Page 91 of Child's Play
‘Pretty sure her name was Beth something or other.’
Sixty-Three
‘Hmm…’ Keats said for the seventh time.
‘I was thinking that,’ Mitch said, turning the tee shirt another way.
Penn stood up and stretched his legs. He’d been sitting in the corner for over an hour and these forms of half communication had been passing between the two of them at regular intervals.
Both men had suggested he leave the garment with them, but he wasn’t letting it out of his sight. The chain of evidence would be preserved even if it counted for nothing any more.
‘How can you know what he was thinking from half a word?’ he asked, standing beside the forensic technician.
‘It’s the value of the word,’ he explained.
Both men were wearing latex gloves and were armed with rulers, notepads, pencils and a textbook.
‘Explain it again,’ Keats said. ‘Tell us how it happened and use Mitch,’ he continued, pushing him forward. ‘And here’s your knife.’
Penn took the ruler from the pathologist and moved to the other side of the metal table so that he and Mitch were facing each other.
‘Okay, I’m Gregor and I come in to the shop. You’re Dev Kapoor on the other side of the counter. I posture and ask for money. I probably tell you I’ve got a knife. You don’t believe me and you’re angry, so you step around the side of the counter. I reach for the knife and stab you right there,’ Penn said. Thrusting the ruler at the exact spot.
‘And freeze,’ Keats shouted.
Both men stood totally still as Keats walked around them looking through and then over his glasses.
‘Hmm…’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ Mitch agreed.
‘Guys, as I didn’t bring my clairvoyant head with me you’re going to have to…’
‘You’re sure of the wound point?’
He nodded. ‘Oh yeah.’
‘And the trajectory?’
He took another look. ‘Yes.’
‘And the length of the blade given the internal wound?’
‘Yes,’ he said, impatiently. He’d given them every bit of information he had.
‘You’ve got yourself a bit of a problem here, my boy,’ Keats said, taking off his glasses.
‘How so?’ he asked, feeling the dread rise in his stomach.
He watched as Mitch went back to the tee shirt and frowned, but it was Keats who was speaking.
‘That’s not how it happened.’
‘It has to be,’ Penn said.
‘You’re not arguing with me, you’re arguing with science and I can tell you categorically that the blood spatter marks don’t match.’
‘Jesus,’ he said, running his hand through his curly hair. More doubt was not what he needed right now.
