“Of course, that’s right. And she was stabbed, not shot.”
Decker rocked back on his heels.She was stabbed, not shot. Why the hell didn’t you see that discrepancy before, superpower memory or not?
“What caliber killed Draymont?” he asked.
“Nine millimeter. Both slugs were still in him. They’re in good shape for a ballistics match if we can find the gun.”
She showed him the rounds that were in another plastic evidence baggie. “They were fired from a distance of over four feet. No powder burns or other markings on the body.”
“Which makes sense. It would give Draymont no opportunity to wrestle the weapon away. Now, what can you tell me about the knife used to kill the judge?”
She brought up a file on the computer that showed the knife wounds on the dead woman together with a measurement scale.
“I’m estimating about a six-inch blade with a serrated edge.”
“Four defensive wounds on her forearms and two on her hands?”
“That’s correct. Unfortunately, there was no trace under her fingernails. She probably was focused on blocking the knife strikes and never got ahold of her attacker.”
“Right.”
“And, as I reported before, ten stab wounds to her torso, including the fatal one.”
Decker shook his head.
“What is it?”
“Maybe nothing. Thanks.”
He left and walked out into the heat and sunshine.
Gun, knife, impersonal versus frenetic. What the hell was I thinking? Well, you weren’t thinking, were you?
You don’t shoot someone and then chase down and struggle with a witness, and then knife her. She would have been screaming her head off, though with Kline on a CPAP machine and taking a sleep aid, and the Perlmans out of town, there would have been no one around to hear. Still, you would just shoot her, like you had Draymont. Bang, bang, no screams, no struggle. You didn’t have to get close enough to stab her multiple times.
So they had one personal murder and one probable nonpersonal murder occurring around the same time and in the same house.
Despite all the reasons why it could have never gone down that way, Decker was now thinking one thing.
We have not one but two killers. And as implausible as it sounds, I don’t think either one knew about the other.
Chapter29
A?T AROUND HALF PAST TWELVEa Mercedes sedan pulled into the home’s wraparound driveway and came to a stop. A man in his early seventies with neatly trimmed white hair and wearing a blazer and dark slacks got out from the rear driver’s side. He was around six feet tall and thin. A tall, slender woman in her late fifties with long silvery hair and dressed in a billowy navy blue skirt and long-sleeved white blouse climbed out of the rear passenger side.
The driver clambered out, popped the trunk, and pulled out two rolling suitcases.
The man tipped him and took the suitcases.
As soon as the Benz pulled off, Decker steered his rental into the driveway.
He got out and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Perlman?”
Mr. Perlman turned to him. “Yes? Who are you?”
Decker held out his credentials. “Amos Decker with the FBI.”
Mrs. Perlman glanced sharply at her husband. “FBI? What is going on, Trevor?”