Page 27 of A Winter of Discontent for Henry Milch
“I don’t know. I don’t see any blood so she probably wasn’t stabbed or shot. She might have been suffocated or strangled. But I can’t be sure.”
“I’m not sure I’m strong enough to strangle another human being. Or schlep a body around.”
Honest opinion, she looked strong enough to do both of those things.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Just then, Emerald began to wail. It took a moment to decide if it was her ‘let me out of the car seat’ wail or her ‘I’m hungry’ wail. No, it was definitely her ‘I’m hungry’ wail. It sounded a bit like the alien plant inLittle Shop of Horrors. An inarticulate ‘Feed me, Seymour’ or in this case ‘Feed me, Henry.’ This wail was distinctly different from the more restless ‘I need to be changed’ wail. Or the far less committed ‘I need sleep’ wail. And definitely different from the more questioning ‘I’d just like some attention’ wail.
“Um, the baby’s hungry. I’ve got some formula in the car, let me just grab it.”
I didn’t leave Melanie any time to object—not that I thought she would have—and just ran outside. I got to the Escalade, opened the back door, grabbed the diaper bag. As I hurried back the deputies stared at me as though they thought I was bringing weapons into the winery.
Back inside, I put the diaper bag on the counter, opened it, and found the bottle of formula. It was cold, very cold. I needed to figure out how to warm it up.
Detective Lehmann came through the door. Apologetically, he said, “I hope you don’t mind if I warm up for a minute. We’re still waiting on the science team.”
“Should I have my lawyer present?” Melanie asked.
I didn’t give him a chance to answer, I butted in. “I need to heat this up a little. Do you have a microwave?”
Yes, I know microwaves don’t heat evenly and I shouldn’t use it to heat formula, but if I shook it really, really well—Melanie must have known all that, because she said, “I can run it under the hot water.”
That would have to do. I handed her the bottle and thanked her as she went behind the bar. I asked Detective Lehmann, who was staring at my wailing sister, “I know it looks pretty clean out there, but they’ll be able to find fibers on the body or fingerprints on the door, right? Maybe even her skin?”
“It’s unlikely they’ll find anything at all.”
“Then why are we waiting around for a forensics person?”
He shrugged like he didn’t know. But then explained, “This is the way crime really works. In a day or two, someone will feel guilty and show up at my office to confess. Or the killer will brag to someone about what they’ve done, and we’ll bring them in and they’ll confess. Then they’ll get a lawyer, who’ll tell them to recant their confession, and we’ll have to go to trial. If we go to trial we’ll need a forensic report, even one that says nothing was found.”
That all sounded a lot like what my cousins were doing. I asked, “How much do you think she weighs?” I asked.
“The baby?”
“Roberta LaCross.”
“Oh. Well… she can’t weigh much over a hundred.”
I glanced at Melanie, who was still holding the bottle under hot running water. It didn’t help that Roberta didn’t weigh much over a hundred pounds. If a defense attorney tried to sayMelanie couldn’t have picked her up, the prosecutor would go on and on about the cases of wine she handled on a daily basis.
“How do you think she was killed?” I asked Detective Lehmann.
“I can’t discuss that with you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah… But howdoyou think she was killed?”
“What do you think?”
“I think she was strangled.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because she’s gotpetruchioall over her face and a scratch on her neck.”
Thank you,CSI. Three years of watching every episode just paid off.
“Petechia,” he corrected me. “You watch a lot of television, don’t you?”
