Murder, They Tweeted #4

[xp_erverse]

Quentin and Hank investigate who murdered Trevor. It's like Clue, but with significantly less Madeline Kahn and Tim Curry.


The wine cellar had long since been cleared out so no one could disturb Trevor's body while Hank examined it. It served as their base of operations, too, as Quentin returned there after interviewing several wedding guests. He pulled up a stool next to Hank, who was busy jotting down his thoughts on a borrowed notepad.

"It was good of the kitchen staff to lend you an apron and some cleaning gloves. Not entirely autopsy appropriate, but what are you going to do?" Quentin wrinkled his nose at the sight of the corpse, and then turned around so his back was to it. "What did you find so far?"

"Cause of death was simple enough to determine," Hank said, sounding brisk and efficient. In truth treating this as a scientific experiment was the only way he could get over the fact that someone had been murdered, and the culprit was likely still walking amongst them. He was glad not to be examining the body any more, at least. It had certainly put paid to any aspirations towards becoming a forensic mortician.

"Simply put, he was hit on the head with something large and heavy. The trauma caused massive cerebral hemorrhaging. Death was near-instantaneous."

"So it was quick and he probably didn't suffer. Too bad," Quentin editorialized. "Any clue what was the weapon? 'Large and heavy' could be anything."

Hank shook his head. "It's hard to say - most likely it was something portable, I don't think he fell and hit his head. The trajectory of the impact was from above and behind."

They had already combed through the room. Aside from some wine spilled when Trevor was dumped into the barrel, nothing seemed amiss. "Weapon must have been brought from somewhere else," Quentin thought out loud. "Blow is from behind. You think someone came up and surprised him? Someone tall, or at least his height. And strong enough to wield whatever bashed his brains in."

All Hank could do to this analysis was nod. Quentin seemed to be in his element, which would have been admirable if it wasn't also so gruesome. "Have you managed to rule out any of the suspects? Or does this information help at all?"

"Mostly confirms what I already knew." Quentin sighed and stood up. He could think better if he moved and did not just sit still. He still kept Trevor behind him, though. "I spoke with that scrub who runs the place, that Portsmouth was yelling at earlier? Glenn Cooper. Makes sense. He'd been berated all day in front of everyone, and he looks like he gets that same shit at home, you know what I mean? Total schlub, can't stand up for himself, then totally lost his shit when some preppy waved daddy's Master Card around. But nah. He has an alibi for every second of the day. He's too busy with the winery to murder, justifiably or not."

"Well, that's good news for him, if not for us. I suppose the, er, jilted woman would also be disqualified, given her stature."

"Carrie Rose." Trevor had reportedly fulfilled the traditional role of a groomsman by hitting and quitting a bridesmaid. She did not take too kindly to that custom. There was some shouting. Nasty words spoken behind each others' backs. Vaguebooking. Typical hetero nonsense. Quentin shook his head and explained: "All the bridesmaids vouched for each other, and other people saw them during the day, so she couldn't have been here. I don't think she's tall enough, either."

"Ruling out both her and the manager, but it still leaves us with quite a few potential suspects," Hank observed. It might've been possible to gain more evidence with which to help their hunt if he only had access to his lab... but of course he didn't. He sighed. "Are you sure we wouldn't be better turning this investigation over to the officials? They may not be the NYPD but surely they will be better-equipped to continue than we are."

"While they build a fabricated case against Raph, the actual murderer will get away," Quentin replied through gritted teeth. "No, Henry, we'll do the work while they frame an innocent man because it doesn't get in the way of their hourly doughnut runs. Come on, let's think. You said the murderer hit Portsmouth with something heavy. What? There's nothing in this room that could've been used. The kitchen's right there, though. Maybe that's where it came from? Plenty of improvised weapons."

It was almost embarrassing to Hank how easily distracted he was by Quentin's principled stance - and his clenched jaw. Shaking himself out of these less-than-professional wayward thoughts he cleared his throat, then nodded. "It would be a natural place to seek a weapon, if one were acting impulsively."

In literally any other situation, Quentin would have noticed the minutiae of Hank's expression and tone, the little things he had learned to pick up from reading people's minds, from investigating, from cruising. He would have been intrigued and excited, and would have continued this game, stoking the fire to drive up the tension until it became intolerable and ended in sweat and moans.

Instead, Hank was just a professional colleague. Quentin walked past him, gaze fixed on his destination, as he considered what would be available in a kitchen to be used to harm a person. The doors swung open as he approached, holding themselves until he was sure Hank was right behind him, and then surveyed the room. They had been here just a few hours ago, with Raph, Trevor, and sleazy Uncle Felix. It looked the same, save some dishes in the sink that had been abandoned after the body's discovery.

"The laceration wasn't acute, therefore we can rule out anything with a blade or sharp edge," Hank said, casting his gaze around the room. Even with such a definitive exclusion there were still far too many items that could have been used to knock someone over the head in a deadly fashion - cutting boards, mallets, trays. Without a proper bloodwork kit the chances of finding something that had been even halfway-decently cleaned off was minimal. Unless...

He strode forward and began to push aside the mound of bubbles in the sink, uncovering a stack of dishes, pots and pans soaking in the cooling water. The longer he looked at it the more something niggled at his brain, until suddenly he blurted, "cast iron!"

Quentin raised an eyebrow and walked up behind Hank. A large pan rested in the sink of soapy water, its handle jutting up like a child waving their hand to politely demand an adult's attention. "Cast iron?"

"Cast iron cookware is usually seasoned - treated with oil until the porous surface of the metal absorbs it. When heated to high temperatures it polymerises and creates an ideal cooking surface highly vaunted by both amateur and professional cooks alike." Though not such a student of nuance and expression, Hank was beginning to be able to tell when his scientific babble was becoming unwelcome. "And the, er, point is that they are advised not to wash it with soap and water so as not to remove any of these essential oils and ruin the pan's surface. Ergo, either the person who placed this pan in the sink doesn't abide by such instruction, or..."

"Or is not employed in a professional kitchen and dumped the skillet where blood and hair would be washed away. Brilliant as always, Henry." Quentin actually smiled. This was a major find that could turn the tide. He reached out telekinetically to lift the skillet from the sink, keeping both their hands off it so they would not get their fingerprints all over it and obscure any that would be left from whoever last held it. The skillet wobbled a bit before Quentin gently lowered it to the table; it was much heavier than he had anticipated. Definitely strong enough to do someone in. "Find some corn starch or flour, something white and fine. And see if there's tape anywhere. I'll be right back."

Quentin returned a few minutes later, toiletry bag in hand, which he dumped onto the table next to the skillet. "I always knew being a bit femme would come in handy," he said, plucking a makeup brush from the pile.

Hank summoned a wry smile at this; these were hardly humourous times but Quentin's indomitable spirit was hard not to appreciate. "Cornstarch and tape," he said, indicating the supplies he had gathered on the table. He had also taken several pictures of the 'crime scene' on his phone, keen to follow proper protocol as much as possible. "And some black napkins - they should let us see the prints more clearly once lifted."

It was crude but effective; with a little care, they were able to lift a series of partial fingerprints from the handle. Not great, but Quentin was grateful for something, no matter how inconclusive. The place to start would be Raph. If they did not match, then it would be a strike in their favor.