there aren’t other injuries until I’ve drained the water,” he said. “I won’t be able to determine the exact cause of death, or other contributory factors, until I get her on a table and open her up.”
“She looks pretty opened up to me already,” Stottlemeyer said.
“A straight razor will do that,” Hetzer said.
His comment made me take a second look at the razor, which was in a baggie in the CSI’s hand. I spoke to her.
“Could you please open the bottom drawer of the vanity?”
She looked at Captain Stottlemeyer for approval and he nodded. She opened the drawer, which was where I kept Mitch’s old shaving stuff. A key item was missing.
“That was my husband’s straight razor,” I said. “He liked to shave the old-fashioned way. I kept his shaving kit after he died.”
That wasn’t entirely the truth. I’d had them since he was deployed to Kosovo. It was what I did every time he was on a mission. It was my way of keeping his presence in the house. The shaving tools and the smell of the cream that still lingered on them reminded me of him.
But in those first agonizing months after he was shot down, leaving me a widowed mother with a small child, they took on added poignancy. I’d take out his shaving brush and run it along my tear-streaked cheeks. It was almost as if he were there, tenderly stroking my face, comforting me and assuring me that we’d get through his loss.
It was bad enough that someone had broken into my home, but for her to have been killed with Mitch’s razor felt like sacrilege.
“We’ll have to hold on to the razor for a while,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I know,” I replied.
Monk squeezed between us, leaned into the bathroom, and cocked his head so he could look at the dead woman.
“This wasn’t a murder,” Monk said. “It was a suicide.”
“Or a murder made to look like a suicide,” Stottlemeyer said.
Monk shook his head. “The razor is in her right hand. The depth and arc of the wound on her throat are consistent with a self-inflicted lesion.”
Dr. Hetzer squinted at the wound. “I’ve got to agree with Monk on that.”
“There also isn’t the blood splatter on the wall or splashed water on the floor that would indicate that a struggle took place,” Monk said.
“The killer could have cleaned it up,” Stottlemeyer said.
“And taken the blood- and water-soaked rags with him?” Monk said, turning to me. “Do you appear to be missing any towels?”
“Not in here,” I said. “But I’d have to take a look in my linen closet to be sure. I don’t own many towels, so it’ll only take me a minute to do an inventory.”
I went to the hall closet and checked the towels. They were all accounted for.
“This could all be staged,” Stottlemeyer said. “Maybe he killed her somewhere else and put her in the tub afterward.”
“But if he killed her elsewhere in the house, where’s the blood?” I said. “My carpets are clean.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Monk said. “Looking at them is probably what pushed her over the edge.”
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You’re saying that seeing my dirty carpets drove her to suicide?”
“It’s certainly occurred to me more than once,” Monk said. “Seeing those permanent stains can’t help but drive you to despair and force you to confront the futility of your own existence.”
“Slashing your throat is an awfully brutal way to kill yourself,” I said. “Why not take pills? Or slit both of your wrists?”
“Maybe she wanted to be absolutely sure she got the job done,” Stottlemeyer said. “Or maybe she wasn’t just depressed with her life, she actually hated herself, and those other ways were too gentle a way to go.”
“If that’s true,” I said, “what could she have done that made her feel so angry about who she was?”
“I know what you mean,” Monk said. “It’s not like she’s the one who stained the carpets.”
“That wasn’t what I was getting
“She looks pretty opened up to me already,” Stottlemeyer said.
“A straight razor will do that,” Hetzer said.
His comment made me take a second look at the razor, which was in a baggie in the CSI’s hand. I spoke to her.
“Could you please open the bottom drawer of the vanity?”
She looked at Captain Stottlemeyer for approval and he nodded. She opened the drawer, which was where I kept Mitch’s old shaving stuff. A key item was missing.
“That was my husband’s straight razor,” I said. “He liked to shave the old-fashioned way. I kept his shaving kit after he died.”
That wasn’t entirely the truth. I’d had them since he was deployed to Kosovo. It was what I did every time he was on a mission. It was my way of keeping his presence in the house. The shaving tools and the smell of the cream that still lingered on them reminded me of him.
But in those first agonizing months after he was shot down, leaving me a widowed mother with a small child, they took on added poignancy. I’d take out his shaving brush and run it along my tear-streaked cheeks. It was almost as if he were there, tenderly stroking my face, comforting me and assuring me that we’d get through his loss.
It was bad enough that someone had broken into my home, but for her to have been killed with Mitch’s razor felt like sacrilege.
“We’ll have to hold on to the razor for a while,” Stottlemeyer said.
“I know,” I replied.
Monk squeezed between us, leaned into the bathroom, and cocked his head so he could look at the dead woman.
“This wasn’t a murder,” Monk said. “It was a suicide.”
“Or a murder made to look like a suicide,” Stottlemeyer said.
Monk shook his head. “The razor is in her right hand. The depth and arc of the wound on her throat are consistent with a self-inflicted lesion.”
Dr. Hetzer squinted at the wound. “I’ve got to agree with Monk on that.”
“There also isn’t the blood splatter on the wall or splashed water on the floor that would indicate that a struggle took place,” Monk said.
“The killer could have cleaned it up,” Stottlemeyer said.
“And taken the blood- and water-soaked rags with him?” Monk said, turning to me. “Do you appear to be missing any towels?”
“Not in here,” I said. “But I’d have to take a look in my linen closet to be sure. I don’t own many towels, so it’ll only take me a minute to do an inventory.”
I went to the hall closet and checked the towels. They were all accounted for.
“This could all be staged,” Stottlemeyer said. “Maybe he killed her somewhere else and put her in the tub afterward.”
“But if he killed her elsewhere in the house, where’s the blood?” I said. “My carpets are clean.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Monk said. “Looking at them is probably what pushed her over the edge.”
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You’re saying that seeing my dirty carpets drove her to suicide?”
“It’s certainly occurred to me more than once,” Monk said. “Seeing those permanent stains can’t help but drive you to despair and force you to confront the futility of your own existence.”
“Slashing your throat is an awfully brutal way to kill yourself,” I said. “Why not take pills? Or slit both of your wrists?”
“Maybe she wanted to be absolutely sure she got the job done,” Stottlemeyer said. “Or maybe she wasn’t just depressed with her life, she actually hated herself, and those other ways were too gentle a way to go.”
“If that’s true,” I said, “what could she have done that made her feel so angry about who she was?”
“I know what you mean,” Monk said. “It’s not like she’s the one who stained the carpets.”
“That wasn’t what I was getting
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