18On Monday morning, after his walk through the village, Maron sat at his desk glaring at the coroner’s report. Marcel de Fleuray, dead from loss of blood after receiving a shotgun blast to the face. No drugs, .017% alcohol level, no chance of suicide or other compounding factors to the cause of death. He had been in good shape, with a strong heart, healthy liver, and impressive muscle tone for a man in his late fifties.
That was more or less it. Florian Nagrand padded the report with a lot of data from the autopsy, but Maron suspected he had done it only for show, painstakingly measuring this and that, when they both knew it was all beside the point. The man had been killed with his own shotgun—an extremely nice one at that—and been unlucky enough that a pellet hit him at the only spot t
