Free Dying on the Vine by Aaron Elkins Page A

convinces me. I mean, no offence, Gid, I know you’re this great expert and everything, but I need a little more than your word here.”
    “Give me a minute, Rocco, I’ll get there. But for the moment just assume I’m right. Now think about it. Here’s this woman. She’s just taken this horrendous fall. She’s about as dead as she can get. Half her bones are broken. Now, for whatever reason, he wants to shoot her. So how—”
    Rocco held up his hand again. “Yeah, I see the problem. How is he supposed to get her into a kneeling position?”
    “That’s it. What he did do, I’m guessing, was to shoot her where she lay, right on the ground. Prone. Not execution-style at all. The bullet trajectory would have been exactly the same.”
    John hunched his shoulders. “I’d say that’s a pretty good guess.”
    “Thanks, but it’s actually more than a guess. Remember this afternoon, when I tossed out a couple of reasons why the bullet might not have made it all the way through her skull? Well, there was another reason I didn’t mention, because I didn’t want to muddy the waters at the time—”
    “But now you do,” Rocco grumbled.
    “I’m a scientist, Rocco. I have to say what I find.”
    “That’s what he always says when he does this,” John said cheerfully. “Every single damn time.”
    “Okay, so what’s this other reason?” Rocco asked reluctantly.
    “It’s something that happens when the spot where the bullet would ordinarily exit is up against something firm, so that the bone is shored up and kept from exploding outward. So the bullet can’t get out either, and it just bounces off and stays inside.”
    Rocco nodded his acceptance.
    “So if I’m right and she was lying facedown on the ground, and he just leaned over and plugged her, then the earth, or rock, or whatever that was under her head would have kept the bullet from exiting.”
    “Well, she was laying on her stomach, all right. Oh boy, I’m starting to think maybe we’re going to have to reopen this whole can of worms after all.” He shut his eyes. “God help me.”
    “What about the husband?” Gideon asked. “How was he shot? Was it compatible with suicide?”
    “Oh yeah, I’m pretty sure we’re on safe ground there. Couldn’t have been more compatible. Right out of the books. The classic spot for a handgun suicide.” He raised his left hand and jabbed his forefinger at his temple. “Bang. And please, don’t give me any more crap about shooting yourself in the armpit. You know damn well this is where they do it nine times out of ten.”
    “I don’t know about your statistics,” Gideon said, “but generally speaking, yes.”
    “And righties shoot themselves in the right side of the head and lefties shoot themselves in the left side of the head—”
    “But not always,” John put in.
    “Oh, come on, you guys, give me a break. What, it’s only ninety-five percent of the time?”
    Gideon had to smile. There had been a recent study of just this question, based on an examination of confirmed suicides. The answer: 95 percent.
    “And he was shot straight through the left temple,” Rocco continued. “Wanna guess whether he was a lefty or a righty?”
    Gideon laughed. “Well . . . this is just a hunch here, but I’m going to take a chance and guess he was a lefty.”
    “Bingo. Okay, your turn, Mr. Expert—pardon me, Dr. Expert. Now you’re gonna go ahead and tell me what’s wrong with our theory—why he couldn’t possibly have committed suicide, right?”
    “Hey, Rocco,” John said approvingly, “you’re a quick learner.”
    “I don’t see anything wrong with it,” Gideon said. “You’re right. Sounds like a suicide to me.”
    Rocco staggered and clapped a hand to his heart. “I’m shocked . . . shocked.” They stopped walking to let Rocco draw a Marlboro from a pack with his lips and apply a lighter to it.
    “Rocco,” Gideon said, “what were the other things that made you so sure he