detective mentioned a few other things you should be aware of."
"Go on."
"When the maid entered the bedroom, the TV was on . . . as was the DVD player, albeit in passive mode."
"So he watched a little tube before he pulled the plug. Maybe he didn't like the show. Rather than get up and turn the channel, maybe he pushed his own stop button." I recalled a lady friend who once made me watch a full episode of General Hospital; I thought seriously about killing myself.
She said, "A porn video was in the DVD player."
We exchanged eye contact.
She added, "I've never seen or heard of this with a suicide. Have you?"
"I've read of cases where certain sexual fetishes resulted in death. For example, asphyxiation, or near asphyxiation, apparently heightens the sexual sensation."
"I've heard of it. In those cases, though, death is accidental, an unwanted by-product. That doesn't apply here."
"Maybe he was holding his breath when he blew out his brains."
I thought she was going to make me stand in the corner. She said, "Sexual asphyxia . . . that's the clinical expression for the fetish you've raised. It involves strangulation, a sudden disruption of blood, and therefore of oxygen, to the brain. But that's not what happened here, was it? He watched a dirty movie, he put a pistol to his head, and he blew out his brain."
I had a really funny response to that, having to do with the possibility that he accidentally blew out the wrong brain. But I sometimes obey my better angels, and instead I suggested, "You could theorize that he used the tape as a distraction from a task that was surely unpleasant. A mental diversion . . . a form of mental anesthesia." Recalling the conversation with my lady shrink friend, I informed her, "Here's another thing to consider. With suicide victims, the manner of their death often expresses what they were thinking, their final thoughts."
"All right . . . I can see where that makes sense." She gazed thoughtfully at Clifford Daniels's body and asked, "What do you think was the last thing that passed through his mind?"
"A 9mm bullet."
I think I had worn out her stamina for my bad jokes. In fact she said, "Try again."
"Well, it's not necessarily a conscious or even deliberate arrangement on the victim's part. Maybe he was experiencing a final narcissistic impulse. You know, like subliminal exhibitionism run amok."
"You think?"
"I think it's fair to say that Clifford had one exemplary feature. Wouldn't you agree? Maybe he wanted to be remembered for that."
I couldn't tell what she was thinking about this, but she remarked, "Men are really strange."
"Check the nearest magazine rack. Males have no monopoly on sexual exhibitionism . . . or oversize organs, or weirdness."
"And you consider who buys those magazines, and why." She then concluded, "You raise an intriguing point, though. I'll be sure to consult with a psychiatrist about this."
Which offered the opening I'd been waiting for. "Why are you here? Have you got a piece of this case?"
"Why are you here?"
"Ladies before gentlemen."
"Oh . . . now you're a gentleman?" It wasn't that funny, but she laughed.
I should mention why I asked. Bian Tran's tan- and loam-colored outfit was not your ordinary feminine attire, but a desert-style camouflage battle dress uniform with Uncle Sam's Army embroidered above her right breast.
The Army uniform can be both illustrative and informative. For instance, the insignia on her right collar--crossed dueling pistols-- designated her a member of the Military Police Corps, which might have something to do with her presence here. And from the gold leaf on her other collar, she was a major, with the combat patch on her right shoulder indicating she had a full combat tour under her belt, and had done her part to secure Western civilization, such as it is.
Regarding the person inside the uniform: thick, straight hair, parted down the middle, black in color, and shoulder length, as per regulations, which not all women follow. Eyes large, black, Asiatic in cast, with arched eyebrows that were slyly expressive. I estimated her age at about thirty--young for her rank--so she probably was very good at her job, and there was a warm intelligence in her eyes.
"I asked why you're here," she said.
Vietnamese by name and by race, though her English carried no hint of an accent, in fact was flawless--idiomatically correct, native in tone and inflection, and so forth. Light on the makeup and, if you're interested, as I sometimes am, no