the end of the barrel, which was interesting. There were no obvious signs of a scuffle or struggle, further presumptive evidence that this was a solo act.
Of course, you need to be careful about hasty conclusions when homicide is a possibility. There's what you see, there's what the killer wants you to see, and there's what you should see.
Tran asked, "Do you have a clear view?"
"I . . . Am I missing something?"
This question for some reason elicited a smirk. "Yes, I think you probably are."
I took this as a suggestion and walked across the room to a position on the far side of the body where the forensics dick no longer obscured my view. I began at mid-body and worked up, then back down.
The first thing I noted was a purpling around his butt and upper arms, as you would expect a few hours after his heart went out of business and gravity cornered the market on blood flow. His stomach had already bloated with gas, and I saw no bruising or abrasions on the corpse. His eyes were frozen open, and his facial expression indicated surprise, or shock, or both. I spent a moment thinking about that.
About two inches above his left ear was a small dark hole, roughly the size of a 9mm bullet, which was indicative that the Glock in his left hand was the weapon that did the dirty deed. I took a moment and examined the pistol more closely. As I said, a silencer was screwed to the barrel, and as I also said, it was a Glock, but a specialty model known as the Glock 17 Pro, which I knew to be expensive and usually imported.
The bullet had been fired straight and level, and part of his right ear, half his brain, and chunks of his skull had produced a sort of Jackson Pollock splatter arrangement on the far, formerly white wall.
No wedding ring--thus Cliff Daniels either was not married or, based on the photographic evidence in his living room, was keeping it a secret.
More interesting, for a man who in so many ways seemed so inconspicuous, in one very notable way Clifford Daniels, at least in his present state, was anything but--I mean, I'm fairly comfortable about my own manhood, but I wouldn't want to have a locker beside Cliff's.
And most interesting of all, his right hand was gripped around his other gun, and at the moment of passing he appeared to have been in a state of sexual arousal. Goodness.
I walked back over to Ms. Tran. She looked at me and asked, "You saw it?"
"It?"
Silence.
Somebody had to say something, and eventually she defined It. "He's so . . . large."
"Oh . . . that? I don't call that big."
She smiled.
"Of course, it's not about the size," I told her.
"Wrong."
"Right."
We suddenly found ourselves on thin ice. I mean, here we were, a man and a woman, barely acquainted professionals, sharing a small room with a monster Mr. Johnson flying at full mast.
She suggested, "I suppose we have to address his, well . . . his state of . . ."
"His what?"
"You know . . . his . . ."
"Spell it out."
She said, sounding annoyed, "That's enough, Drummond. We're both adults."
"Really? You should ask my boss about that."
"Look . . . the corpse has . . . had an erection--okay? Let's just keep it clinical. Act like professionals. We can deal with this."
"Good idea. After all, you can't ignore the elephant in the room."
She put a hand over her mouth and smiled, or maybe frowned. Then she mustered a stern look and said, "I hope that's out of your system."
"Not a chance."
"Well . . . now, here's the good news. I think we can rule out erectile dysfunction or penile insecurities as motives for suicide."
We laughed.
I mean, we both were affected by this man's death, sympathetic about the miseries that led to such a tragic act, and professionally dedicated to getting to the bottom of this.
Eros and Thanatos--sex and death. When the ancient Greeks wrote about sex, it was comedy, and of death, tragedy. So the scene before us was a combination of sad, nauseating, and ridiculous. As every cop knows, satire is a coping mechanism, a path to detachment, without which you haven't a prayer of catching the bad guys.
Anyway, that was her excuse. My dog ate mine.
I cleared my throat, and tried to clear my mind, and asked, "So, was it murder or was it suicide?"
"Well . . . the lead