Predator by Patricia Cornwell

from a shotgun wound to the chest.
         “I sort of remember this case,” Vince says. “It was in the news.”
         “Well, I happen to remember Dr. Swift very well,” Joe says. “He used to call Dr. Self. Once when I was on her show, he called in, gave her hell about Tourette’s syndrome, and I happen to agree with her, usually nothing more than an excuse for bad behavior. He rambled on about neurochemical dysfunction, about abnormalities of the brain. Quite the expert,” he says sarcastically.
         Nobody is interested in Joe’s appearances on Dr. Self’s show. Nobody is interested in his appearances on any show.
         “What about an ejected shell and the weapon?” Vince asks Scarpetta.
         “According to the police report, Laurel Swift noted a shotgun on the floor some three feet behind the back of the couch. No shell casing.”
         “Well, that’s a bit unusual. He shoots himself in the chest and then somehow manages to toss the shotgun over the back of the couch?” It is Joe talking again. “I’m not seeing a scene photograph with the shotgun.”
         “The brother claims he saw the shotgun on the floor behind the couch. I say claims. We’ll get to that part in a minute,” Scarpetta says.
         “What about gunshot residue on him?”
         “I’m sorry Marino isn’t here, since he’s our investigator in this case and working closely with the Hollywood police,” she replies, keeping her feelings about him barricaded. “All I know is that Laurel’s clothing wasn’t tested for GSR.”
         “What about his hands?”
         “Positive for GSR. But he claims he touched him, shook him, got blood on him. So theoretically, that could explain it. A few more details. His wrists were in splints when he died, his blood alcohol point-one, and according to the police report, there were numerous empty wine bottles in the kitchen.”
         “We sure he was drinking alone?”
         “We’re not sure of anything.”
         “Sounds like holding a heavy shotgun might not have been easy for him if he’d just had surgery.”
         “Possibly,” Scarpetta says. “And if you can’t use your hands, then what?”
         “Your feet.”
         “It can be done. I tried it with my twelve-gauge Remington. Unloaded,” she adds a little humor.
         She tried it herself because Marino didn’t show up. He didn’t call. He didn’t care.
         “I don’t have photographs of the demonstration,” she says, diplomatic enough not to add that the reason she doesn’t have them is because Marino didn’t show up. “Suffice it to say the blast would have kicked the gun back, or maybe his foot jerked and kicked the gun back, and the shotgun would have fallen off the back of the couch. Saying he killed himself. No abrasions on either of his big toes, by the way.”
         “A contact wound?” Vince asks.
         “Density of soot on his shirt, the abraded margin and diameter and shape of the wound, the absence of petal marks from the wad, which was still in the body, are consistent with a contact wound. Problem is, we have a gross inconsistency, which, in my opinion, is due to the medical examiner relying on a radiologist for a distance determination.”
         “Who?”
         “It’s Dr. Bronson’s case,” she says, and several of the scientists groan.
         “Jesus, he’s as old as the damn Pope. When the hell’s he going to retire?”
         “The Pope died,” Joe jokes.
         “Thank you, CNN news flash.”
         “The radiologist decided the shotgun wound is a, quote, distant wound,” Scarpetta resumes. “A distance of at least three feet. Uh-oh. Now we have a homicide, because you couldn’t possibly hold the barrel of a shotgun three feet from your own chest, now could you?”
         Several clicks of the mouse, and a digital x-ray of Johnny Swift’s fatal shotgun blast is