“It isn’t the same font!” I exclaim.
He takes a closer look. “Yes, it is.”
“No, silly! The typeface used for Pierre Housard’s page is Times New Roman, one of the world’s most widespread fonts.”
He checks the pages again. “It’s the same font as the rest of the document.”
“That’s where you’re wrong!” I open the report closer to the beginning and then leaf through to the middle. “See, here and here, the typeface is identical to Pierre Housard’s page, Times New Roman.”
He cocks his head. “Like I said.”
“Not so fast!” I thumb through the document until I get to the coroner’s first page. “Here, it’s Georgia. The coroner used a less common font that’s very similar to Times New Roman but not identical.”
Louis takes the document from me and compares the font, going back and forth. A sliver of comprehension flashes in his eyes. He’s noticed the difference!
“See how Georgia is very slightly bigger at the same point size?” I say. “But the most telling difference is the shape of the serifs.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s those minuscule spurs that finish off the top and bottom of the stems of the letter.” I point out a word on the Housard page. “Look at this lowercasei. The tiny little projection at the top of it is slanted, right?”
He agrees.
I flip to the previous page. “Here it’s flatter.”
“You’re right! And the dot looks fatter.”
“That’s because it is.”
“So, what does this mean?” he asks.
I lean back, mighty pleased with my discovery. “This report was doctored. Someone swapped out Housard’s page from the coroner’s part.”
He compares the typefaces again. “And no one ever noticed… until you.”
“I guess no one showed this report to a print technician.”
Louis picks up his phone and starts typing. “I’m texting Angie,” he says. “She’ll put us in touch with the coroner.”
“I’ll get dressed.”
Pulling my fluffy bathrobe tighter around my body—not that it was gaping or anything—I head to my room.
Fifteen minutes later, I return to the salon with my hair blow-dried over my face and my body clothed in silk, cotton, and wool.
“He’s dead,” Louis says.
I blink at him. “The coroner?”
“Angie tried to reach him, and it turns out that he died from a sudden heart attack shortly after the palace fire.”
I sit down, thinking fast. “What about the digital copy of his report? He must’ve saved it on an internal network. Can someone print it out for us?”
“They can, but I’m afraid it won’t help us.”
“What do you mean?”
“I had the same idea as you after Angie’s call,” he says. “So, I phoned the chief of Mount Evor Police.”