The Silent Girl

head,” said Rat.
    “Yes.”
    “Look what’s lying on the floor next to him.”
    Last night, she’d glanced at the photos only briefly. It had been late, she’d had a long day with the boy, and she’d been drowsy after two glasses of wine. Now she focused more intently on the dead cook, and on the weapon that was still clasped in his hand. Near his shoulder lay a spent bullet casing.
    Rat pointed to what she’d missed, at the periphery of the photo. A second casing. “It says he had one bullet in his head,” said Rat. “But if he fired twice, where did the other bullet go?”
    “It could have ended up anywhere in the kitchen. Under the circumstances, the police probably saw no reason to go searching for it.”
    “And why did he shoot twice?”
    “I’ve seen it before in suicides. The victim has to build up the courage to kill himself, and maybe he misses the first time. Or the gun misfires. I’ve even seen a suicide where the victim shot himself more than twice in the head. Another one who shot himself with his nondominant hand. And there was one man who …” She paused, suddenly appalled that she was having this conversation with a sixteen-year-old boy. But he was looking back at her as calmly as a fellow professional.
    “It’s certainly a valid concern to bring up,” she said. “I’m sure the police considered it.”
    “But it didn’t change their minds. They still say he killed those four people, even though they can’t explain why.”
    “How could they? So few people really knew the cook.”
    “Like no one really knew me,” he said quietly.
    Now she understood what was really troubling the boy. He, too, had been called a murderer; he, too, had been judged by people who scarcely knew him. When Rat looked at Wu Weimin, what he saw was himself.
    “All right,” she conceded. “Let’s assume for the moment that hedidn’t kill himself. Let’s say it was staged to look like a suicide. Which means someone else must have shot those other four people, and then killed the cook.”
    Rat nodded.
    “Think about it. Imagine you’re the cook. You’re standing in the kitchen and someone starts shooting in the other room. The gun had no silencer, so you’d hear those gunshots.”
    “Then how come no one else did? The report says there were people in the three apartments upstairs, but they heard only one bang. That’s why no one called the police right away. Then the cook’s wife went downstairs and found her husband’s body.”
    “How much of this did you read?”
    “Most of it.”
    “That’s more than I have,” she confessed. She opened the folder to the report filed by Staines and Ingersoll. When Detective Tam had dropped off the material, she had not welcomed the extra work, and had put it off until last night, when she’d given the photos only a cursory glance. Now she read the police report from beginning to end, and confirmed what Rat had just told her. Seven different witnesses stated that they’d heard only one bang, yet a total of nine bullet casings were found in the Red Phoenix restaurant.
    Her sixth sense was starting to tingle. That uneasy feeling that something was not right, just as the boy had said.
    She opened Wu Weimin’s autopsy report. According to the pathologist, the cook was found lying on his side, his back wedged up against the closed cellar door. His right hand—the one still clutching the gun—was later swabbed and found positive for gunshot residue. Oblivious to the fact that Rat was watching, she clicked through the cook’s autopsy photos. The fatal bullet had been fired into the right temple, and a close-up showed it to be a hard contact wound, the edges seared and blackened in a pressure abrasion ring caused by gases rushing out of the barrel. There was no exit wound. She clicked on the skull X-ray and saw metallic fragments scattered throughout the cranium. A hollow-point bullet, she thought, designed to mushroomand disintegrate, transferring its kinetic energy directly to tissues. Maximum damage with minimum penetration.
    She moved on to the other files.
    The second autopsy report was for James Fang, age thirty-seven, found slumped behind the cash register counter. He had been shot once in the head. The bullet had entered above his left eyebrow.
    The third report was for Joey Gilmore, age twenty-five. His body fell in front of the cash register counter, take-out cartons scattered on the floor around him. He had been shot once, in the back of