Reardon added it to the pile of reports and pushed them all away. He looked at the sergeant. “What about the time of death?”
“Between twelve midnight and three in the morning. “That’s the closest they can make it, and that’s apparently based on what Mrs. Martin said about what they had for dinner. And when.”
Reardon sighed. “And could a woman have done it?”
Bennett looked at him blankly; there was a sort of shuffling movement on the part of Sergeant Dondero, indicating his surprise as well at the question, but the swarthy detective remained silent. Bennett shook his head, bewildered.
“The report doesn’t say, Lieutenant.”
“Well, then, let’s find out. Who signed the report?”
Bennett shook his head. Reardon reached for the report, turned a page and checked for himself. “Dr. Henke. Good enough.” He dragged the telephone closer and dialed an internal number. There were a few moments delay while he spoke first to a secretary and then to an assistant. Finally the pathologist was on the line.
“Doctor Henke here.”
“Doctor, this is Lieutenant Reardon in Homicide. We’ve been discussing your postmortem report on Raymond Martin—”
“Discussing it? Isn’t it clear?”
“It’s clear, Doctor, but some questions have come up that aren’t covered in the report. Not that they necessarily should have been,” he added hastily, aware of the touchiness of doctors in general and pathologists like Henke in particular.
“Such as?”
“Well, in the first place, Doctor, could a woman have committed the crime?”
“A child could have smothered the man once he was unconscious,” the doctor said a bit sententiously. “As for rendering him unconscious, of course, that depends upon the strength, speed and skill of the person pressing on the carotid sinus. Martin wasn’t a particularly large person — I don’t have the figures in front of me, but you have them in the report — and the reaction of unconsciousness from the use of such a pressure point is fairly rapid. I would say that anyone with a basic knowledge of physiology, or even karate — and they are teaching that to everyone these days — could have known the results of such pressure.”
Reardon cupped the receiver and grinned at Bennett.
“You were right, Sergeant. They sure hate to say anything definite.” He returned his attention to the telephone, his smile erased. “So what you are saying, in effect, Doctor, is that a woman could have done it. Is that the case?”
“Well, yes, I suppose so,” the doctor said. His tone was reluctant, not so much at the thought of a woman committing the crime, as at the thought of committing himself to a definite fact. “Actually,” he added, as if the additional statement somehow cleared him of any responsibility, “there are really almost no crimes of violence a woman can’t perform. Nor hasn’t.”
“Thank you, Doctor. One more question — and I know you can’t be positive on this since I’m asking motive now — but can you think of any reason to smother a man after he was unconscious from this pressure on the carotid you mention? I mean, wouldn’t continued pressure have resulted in death, anyway?”
The doctor paused, trying to remember what he had said in his report.
“Not necessarily,” he said cautiously. “Or perhaps saying, not inevitably, would be putting it more accurately.” He continued in his condescending tone, this hurdle successfully taken. “You see, Lieutenant, death is far from necessarily instantaneous in such cases. In fact, death has been known to occur much later from asphyxia induced gradually by hemorrhage, edema or emphysema developing in the submucous layer of the glottis and occluding its aperture—”
Reardon cast his eyes to the ceiling imploringly and then brought them down again.
“By later, Doctor, you mean some time later, isn’t that the case?”
“By later, Lieutenant,” the pathologist said with a touch of sarcasm, “I mean later, which could be anywhere from minutes to days, depending upon the size of the hemorrhage. There have even been cases where the laryngeal injury heals and the scar tissue which forms may cause obstruction of the lumen several months later, even at times requiring operative interference to improve the patient’s condition.”
Despite the importance of maintaining good relations with other departments — stressed by Captain Tower in his weekly departmental meetings — this was a bit too much.
“You are not suggesting that in two or three months it might be necessary to operate on Ray Martin to help him regain his voice, are you, Doctor?” There was a shocked intake of breath from the other end of the line. Reardon went on. “I asked you a simple question and I’d appreciate a simple answer. Can you think of any reason why — after rendering the man unconscious, the killer didn’t proceed to keep the pressure on until Martin was dead? Instead of holding the pillow over his face?”
When the doctor answered, his voice was icy.
“I don’t much care for your tone, Lieutenant, but I can think of various answers to your question. He may have been interrupted. He may have wished to disguise the fact of his having used the carotid sinus at all; he may have felt the prolonged pressure might leave an indicative bruise whereas temporary pressure would not — in which case I can only say he knew nothing of medicine.” He seemed to anticipate a further question and answered it before it could be asked. “I have no idea why. Possibly when you catch your murderer, Lieutenant, you can ask him. Or her.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Reardon said politely, and hung up.
“What did he say?” Dondero sounded curious.
“Nothing. I thought for a while there he was using doubletalk, and maybe he was.” Reardon drummed his fingers restlessly on the desk. “Oh, yes — a woman could have done it, but if we ever get him on the stand he’ll probably swear we forced the information from him with hot needles.” He smiled wryly. “Well, that’s that. What’s next?”
“Well,” Dondero said slowly, “there’s still the matter of Jerry Capp—”
“What about him?”
“Well, they did an autopsy on him, too, you know,” Dondero said. “Not that there was any doubt as to how he was killed, or anything like that, but you know how it goes.”
“I know. And?”
“Well,” Dondero said, and he didn’t sound encouraged, “like they just did with you a minute ago, they don’t say anything for certain, but from the report I doubt like hell that a woman could have done it. At least not a small woman, or anyway not a weak woman. The knife slid off a pocket notebook he had in his jacket pocket, cut through the rest of the jacket, plus a shirt, plus an undershirt, and then broke off the edge of a rib before it hit his heart. It was a lucky shot to kill him, it’s true, and the knife must have been sharp as hell and strong, but that’s not the point. The point I’m getting at is it had to be one hell of a strong swipe to do all that damage.”
Reardon frowned. “Did Stan Lundahl turn in his report from last night?”
“Yeah. I read it and it’s with the others. He went back to that bar on the Embarcadero like you asked, and talked to the bartender again. The bartender, Alfred Sullivan, you remember, still says he doesn’t remember the girl who asked directions too well, but he says she wasn’t any five foot six or seven, and while he says she was a looker and had a fair-sized chest and he thinks her hair was brown, he isn’t sure and anyway he says it wasn’t long, like the girl who was with Falcone later. And from his description she doesn’t sound like she had the muscle to do this stabbing.”