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True Test
Excerpt by B. K. Stevens
Art by Tim Foley

Date: October 25, 2009 9:47 PM
From: Walter Johnson clueless11@wahoo.com
To: Oriana Johnson camerasly@wahoo.com
Subject: Not Yet

Dear Mother,

Relax. We saw the doctor today, and he says Ellen's got at least two weeks to go. So if your editor wants you to take the Peru job, take it. We've got plenty of time.

Ellen's feeling sorta worn out tonight, though, so she hit the sack early. In a way, I'm glad for the time alone because I've been meaning to e-mail you about a case Bolt and I handled last week. It's been on my mind a lot.

It started with a morning call—a Saturday morning call, unfortunately, so I had to miss Kevin's soccer game. That bothered me. Kevin says he's fine with the new baby, but I read this article, "Spacing Siblings," in Ellen's Real Mother magazine, and it says first and second siblings shouldn't be over five years apart, and we're more than doubling that. So I've gotta wonder if Kevin's feeling resentful, no matter what he says. Having me miss a game wouldn't exactly reassure him.

But I couldn't ignore the call—body found at 527 Winston, Bolt and some uniforms already at the scene. "Could be a burglary gone bad," the dispatcher commented, and right away I felt skeptical. I mean, I've been around the block a time or two, and I wish I had a dollar for every case that started out looking like a burglary gone bad but ended up being a plain old premeditated murder, with a fake burglary tossed in to obscure the motive. I mean, that one's been done to death. Sometimes I wish murderers would find more creative ways to throw us off. Anyway, I drove to Winston, already losing respect for whoever the murderer turned out to be, worried it'd be even harder than usual to focus on the case when these days all I can really think about is whether I'm ready to go through the whole baby thing again.

Winston's a nice street—very classy, just one notch short of downright swanky—and 527 is the biggest house on the block, a white Colonial at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. When I pulled into the driveway, Bolt was standing on the front porch. (By the way, Mother, he's looking good. That kick-boxing class really helped him get in shape, and I hear he's pressing a hundred pounds. You'd never guess he's so close to mandatory retirement. Not that you care—you're always saying you don't care—but I thought I'd mention it.)

He walked down the steps to greet me. "It's good to see you, Lieutenant," he said. "We have a rather complicated, potentially volatile family situation here. I'll be glad to rely on your legendary tact and sensitivity to steer us through."

Legendary—I didn't have a dictionary handy, but I felt pretty sure a legend's something made up, something people believe in even though it isn't real. If so, my tact and sensitivity are legendary, all right, just like all the other abilities everybody seems to think I have. "Is the coroner here?" I asked. "Has the victim been identified?"

"No coroner yet," Bolt said. "The victim is Andrew Atherton, thirty-three, from Newark. He was staying here as the guest of the house's owner, Otis Colchester. He was engaged to Mr. Colchester's daughter. Apparently, he was killed during the night."

I scrambled to keep up with the names. Already, the family situation was more complicated than I like. "Who found the body? Mr. Colchester? Miss Colchester?"

"Neither," Bolt said. "And actually, there's no Miss Colchester. The daughter is Mrs. Meredith Ralston, and the body was found by her thirteen-year-old daughter, April, at eight this morning."

"Poor kid," I commented. "Must've been a nasty shock. Well, let's have a look at the body." At least it'd be a break from all the names.

The house was what you'd expect—big rooms, thick carpets, furniture too old-fashioned for my taste but obviously expensive. Not that I noticed all that at first. Two steps brought us into the living room, and all I could see was the body.

He wore pajamas and a white bathrobe—not a big guy, but he looked reasonably fit. Now, he lay facedown on the carpet, and his head was bashed in so hard it looked like—well, you'd rather not know. He had a puncture wound in the back of his neck, too, and blood all down his robe.

"What's the working theory?" I asked. "Atherton came downstairs in the middle of the night, surprised a burglar, and got bashed in the head? But the place looks pretty neat. Burglars usually make a mess."

"There's a bit of a mess in the library at the back of the house," Bolt said. "That's apparently where the burglar—if any—was when Atherton surprised him. If he did. Shall I lead the way?"

For once, I didn't need to be led. I could've found the library just by following the trail of bloody spots and splotches. Atherton had staggered or crawled a good distance before his assailant caught up with him.

In a sick way, it reminded me of Hansel and Gretel. You know, the trail of bread crumbs. I thought about that while Bolt pointed out stuff in the library: paintings thrown around, desk drawers dumped out, gleaming brass letter opener smack in the middle of a large bloodstain on the carpet, open window, bent-back screen. When you think of it, the Hansel and Gretel story's pretty harsh—parents leaving their kids in the woods to starve, a witch fattening a kid up so she can eat him. I read that story to Kevin years ago, but I won't make that mistake again. With the new kid, I'll stick to stories about bunnies and butterflies and other boring stuff—nothing scary, nothing gloomy.

"Gotta keep everything nice and bright and shiny," I muttered to myself.

Bolt looked confused, then stared at the letter opener. "I see what you mean, sir. Considering its sturdy construction and sharp point, that letter opener may well be the implement used to stab Mr. Atherton. Yet, though it's lying on the blood-soaked carpet, there's not a speck or smudge on it. It is, as you say, nice and bright and shiny. A burglar would presumably wear gloves and therefore not need to wipe the opener clean of prints; and why do so and then place it on that bloody patch, as if inviting us to identify it as the weapon? It's puzzling. I'm glad you pointed it out."

The worst part is that Bolt honestly believes I'm the one who solves our cases, when in fact I just stumble around blurting out dumb comments, and Bolt misinterprets them—misinterprets them brilliantly, transforming them into the keys to the case. You know I've tried to confess, but he misinterprets the confessions, too, takes them as proof of my modesty. I swear, Mother, I wish you'd break down and say "yes" the next time he proposes. Maybe then he'd retire so he could travel with you, and I could botch my cases up in peace, and my conscience would leave me the hell alone.

For now, I had to stall, say something safe, so I wouldn't look like a complete idiot. Cleaning the opener, I thought frantically, and then putting it on the bloody carpet. "It's not consistent," I tried.

"Indeed," Bolt said, nodding. "Directing our attention to the letter opener in that obvious way, but not doing the same with the blunt object used to bludgeon Mr. Atherton—not consistent at all. What do you suppose the killer did with the blunt object?"

Before I could fake a guess, I heard a familiar voice snapping out orders in the living room. "Sounds like the coroner's here," I said, relieved. "Maybe she can tell us what kind of blunt object to look for."

We waited until the coroner rolled Atherton onto his back. "So, what can you tell us?" I asked. "Cause of death? Time of death?"

She looked up, exasperated. "Time of death?" she said. "This week. You want it more precise, wait till I run some tests. Cause of death—he's got fairly deep puncture wounds, two in the stomach, one in the neck. But those probably weren't fatal. Actual probable cause of death—several hard blows to the head, with a blunt instrument."

"What kind of blunt instrument?" I pressed.

She rolled her eyes. "A heavy one. A toothbrush wouldn't do it. Preliminary examination suggests it was smooth, relatively large. How's that for a quick analysis?"

Man, I hate it when she gets like that: so smug, so superior, like I'm some dumb cop and she's such an amazing scientist she deserves a Nobel Prize or something.