The Edge

“Angle of bullet entry on Jenny Silkwell?”

Guillaume’s cheek bulged as she clenched her jaw. “What about it?”

He just stared at her until the woman dropped her gaze and started to fiddle with a pen on her desk blotter.

“I suppose you’re referring specifically to the path the bullet traveled through the deceased’s head.”

“I know quite a bit about guns and shooting them. There are basically four ways to do it: prone, sitting, kneeling, and standing. The latter, for a long-range shot, is by far the worst because it’s the most inaccurate. The best is the first method. It takes away most of the physiological wobbles that can mar the shot. And while three hundred yards away at night, with rain and wind, is not the most difficult shot an accomplished sniper has to make, it’s not easy, either. And you’re not making it by standing.”

“Really?” she said, not looking convinced at all.

“Yes, really. If you’re holding your weapon under your own power, you do not have a stable foundation to prevent body shakes. A sniper rifle feels like a barbell. I don’t care how strong you are, or whether you use the sling for support to create tension between the rifle and your arm, the so-called Hasty Sling, you’re going to get some movement. Some hunters use the kneeling position in knee-high grass, placing the elbow on the lower quad muscle, not the bone of the knee because bone on bone is not stable. Same with the sitting position. None of that matters very much over a short distance, but it’s critical at long ones. And the only way the angle of entry makes sense in this case is if the shooter was standing, probably less than ten feet from Jenny, not over three hundred yards away lying on his belly.”

He had taken a risk telling her this, since she could run to Harper and reveal to him all that Devine had just said. But he remembered the smile she had given him at the end of their first meeting. He thought she could possibly be an ally. Well, he would find out if he was right or not.

“I see that you’ve thought this through.”

“I try to do so in all important matters.”

“Did your ME come to this conclusion?”

“It wasn’t that hard, was it?”

Guillaume steepled her fingers and sat forward, her elbows pressed into her desktop so rigidly that her own fingers were now shaking.

“The fact of the matter is, I made no official finding on anything that you just spoke to. I accurately measured the angle of entry and exit. I did not address where the casing was found or make an opinion or finding as regards the exact distance between the shooter and the victim or the firing position the shooter was using.”

“Spoken like a prepared witness in court.”

“I try to be accurate.”

“So do I. The thing is, Harper and Fuss have never raised that point with me. As far as I can tell, their official position is the shot came from where the casing was found.”

“I’m not sure I know what to tell you.”

He decided on the direct route. “Is it just me or does this town have secrets?”

“Every place has secrets,” she countered.

“I think Putnam hits above its weight on that score.”

“Maybe it does,” she conceded.

“My only goal is to find out who killed Jenny Silkwell.”

“I know,” she said in a bare whisper.

He sensed a shifting dynamic between them right now.

“I’d appreciate any insights you can provide,” he said.

She looked up, her expression pained. “This is my hometown, too, Mr. Devine.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I might be the wrong person to ask.”

“I thought medical examiners just wanted to get to the truth, by letting the dead speak to them? Every victim of violence deserves that, don’t they?”

“They... do.”

“Did you know Jenny?”

“I was a few years older than she was, but, yes, I knew her.”

So come on and tell me what you know.

However, before she could say anything the door opened and a man leaned in. He was tall and looked to be in his late thirties; his features neatly copied Guillaume’s.

Devine said, “You must be Fred Bing?”

“I am. Do we know each other?”

The two men shook hands after Devine introduced himself.

Bing wore his brown hair on the longish side. About six three, he had a clean-shaven face, a long, fit runner’s build, and penetrating grayish eyes. His white dress shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing pale muscular forearms. He looked tired.

“What do you need?” asked his sister.

He held up some papers. “Your signature.” He looked at Devine. “We’re refinancing our working capital loan. The documents one has to read to do so will cure any insomnia.”

Devine smiled. “I’m sure.”

“I would like to talk to you about some of the terms, sis,” said Bing. “Get your advice before we actually sign off.”

She glanced at Devine. “Sure, we were just finishing up, weren’t we, Mr. Devine?” The woman’s look was more pleading than triumphant.

Devine rose and handed her his card. “If you remember anything else helpful,” he said.

“Yes, of course,” she said, hastily pocketing the card.

“I heard you’re here about Jenny?” said Bing. “Awful, just awful.”

“You knew her?”