Miranda was the first to speak:
"You mean Knudson actually drank that guys spit? Eeyew. That is really gross..."
"No grosser than the way Jack smacks his mouth when he eats," said Kiah.
"Or you look when you're talking to your girl friend," teased Jack.
"Shut up!"
"You shut up!"
"You shut up!"
"Both of you shut up," I shouted. "We're trying to solve a case here. Jack. You first. What do you think?"
"I think that Mark guy did it," he said.
"Pretty quick judgment," I said. "I'd like to think that too. He's certainly the perfect asshole. But why else?"
"Look at what he stood to gain. He's got free run of the place that his dad used to live in, all that money, and all those cool cars. And now he doesn't have his dad looking over his shoulder and hassling him every time he wants to do something..."
"Very good Jack, and very passionate. Sounds like I better watch my backside. But that's just motive, what about means?"
"Look at the list. He's got all the right tools. He coulda chopped up Pop in that shed thing, dried him and wrapped him and no one would have seen him."
"By the way," interjected Kiah. "Why are you so sure all these people were shrink-wrapped or vacu-packed or whatever?"
"Let's just say that piece of information fell out of a truck one day," I said, slipping a glance at Miranda. "Accept it as a given. What do you think, Kiah?"
"I think it was that Elizabeth chick."
"And...?"
"She wanted to off her husband so she could screw around with other guys and not have to worry about him barging in drunk."
"But what about the income from his business?"
"Nice try Dad, but you said yourself it was in the red. The guy was a drag, dude. If I was her I'd want to off him too."
"Okay, say she did. What about this? When I was shot at, she was in the car."
"Maybe she hired someone to shoot at you."
"Maybe..." I considered.
"How did she react after the chase?" He persisted. "Was she at all surprised?"
"Not very," I replied, remembering. "You're right. She seemed to take it pretty calmly, considering. Of course it's always hard to read her expressions. How about means?"
"She covers that pretty well too. You said she's got a dehydrator and a vacu-packer. And it sounds like she's got a pretty private area in the back there."
"I don't know," I said doubtfully, "Somehow I can't picture her using the area where she usually dries flowers in quite that way."
"Come on Dad, like you always tell me; start thinking with the organ in the upper part of your body. Someone who can butcher a thousand pound cow in under three hours could make short work of a two-hundred pound biped."
I shivered. The image of Elizabeth laboring over the bloody dismembered corpse of her husband, a quasi frown of concentration on her brow and that focused look she got when planning a project was somehow tough to stomach.
"Besides," continued Kiah, "doesn't she stand to rake in the most dough of all these people? That's a pretty pointy finger right there. And speaking of fingers, why do you list whether the victims are left or right-handed?"
"Another thing I'm pretty sure has relevance," I explained. "Let's just accept that too."
"Why do you list Elizabeth's husband as `left handed' with a question mark?"
"Something I haven't confirmed yet," I said. "I always seem to forget to ask for some reason. I presume he is because he once played first base on a minor league team. And most decent first baseman are left handed."
"But Dad... What about ...?" Jack, our resident baseball aficionado, was starting to contradict me with what I was sure was a bevy of right hand first baseman statistics but Kiah cut him off.
"So I don't see anything that definitely lets her off the hook," Kiah finished triumphantly.
"And I don't see anything that definitely snags her either," I countered.
"Or rules out that Mark guy," said Jack. "Just because she coulda done it, doesn't mean he didn't"
"Don't be stupid, Jack," Kiah said. "Why would he want to kill his own dad? You get mad at Dad sometimes -- me too -- but do we really want to kill him?"
Jack looked at me seriously. Gym bags notwithstanding, it did seem a little farfetched. "Maybe his dad didn't like Suzie," he offered. "Or maybe his dad threatened to cut him off. Or maybe his dad died accidentally but it looked like Mark killed him, like in those mystery stories, so he panicked and thought of this weird way to get rid of him."
"Good thinking, Jack," I agreed, "That's a wrinkle I hadn't thought of. Let's see; the old man had an accident and it looked like Mark had a motive so he did all the butchering to cover it up anyhow. Post-meditated man slaughter. I like it. It fits his psychology."
"Yeah, and that Suzie chick helped him clean everything up. Even though he's a slob, she puts everything back in boxes perfectly, right? Maybe that's why they keep trying to take things back to stores and stuff."
"That's too obvious, and weird Jack," interrupted Kiah. "Why doesn't he just take em to the Goodwill, or the dump for that matter. Who'd ever know?"
"Good point, Kiah," I agreed. "Why the elaborate return effort? Unless..."
"Unless what?" Jack said.
"Never mind, we'll come back to it later. Miranda, I haven't heard a peep out of you. What do you think?"
"I think Fred did it," she said flatly.
"Why would you think that, Miranda? Fred's my client."
"He just seems too nice. In the books I read, the people that are too nice are always the ones you have to be suspicious of. And remember that icky video you saw on his table? About that cannibal guy? I think he has a deep, dark secret."
"Come on Miranda," I said lightly, "You've been reading too much mumbo jumbo. I doubt that Fred ate Bill."
The boys exchanged glances.
"A video rental is hardly evidence that will stand up in court, Mir," Kiah said.
"Yeah, lighten up, sorcerer girl," Jack sneered. "What did you do? Read his mind? Or feel his aura?"
"Dad," Mir persisted. "You said yourself he had all the equipment in his rumpus room. And so far, he's the only one attached to a definite piece of scientific evidence: The blood. It sounds to me like the coroner picked the right guy."
"But what about the shooting at my car? How do you explain that?"
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe somebody else doesn't like you. Remember the first time you were shot at, on the street? You hadn't even talked to any of the suspects yet. So who knows?"
"Certainly not me. Except that it would be a pretty unusual coincidence," I said. "Even so, I still don't get a strong motive vibe from Fred."
"Maybe Fred thought he had a good reason to murder Bill. Maybe he has a new lover, or Bill did. Maybe he was tired of Bill going out on him all the time. Maybe he was sick of Bill's temper and stuff."
"A lot of maybes, Mir. And some good ideas. I'll think about it. But my gut feeling says it's not him. If you talked to him I think you'd feel the same. His anguish is genuine. He really does miss Bill."
"But Dad," she protested, "That doesn't mean he didn't kill him. It just means he's sorry he did."
She had a point. We all sat there staring at the butcher paper for a while. I was briefly struck with the irony of my choice of material for a chart. Then I set about considering all the kids' arguments as objectively as I could. They were certainly persuasive. Means, motive and opportunity were about evenly distributed amongst all the suspects. I came to a conclusion.
"I think..." I began.
That's when the doorbell rang.
