“That’s correct.”
Lawlor turned to Miller. It fits, he must have glanced up at the Crucial moment and his head would naturally be turned to the right. The entry wound is about an inch above the outer corner of the left eye.”
“Anything else interesting?” Miller asked.
“Not really. Entry wound a quarter of an inch in diameter. Very little bleeding. No powder marking. No staining. Exterior wound two inches in diameter. Explosive type with disruptions of the table of the skull and lacerations of the right occipital lobe of the brain. The wound is two inches to the right of the exterior occipital protuberance.”
“Thank you, Doctor Adare,” Miller said.
Professor Lawlor turned to Father da Costa and smiled. “You see, Father, medicine has its jargon, too, just like the Church. What I’m really trying to say is that he was shot through the skull at close quarters – but not too close.”
He picked up his bag. “The bullet shouldn’t be too far away, or what’s left of it,” he said as he walked off.
“Thank you for reminding me,” Miller called ironically.
Fitzgerald had crossed to the doorway and now he came back, shaking his head. “They’re making a plaster cast of those footprints, but we’re wasting our time. He was wearing galoshes. Another thing, we’ve been over the appropriate area with a tooth comb and there isn’t a sign of a cartridge case.”
Miller frowned and turned to da Costa. “You’re certain he was using a silencer?”
“Absolutely.”
“You seem very sure.”
“As a young man I was lieutenant in the Special Air Service, Superintendent,” da Costa told him calmly. “The Aegean Islands – Yugoslavia. That sort of thing. I’m afraid I had to use a silenced pistol myself on more than one occasion.”
Miller and Fitzgerald glanced at each other in surprise and then Father da Costa saw it all in a flash of blinding light. “But of course,” he said. “It’s impossible to use a silencer with a revolver. It has to be an automatic pistol which means the cartridge case would have been ejected.” He crossed to the doorway. “Let me see, the pistol was in his right hand so the cartridge case should be somewhere about here.”
“Exactly,” Miller said. “Only we can’t find it.”
And then da Costa remembered. “He dropped to one knee and picked something up, just before he left.”
Miller turned to Fitzgerald who looked chagrined. “Which wasn’t in your report.”
“My fault, Superintendent,” da Costa said. “I didn’t tell him. It slipped my mind.”
“As I said, Father, there’s always something.” Miller took out a pipe and started to fill it from a worn leather pouch. “I know one thing. This man’s no run-of-the-mill tear away. He’s a professional right down to his fingertips, and that’s good.”
“I don’t understand,” Father da Costa said.
“Because there aren’t many of that calibre about, Father. It’s as simple as that. Let me explain. About six months ago somebody got away with nearly a quarter of a million from a local bank. Took all weekend to get into the vault. A beautiful job-too beautiful. You see we knew straight away that there were no more than five or six men in the country capable of that level of craftsmanship and three of them were in jail. The rest was purely a matter of mathematics.”
“I see,” da Costa said.
“Now take my unknown friend. I know a hell of a lot about him already. He’s an exceptionally clever man because that priest’s disguise was a touch of genius. Most people think in stereotypes. If I ask them if they saw anyone they’ll say no. If I press them, they’ll remember they saw a postman or – as in this case – a priest. If I ask them what he looked like, we’re in trouble because all they can remember is that he looked like a priest – any priest.”
“I saw his face,” da Costa said. “Quite clearly.”
“I only hope you’ll be as certain if you see a photo of him dressed differently.” Miller frowned. “Yes, he knew what he was doing all right. Galoshes to hide his normal footprints, probably a couple of sizes too large, and a crack shot. Most people couldn’t hit a barn door with a handgun at twelve feet. He only needed one shot and that’s going some, believe me.”