Milo said, “Our vics were posed.”
Coolidge said, “Yeah, nut-so. No, nothing like that and no dog blood—man, thatisbizarre. Truth is, you hadn’t called me, I’d never have assumed anything psycho. Maybe there isn’t.”
Milo said, “But coincidences.”
Coolidge nodded. “We’re atheists about coincidences.”
I said, “If McGann was just a problem to be solved, there wouldn’t necessarily be anything psycho.”
A long sip of tea brought beads of sweat to Coolidge’s forehead. He loosened his tie. “So the key might be finding out what, if anything, McGann knew about Alvarez.”
Milo said, “God willing, Marc. There’s something else common to both scenes: Our vic Gurnsey was stabbed in the upper torso like Vollmann.”
Coolidge sat up. “Really? How many times?”
“Three cuts, all potentially fatal.”
“Oh. So not the same.”
I said, “The killer could’ve had time with Gurnsey but been under pressure with Vollmann. Unless he’s a surgeon, aiming a blade that precisely would be a challenge.”
“Even so, Doctor, he misses the first time, why not just keep stabbing?” He pantomimed three rapid thrusts. “Vollmann’s already in shock, wouldn’t take that much time to hit an artery or something.”
I said, “My bet is our four were killed separately but Vollmann and McGann were taken simultaneously. And while Vollmann was being killed, McGann would have to be managed, meaning additional time pressure. Nothing quicker than a shotgun.”
Coolidge tapped the table. “She’s screaming, crying. Yeah, I can see that. When was their flight?”
Milo said, “Don’t know yet, just that they never made it.”
“Like I told you, my pathologist best-guesses it as Sunday morning.”
“After ours but around the time ours were found.”
“If it is the same bad guys, we’re talking busy busy.” Coolidge rotated his cup, spilled a few drops, mopped them with a napkin.
“Here you go, guys.” The waitress served the sandwiches. Both detectives dug in stoically, as if consuming was their latest assignment.
“Still nothing for you, sir?”
“Bring him a salad,” said Milo.
Her eyes darted from him to me. “What kind?”
Milo said, “Anything green and virtuous.”
“All lettuce is virtuous, Lieutenant.”
Coolidge laughed.
Milo said, “Dressing on the side, doesn’t matter what type, he’s not going to have much.”
The waitress stared at me. Problem child being discussed by the adults.
I said, “Mixed green.”
When she was gone, Coolidge said, “I make your rank, I also get to run the world?”
Milo said, “You bet, it’s in the contract.”
