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“Thank you.”
“I’ll probably see you at one of the group sessions.” She formed it as a question.
Elle responded with a yes.
The woman looked expectantly at Calder. He gave her a noncommittal nonsmile but said nothing.
“Well, my husband and mom are waiting for me downstairs. It took both of them to get me in the car.”
Compton said, “Thank you for coming in, Mrs. Whitley. I know it was an inconvenience. We’ll be in touch.”
“I’ll see her out and come right back,” Perkins said. He trailed the injured woman’s ungainly progress down the hallway.
Compton turned to Calder and Elle. “I had these appointments scheduled fifteen minutes apart, but she arrived late. I’m sorry you were kept waiting so long. Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee? Water?”
Both declined. Calder said, “Why are we here?”
“I’d like to know that, too,” Elle said.
“I scheduled an appointment for each of you survivors, and for at least one family member of those who were killed. Detective Perkins and I wanted to speak with each of you individually, but you’re the last two, so, in the interest of time, I’ll tell you together if that’s all right.”
“Fine by me,” Calder said and looked at Elle, who gave a nod of agreement.
“Then please have a seat.” Compton motioned them back into their chairs. She sat down in one of the extras.
When they were settled, she said, “There’s been a development in the investigation, and I wanted you to be made aware of it before it goes public during a live press conference, which will begin in…” She consulted her wristwatch. “Forty minutes.” Looking at Calder, she added, “No doubt Ms. Calloway will be covering it.”
Calder had no doubt she would be, too, but he didn’t remark on it.
He asked, “What’s the development? Have you located the suspect’s next of kin?”
“No. But the purpose of this press conference is to go public with his identity and picture, hoping that someone who knows him will come forward.” She looked at them in turn, then said, “But he’ll be cited as another casualty, not as the shooter.”
“What?” Elle gasped. “He committed suicide.”
Compton shook her head.
“It took you a week to check for gunpowder residue?” Elle said.
“That only happens on TV shows, Ms. Portman,” Compton said with a half smile. “Powder residue is helpful but not conclusive. A gun is fired, the powder can go anywhere, get on anything or anyone.” Looking at Calder, she said, “If you and your dad spent time at a shooting range, you should know that.”
“I did. When you told me in the hospital that it was a suicide, I took your word for it.”
“How did you make such a mistake?” Elle asked.
Compton said, “Well, for a mass shooter, that’s almost become the standard escape route. Secondly, the wound to his head. At first sight, it was consistent with that of a suicide. But we now believe that his murderer walked up and put the muzzle to his temple.”
“But that’s another assumption,” Elle said. “How do you know you’re right?”
“Another indicator of suicide, in most instances, certainly something we always look for, is what’s called a cadaveric spasm.”
“What’s that?” Calder asked.
She crooked her index finger. “The last signal the brain receives is that of pulling the trigger. Death is instantaneous. The index finger remains seized up. His wasn’t, not on either hand.”
Calder looked over at Elle, who looked back at him. He went back to Compton. “That’s it?”
“No. This is what took so long. The ME’s determining factor was the physics. The suspect’s arrest records described him as being left-handed. The trajectory of the bullet indicates that it couldn’t have been fired by a lefty. The ME consulted respected colleagues and ballistics experts, whose opinions were unanimous. The suicide was staged. It was rapidly done, obviously. But done well enough to fool first responders and give the culprit time to get away during the mayhem that followed.”
