guys. I wanted to talk to you about it before I made my comments. I wouldn’t want to make you look bad in front of them, and—”
Rocco lifted his hand. “Don’t give it a thought, Gid. Those weren’t our findings, they were the
medico’s
findings. Everything I know about skeletal trauma I learned from you in the last three days. Anyway, it was the public prosecutor who made it all official. He’s the boss. We just do the grunt work.” He followed this with a sudden grin. “And I have no problem at all with making Migliorini look bad; pompous, self-important twit that he is.”
“Okay, then.”
“But what exactly did they get wrong? She
wasn’t
shot in the head?”
“No, she was shot in the head.”
“She
didn’t
fall off the cliff?”
“No, she fell off the cliff.”
“So then what am I missing here?” He spread his hands. “What else is there to get wrong?”
“They’re starting to filter back in, Rocco. May as well wait till everybody’s here.”
• • •
GIDEON stood on one side of the table while the cops gathered in a standing half circle on the other side, a few feet back. “You did a fine job,” he began. “You only made one mistake, but it’s a zinger. A big one,” he emended, seeing from a number of frowns that
zinger
wasn’t in everybody’s vocabulary. “Now, you got the basics right: she was shot in the back of the head. The hole near the occipital protuberance is the entrance wound, and the defect in the forehead, that ‘reverse depressed fracture,’ is indeed a partial exit wound. By the way, Rocco, did you find the bullet? Was it still in her skull?’
“It was, just rattling around in there.”
“Okay, so we can consider it definitely established that, for whatever reason—maybe it was old, maybe it was the wrong caliber for the gun, maybe the charge had gotten damp or wasn’t big enough, maybe something else—whatever, the bullet didn’t have enough oomph to make it all the way through. But since it did make it to the inside of the
front
of the skull, we know that it had to have passed right through her brain, back to front. All the same, I think we can safely say that it didn’t kill her.”
A tentative hand went up; the formal, scholarly chief inspector from Gibraltar. “I certainly don’t mean to question your judgment, Professor Oliver, but I served as a paramedic in Afghanistan, so I know something about head wounds. And—no offense, sir—but a bullet that took this trajectory would necessarily destroy so much vital brain tissue that . . . well, in my belief, death would have been, well, certain . . . and instantaneous.”
“I agree with you, Clive. And remember, a bullet destroys a lot more than what lies directly in its trajectory, because the energy it generates hollows out a cavity much wider than the bullet’s actual diameter. And the brain is the softest organ in the body, more like jelly than any other human tissue, so it pulps very easily. And then don’t forget that the bullet carries pieces of bone and tissue along with it, and that messes up things too. So yes, that bullet would have killed her, all right. And almost certainly, it would have been instantly.”
“Hey, wait a minute, Doc,” John said. “Didn’t you just say—?”
“I didn’t say it
wouldn’t
have killed her, I said it
didn’t
kill her.” To himself Gideon somewhat shamefacedly admitted that he was having fun. The boggling of policemen’s minds was one of the innocent little vices of the forensic set.
“And there’s a difference?” someone finally asked.
“Ah, well, there we have—”
One of the two women, a
polizeihauptkommissarin
from Vienna, lifted her hand. “Professor, I regret to interrupt, but we run a bit late. Already it is four hours twenty, and there are five o’clock section meetings for some among us, so—”
“So we’d better wrap up right now. All right,” he said, “go ahead and get the remains back in the
Rocco lifted his hand. “Don’t give it a thought, Gid. Those weren’t our findings, they were the
medico’s
findings. Everything I know about skeletal trauma I learned from you in the last three days. Anyway, it was the public prosecutor who made it all official. He’s the boss. We just do the grunt work.” He followed this with a sudden grin. “And I have no problem at all with making Migliorini look bad; pompous, self-important twit that he is.”
“Okay, then.”
“But what exactly did they get wrong? She
wasn’t
shot in the head?”
“No, she was shot in the head.”
“She
didn’t
fall off the cliff?”
“No, she fell off the cliff.”
“So then what am I missing here?” He spread his hands. “What else is there to get wrong?”
“They’re starting to filter back in, Rocco. May as well wait till everybody’s here.”
• • •
GIDEON stood on one side of the table while the cops gathered in a standing half circle on the other side, a few feet back. “You did a fine job,” he began. “You only made one mistake, but it’s a zinger. A big one,” he emended, seeing from a number of frowns that
zinger
wasn’t in everybody’s vocabulary. “Now, you got the basics right: she was shot in the back of the head. The hole near the occipital protuberance is the entrance wound, and the defect in the forehead, that ‘reverse depressed fracture,’ is indeed a partial exit wound. By the way, Rocco, did you find the bullet? Was it still in her skull?’
“It was, just rattling around in there.”
“Okay, so we can consider it definitely established that, for whatever reason—maybe it was old, maybe it was the wrong caliber for the gun, maybe the charge had gotten damp or wasn’t big enough, maybe something else—whatever, the bullet didn’t have enough oomph to make it all the way through. But since it did make it to the inside of the
front
of the skull, we know that it had to have passed right through her brain, back to front. All the same, I think we can safely say that it didn’t kill her.”
A tentative hand went up; the formal, scholarly chief inspector from Gibraltar. “I certainly don’t mean to question your judgment, Professor Oliver, but I served as a paramedic in Afghanistan, so I know something about head wounds. And—no offense, sir—but a bullet that took this trajectory would necessarily destroy so much vital brain tissue that . . . well, in my belief, death would have been, well, certain . . . and instantaneous.”
“I agree with you, Clive. And remember, a bullet destroys a lot more than what lies directly in its trajectory, because the energy it generates hollows out a cavity much wider than the bullet’s actual diameter. And the brain is the softest organ in the body, more like jelly than any other human tissue, so it pulps very easily. And then don’t forget that the bullet carries pieces of bone and tissue along with it, and that messes up things too. So yes, that bullet would have killed her, all right. And almost certainly, it would have been instantly.”
“Hey, wait a minute, Doc,” John said. “Didn’t you just say—?”
“I didn’t say it
wouldn’t
have killed her, I said it
didn’t
kill her.” To himself Gideon somewhat shamefacedly admitted that he was having fun. The boggling of policemen’s minds was one of the innocent little vices of the forensic set.
“And there’s a difference?” someone finally asked.
“Ah, well, there we have—”
One of the two women, a
polizeihauptkommissarin
from Vienna, lifted her hand. “Professor, I regret to interrupt, but we run a bit late. Already it is four hours twenty, and there are five o’clock section meetings for some among us, so—”
“So we’d better wrap up right now. All right,” he said, “go ahead and get the remains back in the
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