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chili.”
    “Who the hell cares what this guy was eating?” Banner complained.
    “We care because judging by the viscosity, that chili was hot when it was projected.”
    “Not spilled?” Tyler attempted to qualify.
    “Very good,” said Greistein. Banner bristled. “Quite the difference, isn’t there? Not spilled, projected. Thrown. Definitely hot at the time. We know this by the angular impact. We have a lot of exclamation points and tapered stains. The chili was thrown from low to the floor,” he said, indicating a thick area of his little flags near the boxes of dishwashers. He made a throwing motion from low to high. “Judging by volume, it was most, if not all, of an eleven-ounce can. It struck Mooch here,” he said, using a small laser pen to indicate another grouping of flags. “Mooch was standing at the time.” He fended off doubts by explaining, “Mooch created a spray shadow—a void behind him—that suggests he was standing at the time. When you find him, an examination of his clothing will reveal the projected food and will substantiate these findings.”
    “Low Man there,” Tyler said, accustomed to such briefings, “probably sitting. The other guy, Mooch, standing about there.”
    “Exactly.” The doctor added, “And the chili was thrown before any blood was shed. We know this as well because of coverage.”
    “These guys knifed each other over a friggin’ can of chili?” Banner questioned.
    “Not knives, no,” the doctor replied.
    “Weapons?” Tyler asked.
    “Low Man, for whatever reason, projects the chili, hitting Mooch in the upper chest and face. But it’s Mooch who landsthe first blow. Probably a sap or a stick. I’m guessing he inflicts a nose wound onto Low Man because Low Man’s blood spills over here. Mooch rears back and strikes again. Let me explain that any blunt force object produces very little cast-off blood following the first blow. It’s typically the second blow that collects the blood and sprays it off in predictable arcs. These arcs are seen as medium-velocity spray patterns, and we have just the one. A knife does not cause such a spray pattern.” His laser light, a small red dot, traveled up the ceiling of the boxcar.
    “But Mooch was cut, too,” Priest offered. “The flags indicate the blood of two men.”
    Greistein grinned; he appreciated attentive students.
    “Hurry it up!” Banner pressed.
    Greistein continued. “If Low Man is right-handed, the movement was like a tennis backhand, and quite frankly, judging by the blood loss, I’m amazed that he was even standing at this point. Those first two blows from Mooch were convincing. At the very least, Low Man’s nose was probably broken. But now, Low Man strikes out with one defensive blow. A backhand. Delivered quickly.” He looked at them all. “I’m guessing he grabs his portable stove and lashes out. Maybe Mooch takes a metal fin to the neck. Low Man gets lucky—he probably severs the carotid artery. Whatever, he unleashes some serious bleeding.” Now the man’s little red dot from the laser pen was jumping flag to flag in a hurry. “Mooch gets off another blow but misses, spraying cast-off blood here in another medium-velocity arc.” The pen’s bead of red light danced across the dishwasher boxes. “He drops the weapon here,” he said, indicating a small pool of frozen blood, “and grabs for the neck wound. His pressure against that wound causes low-velocity patterns, here, here, and here.” He pointed out a variety of wide stains on the boxcar’s floor.
    “A defensive blow,” Tyler repeated, echoing the man.
    Greistein allowed a wry smile. “Someone’s listening,” he said.
    Tyler continued, “Mooch is the bleeder, but Low Man took the first blows.”
    “Exactly. I have no doubt—no doubt whatsoever—that Mooch struck first.”
    “It’s speculative,” Banner complained. “These are two homeless sons-of-bitches who could have been arguing about who got the chili and who