talking cadaveric spasm. To get it out of her hand they would’ve almost
had to break her fingers.”
Frank finished the thought. “And there was no sign of that on the
autopsy.”
“Unless the impact of the slugs caused her hand to fly open.
“How often does that happen?”
“Once is enough for this case.”
“Okay, let’s assume she had a weapon, and now that weapon is missing.
What kind of weapon might it have been?”
Simon considered this as she repacked her kit.
“You probably could rule out a gun; she should’ve been able to get a
round off, and there were no powder burns on her hands. They couldn’t
have scraped those off without leaving a trail.”
“Good. Plus there’s no evidence she ever had a gun registered to her.
And we’ve already confirmed that there are no guns in the house.”
“So no gun. Maybe a knife then. Can’t tell what kind Of wound it made,
but maybe a slash, probably superficial. The number of fibers that were
snipped out was small, so we’re not talking life-threatening.”
“So she stabbed one of the perps, maybe in the arm or leg.
Then they backed up and shot her? Or she stabbed as she was dying?”
Frank corrected himself. “No. She died instantly. She stabs one of them
in another room, runs in here and then gets shot. Standing over her, the
wounded perp drips some blood.”
“Except the vault’s in here. The more likely scenario is that she
surprised them in the act.”
“Right, except remember the shots came from the doorway into the room.
And fired down. Who surprised who?
That’s what keeps bugging the ever-loving shit out of me.”
“So why take the knife, if that’s what it was?”
“Cause it IDS somebody, somehow.”
“Prints?” Simon’s nostrils quivered as she thought of the physical
evidence lurking out there.
Frank nodded. “That’s how I read it.”
“Was the last Mrs. Sullivan in the habit of keeping a knife with her?”
Frank responded by slapping his hand to his forehead so hard it made
Simon wince. She watched as he rushed over to the nightstand and picked
up the photo. He shook his head and handed it to her.
“There’s your goddamned knife.”
Simon looked at the photo. In it, resting on the nightstand was a long,
leather-handled letter opener.
“The leather also explains the oily residue on the palms.”
Frank paused at the front door on the way out. He looked at the security
control panel, which had been restored to its operating condition. Then
he broke into a smile as an elusive thought finally trickled to the
surface.
“Laura, you got the fluorescent lamp in the trunk?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You mind getting it?”
Puzzled, Simon did so. She returned to the foyer and plugged it in.
“Shine it right on the number keys.”
What was revealed under the fluorescent light made Frank smile again.
“Goddamn that’s good.”
“What does it mean?” Simon looked at him, her brow furrowed.
“it means two things. First@ we definitely got us somebody on the inside
and, second, our perps are real creative.”
FRANK SAT IN THE SMALL WrERR0GA-n0N ROOM AND DWWED against another
cigarette and opted instead for a cherry Turns. He looked at the cinder
block wafts, cheap metal table and beat-up chairs and decided this was a
very depressing
2 place to be interrogated in. Which was good. Depressed people were
vulnerable people, and vulnerable people, given the appropriate
prodding, tended to want to talk. And Frank wanted to listen. He would
listen all &y.
The case was still extremely muddled, but certain elements were becoming
clearer.
Buddy Budizinski still lived in Arlington and now worked at a car wash
in Falls Church. He had admitted being in the Sullivan house, had read
about the murder, but beyond that knew nothing. Frank tended to believe
him. The man was not particularly bright, had no previous police record
and had spent his adult life performing menial tasks for a living, no
doubt compelled by his having finished only the fifth grade.
His apartment was modest to the point of near poverty.
Budizinski was a dead end.
Rogers, on the other hand, had produced a treasure trove.