All Shots

Tuesday. But if she was shot during the night… someone would’ve heard. Those houses are close together. Maybe when people were watching TV? She must’ve been filled where I found her, in the kitchen, and that’s at the back of the house. Most of those houses have living rooms at the front, near the street. If it was during prime time, the neighbors might’ve been in their living rooms.” Thinking of Francie’s mention of her media-free preschool, I added, “Except that some of them may not have been watching TV. But what do I know? The neighbors could have been anywhere. Out. Studying. Reading. Watching shoot-’em-up movies. Anything. What was the weapon?”
    “Smith and Wesson .22/32 Kit Gun. They’re pretty sure.” That’s a revolver. “Huh. My father has one. So does practically everyone else in Maine. But Buck’s is a classic. It’s a Model 63. Stainless. They aren’t made anymore. The stainless was replaced by, uh, aluminum, I think. I used to use it for target practice.”
    “Firing .22 short.”
    “Are you asking me? Or telling me? Yes, because my mother hated the sound of gunshots, and compared with larger calibers...” I caught on. “And that’s one reason—”
    “Plus contact shooting,” Kevin said. “Pressed the muzzle right up against her.”
    “To muffle the sound. So the result would’ve been... well, far from silent. But easy enough to mistake for a car backfiring. Or some other city noise.”
    On the subject of noise level, as I’ve mentioned, the tables at Bartley’s were close together, and by now every single seat was taken. The other customers were talking as well as eating, the waiters and cooks weren’t exactly keeping their voices down, and cooking sounds added to the din. Because the background noise was loud and because our table was if, a corner, with Kevin against a wall, I hadn’t given a thought to being overheard by nearby customers, who were preoccupied with one another, but Kevin and I hadn’t been having the typical Harvard Square conversation about dissertations, classes, professors, books, papers, and films.
    “Five bullets,” Kevin said. “Lodged in her. That’s a low-penetration bullet.”
    At the table next to ours sat a young couple. At a guess, they were freshmen or sophomores, the woman tiny and pale, with light hair in a low ponytail, the man dark and serious, all in khaki. Woman. Man. The language of Cambridge! Truth: a girl and boy. Anyway, they kept darting glances at us, leaning their heads in over the platter of french fries that occupied the center of their table, whispering in each other’s ears, and sitting back with sour expressions on their faces. The cause of the pickle faces was not, I might mention, Bartley’s pickles, which are crisp, flavorful, and altogether outstanding.
    “Kevin,” I said, “this conversation is a little graphic for our neighbors.”
    Two seconds after I’d spoken, I realized that Kevin had already observed the couple and assessed their reaction. Practically before I’d finished speaking, he extended his gigantic right hand to the girl, shook it vigorously, and then repeated the act with the boy while saying, “Kevin Dennehy. Cambridge Police Department.” A big, terrifying grin appeared on his massive face.
    “P-p-pleased to meet you,” said the girl. “We didn’t mean to—”
    “Violence,” said Kevin. “Enough to rob you of your appetite.” This from someone who had just devoured two seven-ounce hamburgers topped with cheese and at least half of the fries and onion rings! “Line of duty,” he proclaimed solemnly. With that, he turned his attention back to the remaining food, thus leaving me the task of changing the subject.
    “The dog,” I said. “Here’s what I can tell you about her.” I summarized my observations concerning the state of Miss Blue’s coat and nails, the choice of a rolled-leather collar, her readiness to enter a crate in the van, and so forth. “So,” I concluded, “none of these things alone means much, but the combination suggests a knowledgeable owner. I don’t think that Miss Blue has been spayed. Miss Blue. That’s what I’m calling her for the moment. Anyway, it’s remotely possible that we just can’t see a scar. One of the vets looked, and she couldn’t find one, but you can’t necessarily. For instance, if Miss Blue was spayed very early, say at six weeks, there might not be a visible scar. But it’s possible that someone wanted to leave