The Big Over Easy

An ordinary pathologist would have given Humpty the most cursory of glances, but Mrs. Singh was different. Nursery Crime Division work was all hers, and she wasn’t going to let any possibility of criminal activity slip through her fingers.

“Quite a puzzle,” breathed Mary.

“With one hundred and twenty-six pieces,” replied Mrs. Singh proudly. “They say dead men can’t talk, but this one has spoken volumes. Take a look.”

Humpty was lying on his side with his face away from them. She pointed with a forefinger at the area of his lower back, just next to a little lion tattoo. There was a patchwork of much smaller fragments with the cracks radiating out in different directions.

Jack raised his eyebrows. “This is where he landed?”

She said nothing but beckoned him around to the front and pointed to a more random pattern of breakage just above Humpty’s left eye, this time with no defined center. A myriad of small pieces made up what seemed to be a second small impact area.

“So he bounced, right?”

“No. Your turn, Mary.”

Mrs. Singh looked at Mary, who was taken aback; she wasn’t expecting this to be a quiz.

“A blunt instrument?” ventured Mary.

“Wrong. Look closely at the damage on the lower back again.”

They dutifully walked back around and peered closer. There was a definite point of impact, very small and discolored at the edges.

“Holy shit,” whispered Jack. “He was… shot.”

“Top of the class,” replied Mrs. Singh. “The discoloration is definitely gunshot residue. Someone came up from the other side of the wall and shot him. I’ve requested pathological information about the effect of bullets traveling through very large eggs, but the Home Office hasn’t really got much on the subject—for obvious reasons. I’m hazarding a guess, but as the bullet moved through his liquid center, it set up a hydrostatic shock wave. By the time the bullet exited, the cracks had already encircled his body and… pow. He exploded into fragments. He was dead before he hit the dustbins.”

“Oh, crap,” said Jack.

“What?”

“I just told Briggs that Humpty had committed suicide because of depression brought on by Easter. You’re sure, right?”

“Of course. People who are depressed can get murdered, you know.”

Jack sighed and walked to the front of Humpty’s patchworked corpse to look at the exit wound again. “Caliber?”

Mrs. Singh thought for a moment. “Difficult to say. Skinner will confirm this, but it would have to be a powerful handgun. The distance between entrance and exit is about four feet. Albumen has a high viscosity, so you’d need a powerful slug to get all the way through. If I was forced to an opinion, I’d say something like a .357 or a .44. The slug must have come to earth not more than fifty feet away; I think there will be barely a scratch on it. Find a weapon and ballistics will have a nice easy one for a change.”

“Anything else?”

“Not a lot. We can say for certain that he died between midnight and two in the morning, and you already have my report about the high alcohol levels. There was one other thing that puzzled me, though.” She pointed to his body. “It was this section of shell, here on his waistline—or neckline, if you prefer.”

They peered closer at what would appear to be a small hole.

“Any ideas?” asked Jack.

“It is exactly one-quarter of an inch in width, so I am thinking it was drilled in him—and deliberately, too.”

“Why do you say that?”

“There was a Band-Aid covering it.”

“Drug abuse?”

“Quite possibly. I’ve run the usual tests. I’ll let you know as soon as I have something.”

She handed Jack her preliminary report. It wasn’t thick, just a few typewritten pages and a diagram of Humpty’s body with the bullet track marked in red pen.

“You’re a marvel, Mrs. Singh.”

“No,” she replied wearily, “I just do long hours.”

They walked down the corridor deep in thought. Jack was wondering where he was going to start on the investigation and Mary was thinking about how amazed she was that Chymes had been correct. Humpty’s murder was a lot more involved than Jack had thought. If anyone could handle it, Friedland could. They had got used to the smell of the formaldehyde, and the streets of Reading smelled sweeter than they ever had before.

17. The Inquiry Begins