A Study In Murder

?“Absence of blood spatter on the wall. There is a void. This close, the shooter’s body would have blocked the spatter.” She looked up and down the wall with the lens. “He was taller than you, Mark.”

?“That’s the first good thing I’ve heard all day,” I grimaced.

?“Now, raise your arm the way you would hold a gun.”

?I brought up both hands in a trained shooter’s stance.

?“Interesting,” she said, as she came over to me. She looked at the wall behind me and held her magnifying glass up.

?“Hold up just one arm, Mark.”

?“I would never fire a gun that way.”

?“I’m sure,” Sheryl stated. “And as far as I’m concerned, you are not a suspect.”

?“Could you tell DeStadler that?” I whined and dropped my left arm, with my right arm pointed in the direction of the red stain.

?Sheryl looked at the wall again.

?“Mark, can you lower your right arm and raise your left?”

?I did, as Sheryl made affirmative grunts.

?“Sheryl, if Candy was shot in this room, that begs a very important question.”

?“You mean why didn’t anyone hear it?” Sheryl said, as she looked at the wall behind me with her lens.

?“Um…yeah. I know my gun, and it is a lot louder than you’d expect. I can understand how the killer could use it down in Soho—”

?“But with a hotel full of people, someone would hear the report,” Sheryl considered. “I slept on this floor that night. I heard nothing.”

?“Elvis said she was shot through a pillow,” I offered. “That would deaden the sound—”

?“Yes, but not enough. You can lower your arm, Watkins.”

?I did as she told me.

?“A pillow cannot completely deaden the sound of a nine millimeter.” She thought it through. “That caliber makes a very loud noise when it explodes. However, if you used a pillow in combination with a—”

?“A silencer?” I guessed.

?“Excellent, Watkins.”

?“But how could the shooter know which silencer would fit my handgun? It’s over twenty years old. And how did the killer even know I owned a gun?”

?Sheryl gave a little chuckle.

?“What could you possibly find funny?” I huffed, frustrated.

?“I’ve already discovered how they could have known,” Sheryl said. “This morning, I reread the dust jacket of your first book. It was on one of your shelves.”

?“What about it?” I muttered. “It’s just my biography.”

?“Except it mentioned that you had been a security guard in possession of a carry permit.”

?I paused for a moment and tried to remember. She was correct, I had mentioned that detail on the back cover bio. The publisher thought it gave the new author some “character.”

?“Add to that, Watkins, gun permits are public records. A clever person—especially one with Candy’s looks—could go to City Hall and find out what type of weapon you own.”