Free Weapon of Blood by Chris A. Jackson Page A

to require a narrow blade or pick.  Without perfect precision, the
strike would hit bone.  Also, few people would sit still long enough to allow a
killer such precision.  It would be much easier and surer to cut the throat.
    “I have no idea.”  Norwood tipped the
wizard’s head back against the chair and wiped his hand on his handkerchief. 
Too late, he realized that it was brand new, an impromptu gift from his wife. 
He’d catch hell from her for using it in such a manner.  Maybe he’d just throw
it away and claim he lost it.  “It’s a difficult kill, but it’s tidy.”
     “So, the assassin piths him right here
in this chair, then slips the dagger out and leans him back, just so he won’t
make a mess?”  Tamir scratched notes in his log.
    “Assassin?”  Norwood gave his sergeant a
curious look.  “Why call him that?”
    “Come on, sir.  This has got ‘professional
hit’ written all over it.”  He gestured around the room with the end of his
pencil.  “No sign of forced entry.  No blood spatter or signs that the killer
got all bloody doing the deed.  All kinds of expensive knickknacks lying
around, so he wasn’t here to steal stuff.  No mess, no fuss.  He didn’t even
spill the man’s brandy!”  He gave a short, humorless laugh.  “Someone’s really
proud of their skills here.”
    “Hmph.”  Norwood didn’t like the idea of
assassins or professional killings, preferring straight-forward crimes of
passion, robbery, or revenge.  Those were easier to solve.  But Tamir was
right; this looked far too neat to be any of those.  “Well, we know how, so
let’s try to figure out who and why, shall we?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “We can assume he died right here.  That
means whoever did it stood beside or behind the chair when he put a blade in
the wizard’s skull.”  Norwood circled the chair, but the expensive western rugs
gave no indication of where the killer might have stood while performing the
deed.  “The man was sipping a brandy, and he didn’t have a book or anything, so
maybe he was having a chat with the killer.”
    “So, it could have been someone he knew. 
Someone he’d let into his house for a late-night drink and conversation.” 
Tamir picked up the snifter and passed it under his nose.  “Doesn’t smell bad,
but if the killer slipped him something, it would have made the pithing a lot
easier.”
    “That’s true.”  Norwood hadn’t thought
about poison.  Tamir had a good mind for things like this.  “Make sure we have
a sample of that.  Maybe we can figure out if it was doped.  And check the
other snifters.  Our killer may have used one.”
    “Sure, sir.”  Tamir put the snifter back
down and scratched a note in his book. “Seems like a lot of trouble when
cutting his throat or hacking his head off with a sword would have been
easier.”
    “But messier and not as elegant.” 
Norwood pursed his lips.  He couldn’t remember a single killing so bereft of
evidence.
    “Elegant?”  Tamir scratched something in
his log, then looked up at his captain.  “You think this was elegant ?”
    “Well, maybe that’s the wrong word, but I
think you were right about one thing.  Whoever did this was very proud of their
skills.  They might have wanted to avoid making a mess to keep from tracking
blood all over the place, but a dagger in the eye or the heart would have been
easier than one in the back of the head, and just as sure.  It’s like someone’s
showing off here.”
    “Or sending a message?”
    Messages…daggers…assassinations…
    Norwood shuddered, remembering where he’d
seen those three things together before; the worst string of murders Twailin
had ever seen.  Those killings were nothing like this.  The method is the
message here.  More subtle than a note around the hilt of a dagger thrust
through someone’s eye while they slept.
    “I don’t know about a message, but
whoever did this did it like this for a reason.