothing found under her nails.

“Killer is probably right-handed-see how the left arm blocked some spray? So did his body, as he bent over her. Wounds are all in the victim’s upper body. The autopsy studies of the wounds also indicate a righty doing the work.”

“Attacker was above the bedding the whole time?” I asked. “No sign of rape or molestation by her attacker?”

“They did all the usual tests during the autopsy-no recent sexual activity.” She handed over the next one, which showed the body without the pillow or sheet.

“Excuse me,” I heard Travis say weakly, and he hurried out of the room. I was regretting the fact that the house had only one bathroom. I winced and pushed the photos back at her.

“Sorry,” she said, but there was an unrepentant gleam in her eye.

“So do you think Arthur told him the truth?”

She lifted one shoulder. “I don’t know. It’s certainly possible. I guess the old cop in me ain’t dead yet, because it pisses me off that these people never spoke up. I guess it never occurred to any of them that someone got away with murdering this woman.”

“I think you’re wrong about that, Rachel. It probably occurred to them every day, and they felt guilty. I think that’s what kept Briana and Arthur apart all those years: Gwendolyn’s ghost.”

“Maybe, but I still don’t like it. They gave false information to people who were only trying to find the murderer.”

“You’ve met Richmond. Do you really believe that? Can you blame them? Arthur would look perfect to any prosecutor. A fortune at stake; an older, reclusive wife; a secret family in another town-”

She sighed. “It’s one thing when an adult makes up his or her mind to impede an investigation. Another to force a kid to go along with the program. Who carried the biggest burden in all of this? Your cousin. You think it was right for them to involve him in this?”

“No, but I don’t doubt they loved him, and I think they would have avoided involving him if they had thought they could.”

“Hmph. Look what’s become of him! He’s a good-looking young man who hides out from the world by living in a purple camper. Spends his time dressing up and telling fairy tales to kiddies. That’s not right.”

“I’m not saying he wasn’t damaged by all of this-he was. But you shouldn’t assume that he’s unhappy doing what he does for a living or that there’s anything wrong with it. It’s important, and he knows that even if you don’t.” At her frown, I added, “You should have seen him today, whenever he had to take on a role or make up some story-he loved it, Rachel. Besides, if this isn’t what he’s supposed to do with the rest of his life, so what? He’s still young. Give him some time to find his way.”

“Find his way? He’s wandering all over the map. You gotta give him something to hold on to, Irene. Some roots. Some roots that won’t let loose of the earth the first time a little ill wind blows his way.”

“Why, Rachel Giocopazzi! You’ve got a soft spot for him.”

“Damned right I do. He’s a good kid.”

We heard the bathroom door open, and the good kid came back out.

“Whew,” he said. “Rachel? Maybe not that much of a distraction.”

“Sorry, Travis. You want to do something else for a while?”

He shook his head. “I’ll be all right-I didn’t get sick, I just felt like I might.”

She laughed. “Oh, is that all?”

He blushed.

“So, back to work,” I said. “Any way to estimate time of death? I think the newspaper said late Friday or early Saturday.”

“Right. Body was found on Monday at six in the morning by the housekeeper, Mrs. Coughlin. Rigor mortis had passed off, and there were other indicators that she’d probably died late Friday. More importantly-and here’s one of the instances in which Richmond really failed to pursue leads-she talked on the phone twice on Friday night. She was called by her cousin Robert, and she called her brother-in-law.”

“When?” I asked.

“Robert called at a little after eight; she called Gerald Spanning at nine-thirty.”

“Any idea what the calls were about?”

“According to Robert, he called to ask for a loan. He said she agreed to give him one, and he was going to come by on Monday morning to get a check from her.”

“Is that very likely?” I asked.

“Robert said she loaned him money all the time. Richmond didn’t check it out. Travis, I’d like to ask your dad’s