10
Toronto 1961
Callaway’s office looked like he lived in it. Like him, it defined rumpled. A stale odour permeated the threadbare carpet. Callaway plucked a folder from the top of a pile and leafed through it.
“Autopsy report,” he muttered.
“You have our undivided attention,” I said.
“Good.” He flipped some pages. “Well, no surprise, death caused by a knife wound to the chest, pierced the heart and he bled out. Messy way to go. Serrated edge, consistent with some kind of kitchen or steak knife. Killer was right-handed and used significant force. Hmm, apparently, Mendel had consumed quite a lot of Scotch just prior to his demise, enough to render him soused.”
“He may not have realized what was happening,” Birdie said.
“No,” Callaway said. “It’d take a moment to sink in…so to speak.”
