“Proud man like him? 'Fraid he's been-”
“Embarrassed? Shit, Richard, a man's life is at stake and he's worried about saving face?”
“And saving his ass along with his job.”
“Damned small-town M.E.s are all alike.”
“Bottom line is, we don't get instant DNA fingerprints. I'm not even sure we'll discover any DNA other than the victim's own in the sample.”
“Go for the blood type in the meantime.”
“I'll see to it before I nod off. You are now sounding far too hopeful, my sweet. Perhaps I can be there in time with some extenuating new actual DNA evidence, but as you warned me earlier, careful of flying too near the sun, my lady Icarus.”
“All right. I'll watch my wings don't get singed, but we can't afford even forty-eight hours, Richard, that's-”
“The space between eyelashes, I know.”
“-cutting things awfully close.”
“As shy as the horse to the saddle, I know,” he lamented. “Still, if I were to leave here any earlier, it would be empty-handed.”
She allowed his complaint time to settle. “I understand.”
“In meantime, you can play it up with the governor that we do have some new evidence being examined here. Perhaps that will cut some teeth.”
“Ice,” she corrected. “Cut some ice.”
“Very little ice, I fear.”
She smiled at him and waved to the camera lens. “All right, dear one, hurry as you can to Portland with the goods.”
“You know, Jess, it could turn out to be Towne's DNA we have here in Minnesota.”
“Let the evidence fall where it may, but there's no record of Towne's ever being in northern Minnesota.”
“When last did you meet a serial killer who kept flight records?”
“There was a guy who kept meticulous travel records for the IRS even as he murdered people all along his route, writing off mileage, food and lodging. He'd created a self-employment situation, a sole proprietorship-subcontracting out to medical supply companies as an independent contractor.”
“Christ… in a sense he wrote off murder to his business.”
“In the best tradition of the IRS, even after Matisak was long in prison, they sent him a bill for back taxes.”
“Ahhh, yes, that awful Matisak again.”
“Yes, Mad Matthew Matisak.”
“Who also had his murder weapon, that spigot he jammed into his victims's jugular vein to 'tap' into his supply patented with your U.S. Government Patent Office, correct?”
“That was Matisak all right, but he had help, a money-man, a lawyer-entrepreneur in the lucrative medical supply field. Lowenthal was only one of many Matisak dupes.”
“Well, then, I shall find you in Portland.”
“With the fingerprint, yes. And I love you as well, dear one.”
When Jessica closed her television phone, she turned to see Darwin peeking in to see if she were off the phone yet. He had used a coat hanger to keep the door from latching. “Reynolds. Damn it, Darwin, are you deliberately trying to make trouble for me?”
Darwin Reynolds had stood out in the hall, awaiting Jessica, assuming she'd want a ride to the crime lab. He patiently now awaited her last-minute primping, as he stared out over his growing metropolis. The midweek traffic jammed West Allis Boulevard for downtown Milwaukee, the skyscrapers of the business district standing sentinel to the influx of the Wednesday morning rush hour. He turned now, gritted his teeth and shrugged apologetically. “I'm sorry, Dr. Coran about earlier, if I caused you any embarrassment or a moment's awkwardness with your husband.”
She called back as she tied back her hair. “Richard is not my husband, not yet anyway.”
“Sorry again,” he said almost as if to himself, grimacing. “I'm just naturally clumsy.” He went to the tray and grabbed a doughnut and poured himself another cup of steaming coffee. “I really wouldn't-wouldn't-want anyone to get the wrong impression, and most certainly not your man or my wife, trust me.”
“Really? Well, it may be too late for that.” She wasn't about to let him off the mat.
Reynolds poured her coffee, shaking his head. He handed the black liquid to her. “I'll see what I can do to arrange for the jet.”
“Why aren't you gone and taking care of that?” she asked. “I can get a cab or walk to the morgue from here, Darwin.”
“Ahhh… I just… well, are you sure?”
“Sure, yes.”
“All right, then. I'll catch up with you there.” Feeling her ire, sensing her coolness, Reynolds took his doughnut and coffee out the door.
Jessica frowned after him, sat down and uncovered the hot plate of hash browns and scrambled eggs he'd ordered for her. “Carbs're going to kill that kid,” she muttered, “if I don't first.”
After reviewing the preliminary autopsy report, a thumbnail sketch of the final autopsy on Joyce Olsen-put off thanks to her having to focus on Oregon's Sarah Towne and Millbrook's Louisa Childe-Jessica realized that Ira Sands must know that it provided nothing new. Reynolds had somehow managed to get this early-stage report out of Sands sometime the night before, during that period when he had disappeared and suddenly appeared with last evening's room-service cart, she guessed.
She wondered if he were hiding something, some more personal stake in all this. Had he known one of the victims? Did he know Towne personally? Perhaps before becoming FBI? Had Towne somehow reached out to Darwin from behind prison walls for one man's sympathy or letters threatening blackmail?
Perhaps, perhaps not. Perhaps her unflattering suspicious nature, part of her job and makeup, was at work overtime. None of it made much sense except to excuse him on the grounds of having become a crusader, and yet she had learned long ago to trust her fears, to accept fear as a gift, a gift of innate intelligence that sounded certain bells within, and the ringing of said bells saved her life on more than one occasion. Not that she feared Darwin, but she wondered at the depth of his motives in all this. Then she chided herself, recalling the depth of her own feelings and motivation in many cases she had worked as a younger woman, and she realized why she liked X. Darwin Reynolds so much. His enthusiasm was contagious. So much so that even Richard must have felt it over the phone. And that enthusiasm re-minded her why she did what she did, reminded her who she was, what the culmination of years of FBI work meant to her.
“Guess I could use some of that kid's zeal about now.” She sipped at the hot coffee. Still a tweaking, annoying doubt hung in the air, suspicion lurking in the corners of her mind, some twinge of intuition that questioned Darwin's reasoning and actions. She caught a glimpse of herself in the hotel mirror, her long auburn hair tied in the businesswoman's bun. It normally trailed to her shoulders these days, playfully ribboning a frame for her emerald eyes, and she knew she looked good in the virgin-white of the hotel terry-cloth robe. Did Darwin have designs on her?
No… just a wrong instinct this time, she assured herself. The guy is desperate to help an innocent man, believes in Towne's innocence. Likely has allowed the case to consume him… obviously so. Likely hasn't slept a full night's sleep since beginning his quest to save Towne.
Jessica quickly finished breakfast, finished dressing, located her shoes and medical bag, and walked the few blocks to the morgue. When she arrived, she found Ira Sands already at work, having clocked several hours on the autopsy the day before, and being a thorough scientist like herself, taking enough time to be rested and coming back at it. He'd become obsessed in his effort to run down any miniscule medical lead in the Olsen matter. Perhaps to show her up… perhaps to beat out the most famous M.E. in America, so that he could tell the tale at the next annual meeting of the AMEA-the American Medical Examiners Association.
Jessica suited up and joined Sands for the second go-round.
Seeing the Olsen woman's body again shook Jessica to her core. Again the stark horror of the crime clawed at Jessica's own spine. It slithered upward and curled around her brain stem on its way to her innermost psyche.