Page 59 of Last Violent Call
Marshall tilted his head. He had the sort of face that was loud about his confusion even if he didn’t say a word; nothing could be concealed in the dip of his brow when he scrunched his forehead, nor in the way his lower lip would stick out just a little if he was trying to add something up but couldn’t get it to fit quite right.
“He is always ginger with his left shoulder.” Benedikt had noticed it on that first day when Vodin didn’t lean his body into the door to leave but rather opted to push his hand forward. “Yet his handshake with his right hand is perfectly firm. It would make sense with why he’s taking these medications.”
“Wooooow.” Marshall drew the exclamation long. When he propped his chin on his hand, his dark eyes were practically twinkling, light pouring from his smile. “You sound just like a real detective.”
Benedikt pointed his fork at him. If he didn’t warn Marshall off being so dramatic all the time, Benedikt was going to develop an ego sooner or later. Even though his fork-waving was a clear warning, Marshall only stuck his tongue out to lick the gravy off the utensil.
“You volunteered our services precisely because we have thequalifications.”
“I suppose that is true. How do you feel about actually going into private investigation after this? We might make more money than education.”
“Mars,” Benedikt said dully. “You wouldhatethat.”
“I love saving the day.”
“You couldn’t be patient to save your life.”
Marshall had been caught out. “Then educating children it is.” He took a bite of his own food, chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed and said: “You know what else, though… If Vodin has a weak left shoulder, we also know for certain he is entirely innocent in all this.”
Benedikt arched an eyebrow.
“Why do you say that? We have no reason to think Vodin did it, sure, but we can’t entirely rule out any suspect.” He wiped a single drop of sauce off Marshall’s chin. Such a messy eater. “We should even suspect the provodnitsa: she was the first person Popov was rude to, after all.”
That was the first rule of solving any murder, according to the novels, wasn’t it? The culprit was never who the detective expected it to be. The final answer was always supposed to add up at the last minute once they had found some sort of revelatory piece of information. Even if it would make no sense for the officer in charge to have something to do with the murder, they couldn’t discount anything.
But then Marshall said, “We can definitely rule him out.” He set down his fork and picked up another utensil: the blunt knife. He flipped it around in his hand, the blade moving across his fingers with the practiced ease of agility, and stopped it when he made a fist. “Remember the cut on Popov’s forehead?”
“Of course.”
Slowly, Marshall made Benedikt set his utensil down too, thenmimed attacking him with the knife. He was still making a fist around the knife, but instead of pressing the dull blade forward, he used the other end, drawing his elbow outward. Its metal grazed across Benedikt’s skin, running a cold line from his temple to the center of his forehead.
“The cut was thickest by his right temple and thinner as it moved inward. He was hit like this: a backhanded smack of the coat stand from a left-handed grip.”
Benedikt frowned. He reached for Marshall’s hand, prying the blunt knife out of his grip and swapping it into his right hand instead, which was usually his dominant grip.
“I don’t see why it couldn’t have been like this.” Benedikt, with his hands wrapped around Marshall’s, pulled the proper end of the knife toward his temple and moved the arc inward.
“You’re so silly,” Marshall said with amusement. “Because it was a long coat stand, Ben. If someone was holding it with their right hand, it wouldn’t require any need for this awkward movement. Look at how much my wrist is bent to create the angle. They would just”—Marshall shook his hand free, then tapped the dull knife directly onto Benedikt’s forehead—“do this. Big smack.”
It did make sense. It was impressive deduction, the stuff of real detective work. Benedikt nodded appreciatively. Marshall would know the gesture was the same caliber of admiration as his prolongedWooooow.
“Should we look for someone left-handed then?”
“Not necessarily. In moments of panic people can pick up weapons with any hand. I suppose it only means anyone who cannot hit hard with their left is ruled out.”
Benedikt picked his fork back up. Ate a bit of the terrible meat. “This… really doesn’t narrow it down by much, does it?”
Night proper was settling heavily around the train. They were three days in, so their surroundings had turned into mountain ranges and snowy riverbeds. The Ural Mountains had been left behind in thedaytime. The terrain had turned rougher since then, but it was nothing unrecognizable. The farther they pressed into Siberia, the sparser the scenery would turn. After Lake Baikal, even the stops that the Trans-Siberian Express would usually make grew farther apart. If they could just hold out until then, maybe they had a greater chance of pushing all the way into Vladivostok.
As if hearing Benedikt’s thoughts, there was a rumble of commotion from the passageway outside the dining carriage. Unlike other times, however, this commotion sounded celebratory, and Benedikt slowly got to his feet, curious to see what the matter was.
He took a step toward the door. The train bounced under his feet. Was he imagining the slowing speed…?
“We are stopping!” a passenger crowed, sticking their head into the dining carriage.
Benedikt whirled around. Marshall’s horrified expression mirrored his own.
“Absolutelynot,” he declared, hurrying forward.
