Sins and Needles by Monica Ferris Read Free Book Online Page B

was inexperienced in doing it.” He looked across at Mitch’s baffled face and clarified his remark. “The puncture wounds say the murderer poked around a bit. Not a brain surgeon, in other words.”
    â€œOh. Okay. But what do you mean, insert it? Is there a place, an opening in the skull?” The thought that the human brain pan was not a solid round of bone was startling to Mitch.
    â€œWhere the base of the skull meets the first vertebra of the spine is a layer of—well, call it gristle. Shaped sort of like a disk—you’ve heard of slipped disks? There are disks between the vertebrae, and one on top, where the spine meets the skull. This piece of metal wasn’t driven through the bone—it was slipped through that tissue and up into the brain stem.”
    Mitch, not big on clinical detail but swift at methodology, asked, “If it could be pushed in, why couldn’t it be pulled out again?”
    â€œProbably because the woman, in a dying spasm, threw her head back and pinched the space closed. This piece of metal was once longer than it is now, though how much longer is anyone’s guess. The roughness of the cut would indicate it was done with a dull blade—that’s why the mortician cut himself on it.”
    Mitch nodded. “Good thing for us that criminals generally make mistakes. This one thought the old woman’s hair would hide it. And it almost did,” he added, without sympathy for the ME’s rookie representative who hadn’t found it before sending the body to that mortician in Excelsior, and who would get soundly rapped on the knuckles for that error.
    Mitch thought some more, reaching for his notebook. The murderer would very likely not have brought wire clippers along and would have had to go looking for them. And then, not wanting someone to notice them missing, he probably put them back. Mitch wrote that down. Maybe there were fingerprints on them.
    He’d go search the house today.
    Â 
    S USAN was scrubbing down the kitchen cabinets when the doorbell rang. In good shape for a woman in her midsixties, she hopped nimbly off the little step ladder, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and hurried through the dining room to the front door. From habit, she looked around before opening the door. All was in order; she kept a very clean house.
    She glanced through one of the leaded lights beside the door and saw a tall, heavyset man with dark hair. He wasn’t carrying an attaché case, so he wasn’t a salesman. And his suit was too ill-fitting to belong to an attorney. Not a mortician—that was all taken care of. That left one choice, and her heart sank. A police detective had called earlier to see if she would be home. This must be him.
    She opened the door. “Yes?”
    Sure enough, he reached into a side pocket and produced a photo ID and badge in a worn leather folder. “Mrs. McConnell?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œI’m Sergeant Mitchell Rice, Orono Police. I called you earlier. Is it all right if I come in?”
    She hesitated, but it was too late to say no without a really good reason, and she didn’t have one. “All right.”
    She turned and led the way into her living room. It was a good-size room for such a small house, done in pastel shades of green and cream, with touches of pink. Not fluffy, but definitely feminine. He paused a moment, then chose the pale upholstered chair; in his dark suit he was like a june bug on a buttercream birthday cake. He offered her a business card printed with his name, phone number, fax number, even an e-mail address, plus the round Orono city seal.
    She couldn’t think what to do with it, so she held it in her hand as she went to sit on the couch. “I assume you’re here about my aunt,” she said.
    â€œI’m here about Edyth Hanraty. She was your aunt, right?”
    â€œThat’s right—my mother’s sister.”
    â€œHuber’s