Free Second Street Station by Lawrence H. Levy

that, was a large steamer trunk in his study next to his couch, as if it were a coffee table. The study was to the right of the entrance directly across from the living room, which was on the left. Chief Campbell was in the living room with W. W. Goodrich and Officer Russell. Older than Charles and very much his opposite, W. W. Goodrich was known for his stylish dress and for being outspoken. He was very upset. As a result, no one noticed Mary.
    “My brother would never commit suicide,” he protested, seeming more concerned with his family’s name than his brother’s death. “He’s a Goodrich, for God’s sake!”
    So it wasn’t murder. Evidently, the
Eagle
had rushed to press too quickly with a “hot” story. Mary saw Charles Goodrich’s body lying in the study and couldn’t resist going over to examine it. She had read many books on forensics and felt confident she could tell whether a man had committed suicide or not. There was a bullet hole through his temple, and he had a gun in his right hand.
    “No reason to get excited, Alderman,” Chief Campbell cautioned, his voice drifting over from the living room. “Nothing’s official until the coroner examines him.”
    “He’ll find the same, Chief,” Officer Russell interjected. “Powder stains on his hand and black ones on his temple, showing he was shot at close range. It’s a suicide.”
    Officer Russell sneered confidently, positive he had made a big impression on the chief. He had, but not in the way he had thought. Chief Campbell was trying to put out a fire, and one of his officers was pouring kerosene on it.
    “It’s not a suicide,” Mary announced from the study, taking the three men by surprise. Almost in unison, they turned to see her rising from Goodrich’s body. “You will probably find a second bullet in a wall or cushion where the killer fired the gun from Mr. Goodrich’s hand after he was dead. Hence, the powder stains on his hand.”
    Officer Russell quickly responded. “I see we have a lady expert. How fortunate.”
    “They’re teaching us to read now, too,” Mary responded immediately. “It’s highly experimental.”
    Chief Campbell walked toward the study, and the others followed. At the moment, he didn’t care how Mary had gotten into a murder scene. He was hoping she might create a diversion for W. W. Goodrich until the coroner arrived. If that meant a sparring match of words between Officer Russell and Sean Handley’s sister, so be it.
    “Meet the woman who saved your life the other day, Russell. Mary Handley.”
    Mary held out her hand. Officer Russell didn’t take it. “I see you make a habit of interfering.”
    Mary looked at her empty hand, then at him. “And they say chivalry is dying.”
    Officer Russell realized he was not going to win this war of words, so he just stood there, quietly steaming. But W. W. Goodrich didn’t care that Mary was a woman. He just cared that someone was confirming a scenario that would avert a family scandal.
    “How do you know this, young lady?” he asked.
    “I have seen many gunshot victims, granted mostly in pictures or in drawings, and one thing is uniform. It’s messy. As you can see on the floor, there are massive amounts of blood.” She kneeled down next to Charles Goodrich’s body. “Yet there is no blood at all on his clothes. That’s highly improbable, and his body is positioned like an actor in a bad melodrama.” She sniffed Goodrich’s shirt. “His clothes are fresh. It’s reasonable to assume the killer changed them, possibly because he got blood in the wrong places when positioning the body to pass as a suicide.”
    “See, it’s not a suicide!” W. W. Goodrich shouted joyously. “I knew it wasn’t!”
    Just then the coroner entered with his assistant. It had been a busy morning. This was his fourth case. “Where’s the unfortunate Mr. Goodrich, Chief?”
    Chief Campbell stepped aside, revealing the body, and the coroner went