Free Death Climbs a Tree by Sara Hoskinson Frommer Page B

officer to search the thing. Chuck Terry could probably handle it. Or Jill Root. As long as he’d been up there, though, Andrew had likely already touched everything on his platform. The scene was already contaminated, both in the tree and below it, first by the EMTs who had taken Sylvia to the hospital and then by Andrew and the others who’d helped him up to take her place and Skirv, whoever he was, who had carried Sylvia’s things away with him. Not that the shooter had stood that close to the tree. Joan and Andrew hadn’t seen anyone.
    One thing at a time, Fred thought. With the advantage of the first hours already lost, he waited to hear about the stone they had in hand. The amazing thing was that anyone had spotted it at all, much less recognized it as not having any business where it had fallen. Might as well hope it belonged to Sylvia.
    *   *   *
    The good and bad news came from Henshaw, who phoned early in the afternoon. “That rock you sent over? It’s not a match for her fingerprints.”
    â€œSo there was a print on it?” Hardly surprising, since the thing hadn’t walked to southern Indiana.
    â€œWe lifted a couple of partials. A thumb on one side and a finger on the other side. But they’re not hers.”
    â€œGreat.” It had been too much to hope for. Partials were better than nothing, but you couldn’t check a partial fingerprint against all the prints in the computer. Holding the phone to his ear, Fred caught his toes under his desk for security and leaned back against the wall in the old wooden swivel chair that threatened to dump him.
    â€œThe good news is that the shape of the thing fits a bruise on her temple. Looks like your projectile, all right.”
    â€œThat’s what killed her?” Hard to believe.
    â€œI haven’t done the autopsy yet. My first guess is the fall killed her. But if you want to know why she fell, it’s a good bet. Was she standing up?”
    Fred thought back to what Andrew and Joan had told him. “Yes. And letting her basket down. Probably leaning over.”
    â€œSeventy feet off the ground?” The whole town knew that much.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, then. Whatever made that bruise hit her with enough force to throw her off balance. Startle her, at the very least. Maybe even knock her out. All the other injuries visible at first glance look like the result of the fall. I say your rock sent her over.”
    Fred thanked him and sighed. Whatever the age or intent of the shooter, they were dealing with a homicide.
    Ketcham stuck his head in the door of Fred’s office. “Linda Smith’s here.”
    Fred’s feet thumped onto the floor. “Bring her in.” He stood to meet her.
    Ketcham made the introductions and then left. Fred nodded at him when he raised his eyebrows to ask whether to shut the office door, and he closed it unobtrusively.
    Linda Smith wore a denim jumper and turtleneck. Her hair was speckled with gray that he didn’t remember from the photos, and her eyes were red and swollen. “Thank you for seeing me, Lieutenant.”
    â€œMs. Smith, I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said, and meant it. “Won’t you sit down?” He held the visitor’s chair for her. “How can I help you?”
    â€œTell me what happened!” She twisted the sodden handkerchief in her hands. “They wouldn’t tell me anything at the hospital, except that she never woke up, never spoke to them. They sent me to you.”
    â€œI doubt that they knew much more. I’ve spoken with the coroner—”
    â€œThe coroner!”
    â€œIn Indiana, he’s automatically called for any death that may not be from natural causes. He had to look at Sylvia’s body.” Inside and out, but he didn’t want to add to her distress by mentioning the autopsy. “We can take you there to see her.” In fact, he was glad