still alive then, Bill. The fatal bullet occurred after the officers called to say that she was still alive. That’s why the officers were killed.”
“Excuse me?” queried Dreher. “How the hell do you know that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Cinq-Mars appeared to be speaking to the sketch of the woman’s shape on the hardwood floor. “What other explanation is there? The officers radioed that she was still alive. The killer overheard that conversation. At that moment their fates were sealed. He could not allow the woman to remain alive and possibly recover and identify him—or for other reasons—but in order to kill her, he had to get to her, and that meant killing the officers first, and with some haste, since an ambulance and other police were on the way.”
“Okay,” Mathers allowed. He got that much. “But how?”
Cinq-Mars gazed between the two men a moment, then looked behind him. Next, he turned back and pulled his hands from his pockets as he stepped over behind Bill Mathers. Before him stood a pair of Queen Anne chairs and between them a sturdy table which held magazines in its base and a pair of coffee coasters on its mahogany surface. “There’s your footprints in the snow,” he pointed out. Both Dreher and Mathers leaned in closer. “Only they’re in the rug.” The pale, soft-pile, oval rug that covered the surface around the chairs showed indentations the table had made in its original location. The table’s feet now stood slightly to the side of those twin marks.
“Okay, the table’s been moved slightly,” Mathers noted. “So? Are you saying that it got bumped during a struggle?”
Cinq-Mars ignored him. He returned to the hallway. Mathers followed closely behind but Dreher seemed to hold himself back. Cinq-Mars pointed up. To a trapdoor. “He stood on the table to get into the attic. He could push open the trapdoor standing on the table, and a strong man can pull himself up from there. Notice the hall runner.” He pointed to spots between his feet. “It also has slight indentations which match the table legs from when he put his weight on it. Up he goes. When the first cop poked his head out, and when he happened to look down, he was shot through the back of his skull from above. When the second cop peeked around the corner, wondering where that shot had come from, he heard something—the trapdoor being opened ajar, perhaps—and glanced up. Either that or he figured out the first bullet’s trajectory. His last split-second alive. Shot through the forehead. He jolts back, his head hits the doorjamb at this blood mark, then pitches forward.”
Mathers’s focus repeatedly swung between the chalk marks representing the two dead cops and the trapdoor in the hall ceiling. “Son of a bitch,” he said.
Cinq-Mars maintained a deliberately blithe tone when he said, “Our killer could still be up there, Bill.”
Mathers didn’t bite, but he did catch on to what transpired next.
“That means—No shit.”
“Exactly. He was up there the whole time the SQ was scouring the place looking for clues. He got to listen in to everything they said. But a word of caution, Bill, he could still be up there, listening in to us.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I’m not, truth be told. But I’m not a cop anymore. You are. What does correct procedure require of you?” As Mathers was looking around for a prop and seemed to be considering the same table the killer had used, Cinq-Mars helped him out. “I saw a stepladder in the basement.”
Mathers went down to fetch it, which made him feel somewhat like a junior detective again, a gofer, but in the company he was keeping his sergeant-detective status didn’t carry much weight. On the upper landing, Dreher sidled up next to Cinq-Mars and spoke softly.
“So the killer pulls himself into the attic. Doesn’t that leave the table underneath the trapdoor? Wouldn’t the first responders discover it when they came on the scene?”
“He
“Excuse me?” queried Dreher. “How the hell do you know that?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Cinq-Mars appeared to be speaking to the sketch of the woman’s shape on the hardwood floor. “What other explanation is there? The officers radioed that she was still alive. The killer overheard that conversation. At that moment their fates were sealed. He could not allow the woman to remain alive and possibly recover and identify him—or for other reasons—but in order to kill her, he had to get to her, and that meant killing the officers first, and with some haste, since an ambulance and other police were on the way.”
“Okay,” Mathers allowed. He got that much. “But how?”
Cinq-Mars gazed between the two men a moment, then looked behind him. Next, he turned back and pulled his hands from his pockets as he stepped over behind Bill Mathers. Before him stood a pair of Queen Anne chairs and between them a sturdy table which held magazines in its base and a pair of coffee coasters on its mahogany surface. “There’s your footprints in the snow,” he pointed out. Both Dreher and Mathers leaned in closer. “Only they’re in the rug.” The pale, soft-pile, oval rug that covered the surface around the chairs showed indentations the table had made in its original location. The table’s feet now stood slightly to the side of those twin marks.
“Okay, the table’s been moved slightly,” Mathers noted. “So? Are you saying that it got bumped during a struggle?”
Cinq-Mars ignored him. He returned to the hallway. Mathers followed closely behind but Dreher seemed to hold himself back. Cinq-Mars pointed up. To a trapdoor. “He stood on the table to get into the attic. He could push open the trapdoor standing on the table, and a strong man can pull himself up from there. Notice the hall runner.” He pointed to spots between his feet. “It also has slight indentations which match the table legs from when he put his weight on it. Up he goes. When the first cop poked his head out, and when he happened to look down, he was shot through the back of his skull from above. When the second cop peeked around the corner, wondering where that shot had come from, he heard something—the trapdoor being opened ajar, perhaps—and glanced up. Either that or he figured out the first bullet’s trajectory. His last split-second alive. Shot through the forehead. He jolts back, his head hits the doorjamb at this blood mark, then pitches forward.”
Mathers’s focus repeatedly swung between the chalk marks representing the two dead cops and the trapdoor in the hall ceiling. “Son of a bitch,” he said.
Cinq-Mars maintained a deliberately blithe tone when he said, “Our killer could still be up there, Bill.”
Mathers didn’t bite, but he did catch on to what transpired next.
“That means—No shit.”
“Exactly. He was up there the whole time the SQ was scouring the place looking for clues. He got to listen in to everything they said. But a word of caution, Bill, he could still be up there, listening in to us.”
“You’re not serious.”
“I’m not, truth be told. But I’m not a cop anymore. You are. What does correct procedure require of you?” As Mathers was looking around for a prop and seemed to be considering the same table the killer had used, Cinq-Mars helped him out. “I saw a stepladder in the basement.”
Mathers went down to fetch it, which made him feel somewhat like a junior detective again, a gofer, but in the company he was keeping his sergeant-detective status didn’t carry much weight. On the upper landing, Dreher sidled up next to Cinq-Mars and spoke softly.
“So the killer pulls himself into the attic. Doesn’t that leave the table underneath the trapdoor? Wouldn’t the first responders discover it when they came on the scene?”
“He
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