“It might have been nice to know this earlier,” I commented.
He turned puzzled eyes on me. “Why?”
“Because in case you’ve forgotten, this is a murder investigation,” I said. “High on the list of useful things to know are the relationships between victims and suspects.”
A whole series of emotions chased each other across his face, with outrage bringing up the rear. “Are you saying I’m a suspect?” he demanded. “How dare you!”
“I dare because we now have three unexplained deaths aboard our cozy little Quadrail,” I said calmly. “And because you were in recent contact with at least two of the three victims.”
“That’s a gross misstatement of the situation,” Witherspoon insisted stiffly. But his expression was rapidly fading from righteous anger to cautious apprehension. He’d surely seen enough dit rec thrillers to know how high the victims’ doctor usually ended up on the cops’ suspect list. “Besides, all three victims were showing symptoms before I was brought in.”
“True,” I agreed. “Tell me about Terese German.”
He blinked. “Who?”
“The young Human woman you had the consultation with over dinner last night.”
A flicker of recognition crossed his face. “Oh,” he said. “Her.”
“Yes, her,” I said. “What did you—?” I broke off as another set of hurrying footsteps sounded out in the corridor and Dr. Aronobal came charging into the dispensary, her chest heaving even more than Witherspoon’s had been at his entrance. But then, Aronobal had had farther to jog. “Dr. Aronobal,” I greeted her gravely. “My apologies for dragging you all the way up here—”
“How is he?” Aronobal asked, slowing to a fast walk as she headed toward the table.
“—especially as it turns out to have been unnecessary.” I finished. “I’m afraid di-Master Strinni has passed on.”
Aronobal shot me a look as she came to a halt by the body. “My bag.” she said tartly, jabbing a finger at the Filiaelian medical kit locked in the drug cabinet.
Obediently, the Spider unlocked the cabinet and handed over the bag. For all the good it would do. “Where were we?” I asked, turning back to Witherspoon. “Oh, yes. Terese German.”
Witherspoon’s eyes flicked over my shoulder. “What about her?”
“Let’s start with what you talked about,” I suggested.
Witherspoon hunched his shoulders in a shrug that I was pretty sure was supposed to look casual. “Not much,” he said. “I’d noticed that she seemed to be having stomach or digestive trouble—frequent trips to the restroom and all—and I asked if there was anything I could do.”
“You noticed that all the way from two cars back?” I asked. “You must have eyes like a hawk.”
“Well, no, I—I mean,” he stammered. “I mean—”
“Your seat is two cars back from hers, right?” I asked.
“Yes, but—” He broke off, his eyes flicking over my shoulder again. “I mean I noticed at the times I was in that car. When I was visiting Master Colix, Master Bofiv, and Master Tririn.”
“And was there?”
“Was there what?” he asked, thoroughly lost now.
“Was there anything you could do for her?”
Again, his eyes flicked over my shoulder. “I really can’t say anything more. I’m sorry.”
I looked over my shoulder, wondering what Witherspoon found so fascinating over there. Aronobal was standing squarely in Witherspoon’s line of glance, hunched over the table with her back to us. “You do remember that this is a murder investigation, right?” I asked, turning back to Witherspoon.
“It would be hard to forget with you reminding me every two minutes,” Witherspoon said acidly. With the brief break, he was on balance again. “I’m sorry, but this is a matter of doctor/patient privilege.”
“Dr. Witherspoon?” Aronobal called, not turning around. “A word with you, if you please?”
“What is it?” Witherspoon asked, getting up and crossing to the table.
I crossed to the table, too, circling the foot and coming up on the other side from the two doctors. “Look at this,” Aronobal said, pointing to Strinni’s hands.
The forefinger of Strinni’s right hand was curved around to touch the tip of his thumb like an okay sign, the other fingers sticking stiffly straight out together. His left hand, in contrast, was curved like he’d been holding on to a thick pipe that had been subsequently removed. “What did you do that for?” I asked.
“I did nothing.” Aronobal insisted. “They were like this when I first reached him.”
“Were they, Frank?” Bayta murmured as she came to my side.
“I don’t know,” I had to admit. “I wasn’t focusing on his hands at the time.”
“Was he holding anything earlier?” Aronobal asked. “In either hand?”
“No,” I said. That much I was sure of. “There was nothing within reach, either.”
“Your arm, perhaps?” Aronobal suggested, reaching over the table and wrapping her hand experimentally around my wrist.
“No,” I said again. “I have no idea why his hands would have curled—”
“It’s sign language,” Witherspoon said suddenly.
I studied Strinni’s hands. Now that Witherspoon mentioned it, they did look like finger-spelling letters. The letters F and C, in fact.
My initials.
“Can you read them?” Aronobal asked.
“Just a second,” Witherspoon said as he started contorting his own hand. “The left hand is the letter C,” he said. “The right hand …that’s an F.”
“CF,” Aronobal murmured thoughtfully.
“More likely FC,” Witherspoon said. “That’s the order they’re in as you look down at them.”
“Or even more likely pure coincidence,” I said. Whatever had happened with Strinni’s hands, the last thing I wanted was for Witherspoon or Aronobal to think there was a connection there to me. “Some trick of that last set of convulsions. He had enough breath to warn us not to autopsy his body, after all—if he’d wanted to leave a dying clue, he could have just said something.”
Witherspoon looked sharply at me. “FC,” he said. “Frank Compton.”
I held his gaze, a sinking feeling running through me. Damn. “That’s ridiculous,” I insisted.
“Is it?” Witherspoon countered. “Of course he couldn’t say anything, not with you and your friend the only ones in the room. What other clue could he leave?”
“Okay, fine.” I said. “Let’s say those really are F and C signs—”
“Oh, please,” Witherspoon growled. “There must be a hundred encyclopedias aboard that can confirm that.”
“I meant as opposed to random hand configurations.” I said patiently. “That still leaves the question of how di-Master Strinni learned Human sign language in the first place. Come to think of it, if we’re going down that road, we ought to be looking into what those mean in Shorshic sign language.”
“There is no such thing,” Aronobal said. “Deafness is curable or treatable among Shorshians, and hence is essentially unknown. Any signing system would have been lost generations ago.”
“Ditto for most other species,” Witherspoon agreed. “If di-Master Strinni knew any sort of sign language, it would be the Human variety.”
“Which still doesn’t prove he actually did know it,” I said. “Besides, I only met him yesterday. What possible motive would I have for killing him?”
“That is the question, isn’t it?” Witherspoon said, his tone going all dark and ominous. I le would have been great in a dit rec mystery. “Perhaps we should get Mr. Kennrick in here and see if he can shed some light on this.”