Page 54 of Chosen Path
The alternative explanation was attractive on its face but it fell apart as soon as he thought hard about it.
Bodhi was about to say as much, but the police officer went on, “So we’re done here. Let’s get out of Ed’s hair.”
“Our fifteen minutes isn’t up,” Molly told her.
Bodhi was silent. He kept his focus on the dead woman, not the back and forth between the two live ones.
Where’s the injection site, Corrine? Where did you inject yourself?
The image of the way he found her, listing to one side, her right hand balled into a fist flashed in his mind. He rewound the mental image. Three mugs in her drying rack.
He raised his eyes and looked at Molly. “How many mugs do you use in a day?”
“What?”
“In an ordinary day, do you reuse the same mug for coffee or tea?”
“Um, yes.” She screwed up her face. “Are you okay?”
“What about you, Officer Booth? Do you live alone?”
“Doctor King, I indulged you, but your examination is—”
“One,” Ed cut in. “I live alone. I use one mug over and over for my matcha.”
“What do you do with it at the end of the day?”
“Wash it?” Ed answered as if it were a trick question.
“In the dishwasher or by hand?”
“By hand, mostly. I don’t run the dishwasher that often because it takes a while to get a full load.”
Bodhi grinned. “Exactly. I use one mug, too. At night, I wash it, rinse it, and put it in the drying rack to dry. In the morning, I invariably grab that same mug because it’s right there.”
“Me, too.” Ed said, his voice full of excitement.
“Okay, so do I,” Booth conceded. “So what?”
“So, there were three mugs drying in Corrine’s rack. As if she had entertained guests, plural, Wednesday evening.”
“And?” Molly prompted.
“We’re looking in the wrong place for the injection site.” He carefully unbuttoned the top six buttons of Corrine’s nightgown so that the neckline hung wide open. Then he walked around to the other side of the gurney and pulled the top of the nightgown down over Corrine’s right shoulder.
“There it is. Do you see it?” He pointed his gloved finger at a small hole surrounded by bruising in the fleshy part of her upper shoulder, toward the back of her arm.
“Yes!” Molly’s triumph faded quickly. “But she’s right-handed. Why would she pick such an awkward, hard to reach spot, especially one that required her to use her non-dominant hand?”
“She didn’t. Someone else injected her. So, Officer Booth is right. Corrine didn’t commit suicide. Someone else committed homicide.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
Hope was splashing cold water on her face in an effort to calm down after the disastrous call with Kara when she heard the phone ringing in Molly’s office. She grabbed a hand towel, patted her face dry, and sprinted to answer the call.
“Doctor Molly Hart’s office,” she said, trying not to pant.
“Allô,this is Doctor Etienne Blanchet. I am returning a call from Doctor Hart.”
