shot her from outside, on the driver’s side?”
“Naw. I called the ME after I saw those photos, just to doublecheck. Entry wound is on her right, exit wound on the left.”
“But—” I paused, the significance of the photo of the driver’s side door crystallizing for me. “Explain the glass. If the bullet came from inside the car, wouldn’t the glass fall outside on the ground?”
I knew from experience how much glass a broken car window left and how much vacuuming it took to clean it all up; someone had broken the window in my firm-leased BMW when I worked in Columbia.
“Good eye,” he said. “That attracted everyone’s attention. Most of the broken glass fell inside the car, but the window slopes in slightly, which could explain why it fell inside rather than outside.”
On TV, somebody would gather the glass and glue the whole window back together to check which side showed exit beveling, just to make sure. Maybe Rudy could suggest that to the baby detective. Something to keep him busy.
“Was it her gun?” I asked.
“Don’t know. Stolen in a home robbery in Birmingham four years ago.”
I couldn’t see somebody with Fran’s privileged background buying a hot gun on the street from a fence, but Neanna had lived life closer to the edge, maybe had run with folks who could have gotten her a stolen gun.
“Any word on the tox screen?”
“A little pot. Some alcohol. A lot of Xanax.”
Two thoughts running on different tracks collided in my brain. My emotional first response was,
No, don’t tell me she’d been using. Like mother, like daughter?
The second, more rational response, I asked aloud. “Could she drive on that?” Even if she’d acquired a tolerance, could she navigate unfamiliar mountain roads?
“You’d be surprised the crap some of the folks you meet on the road got in themselves.”
He studied his empty plate for a forlorn moment, then asked, “You see the gun?”
I nodded.
“You ever handle one of those? A .40 caliber?”
“Yeah, once. At the range.” Dang thing almost unhinged my right shoulder.
“That model’s heavier than mine,” Rudy said. He could see he didn’t have to lead the witness any farther.
I lifted my right arm, elbow stuck awkwardly out to the side, an imaginary muzzle pointed at the base of my skull, the spot where a bullet disrupting the medulla oblongata would stop everything. Instantly. Breathing, muscle movement, everything.
“That would be a difficult shot,” I said. The weight of the gun, the angle, her small hands.
He nodded, proud of his pupil.
“Any dessert?” The waitress whisked up our plates, Rudy’s wiped clean, mine only half-eaten.
“Peach cobbler,” Rudy said without pause.
Maylene’s desserts were usually the best thing on the menu, but I wasn’t in the mood, even for warm peach cobbler and rock-hard vanilla ice cream. I turned sideways in the padded booth, my back against the wall and my legs stretched out across the bench seat.
I could feel Rudy staring at me. Was he willing me to say it out loud so he wouldn’t have to commit himself?
I didn’t turn to look at him. “You saying you don’t think she killed herself?”
He slid his ice tea glass back and forth between his hands. “Not saying anything for certain. Just raising questions.”
“Too many questions.”
He glanced at me before his attention fell back to the puddle of condensation spreading from his sweating tea glass.
“It’s worth digging into, don’t you think?” I asked. “Just to make sure? It’s probably suicide, but I’d hate to be wrong.”
He shrugged. “That’s what I’m thinking.”
“It bothers me about that window glass on the inside of the car. I can see how that could happen, given the curve of the door, but at the same time . . .”
He nodded.
“You think we could find a car like that? Do an experiment?”
“You been watching too much TV.”
“I was just thinking, Pun’s junkyard probably has a car like
“Naw. I called the ME after I saw those photos, just to doublecheck. Entry wound is on her right, exit wound on the left.”
“But—” I paused, the significance of the photo of the driver’s side door crystallizing for me. “Explain the glass. If the bullet came from inside the car, wouldn’t the glass fall outside on the ground?”
I knew from experience how much glass a broken car window left and how much vacuuming it took to clean it all up; someone had broken the window in my firm-leased BMW when I worked in Columbia.
“Good eye,” he said. “That attracted everyone’s attention. Most of the broken glass fell inside the car, but the window slopes in slightly, which could explain why it fell inside rather than outside.”
On TV, somebody would gather the glass and glue the whole window back together to check which side showed exit beveling, just to make sure. Maybe Rudy could suggest that to the baby detective. Something to keep him busy.
“Was it her gun?” I asked.
“Don’t know. Stolen in a home robbery in Birmingham four years ago.”
I couldn’t see somebody with Fran’s privileged background buying a hot gun on the street from a fence, but Neanna had lived life closer to the edge, maybe had run with folks who could have gotten her a stolen gun.
“Any word on the tox screen?”
“A little pot. Some alcohol. A lot of Xanax.”
Two thoughts running on different tracks collided in my brain. My emotional first response was,
No, don’t tell me she’d been using. Like mother, like daughter?
The second, more rational response, I asked aloud. “Could she drive on that?” Even if she’d acquired a tolerance, could she navigate unfamiliar mountain roads?
“You’d be surprised the crap some of the folks you meet on the road got in themselves.”
He studied his empty plate for a forlorn moment, then asked, “You see the gun?”
I nodded.
“You ever handle one of those? A .40 caliber?”
“Yeah, once. At the range.” Dang thing almost unhinged my right shoulder.
“That model’s heavier than mine,” Rudy said. He could see he didn’t have to lead the witness any farther.
I lifted my right arm, elbow stuck awkwardly out to the side, an imaginary muzzle pointed at the base of my skull, the spot where a bullet disrupting the medulla oblongata would stop everything. Instantly. Breathing, muscle movement, everything.
“That would be a difficult shot,” I said. The weight of the gun, the angle, her small hands.
He nodded, proud of his pupil.
“Any dessert?” The waitress whisked up our plates, Rudy’s wiped clean, mine only half-eaten.
“Peach cobbler,” Rudy said without pause.
Maylene’s desserts were usually the best thing on the menu, but I wasn’t in the mood, even for warm peach cobbler and rock-hard vanilla ice cream. I turned sideways in the padded booth, my back against the wall and my legs stretched out across the bench seat.
I could feel Rudy staring at me. Was he willing me to say it out loud so he wouldn’t have to commit himself?
I didn’t turn to look at him. “You saying you don’t think she killed herself?”
He slid his ice tea glass back and forth between his hands. “Not saying anything for certain. Just raising questions.”
“Too many questions.”
He glanced at me before his attention fell back to the puddle of condensation spreading from his sweating tea glass.
“It’s worth digging into, don’t you think?” I asked. “Just to make sure? It’s probably suicide, but I’d hate to be wrong.”
He shrugged. “That’s what I’m thinking.”
“It bothers me about that window glass on the inside of the car. I can see how that could happen, given the curve of the door, but at the same time . . .”
He nodded.
“You think we could find a car like that? Do an experiment?”
“You been watching too much TV.”
“I was just thinking, Pun’s junkyard probably has a car like
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