“He’s got this in the locker, but doesn’t use it. Kills Billingsly, and unless he’s really stupid, knows we’ll search the lockers, knows we’ll question the fact the serum cabinet was opened with its lock code. He’s unstable, and the drug makes him more so, but he’s organized. Takes care not to be seen coming in—but does murder, then shows himself.”
“Because he wanted us here,” Peabody concluded. “Following the bread crumbs to Gupta. No, not crumbs. Big, chunky hunks of bread.”
“Reads that way. Seal it up, get the weapon taken to the lab for processing. And let’s have all our players picked up, brought in.”
She walked out with Roarke. “A frame-up, if that’s what it is, that’s human. So’s screwing up and leaving evidence where it can be found, if that’s what it is. Either way, with the weapon, the DNA, we’ll lock it down.”
“I have every faith. I’m going into the office.”
“Now? It’s . . .” She checked the time as they stepped outside. “It’s shy of five a.m.”
“Should I point out you’ve been working since shortly after two? I’ll get my own jump on the day, and as I’m curious enough, I may come down to Central later, watch you lock it down.”
“If you need the car, I could—Guess you don’t,” she added when a dark limo glided smoothly to the curb. “I’m going to hit the lab first, give Dickhead a push. A DNA match will save the innocent bystanders from a round in the box. Thanks for the bribe.”
“Never a problem.” He touched her cheek. “Take care, will you? This one gives me a very uneasy feeling.”
“Too many old horror vids, and an Irish nature. I think I can handle some murderous scientist.”
“Try not to punch him. You’ll set the healing on that arm back.”
She watched him drive away, then went back in to talk to the head sweeper and get Peabody for the trip to the lab.
Dick Berenski’s ink black hair was slicked back over his eggshaped head. Rather than his usual lab coat, he wore a multicolored floral shirt that would have made even McNab wince.
“What the hell are you wearing?”
“Clothes. It’s five-fucking-a.m. I’m not officially on yet. And I want a bottle of single malt scotch for the game.”
“We already agreed to terms.”
“That was before.” He shot her a sour look, and since the last time she’d seen him he’d been scarily sweet—and in love—she assumed there was trouble in paradise.
“Before what?”
“Before I got here and found Harpo pulling an all-nighter.”
“Why is that my problem?”
“She’s on your hair—first murder—and you’re not going to like it.” He played his spider fingers over his comp. “She’ll come out here.”
“What about my skin?”
“She goes first. And I want that scotch.”
“Fine, fine, if you give me something I can use.”
“Oh, I’ll give you something.”
Harpo, all spiky red hair and tired eyes, walked out from her section into Berenski’s. “Yo,” she said to Eve and Peabody, then dropped onto a stool. “You tell her?” she asked Berenski.
“I said you’d do it.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay. So,” she said, swiveling to Eve. “On one hand this is totally iced. On the other, it’s majorly fucked.”
“What is?”
“The hair. I’m the goddess of hair and fiber, and if I can’t ID it, nobody can. And I can’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sorry, I’ve been at this all night. I’m a little wired on Boost.” She gestured with the jumbo tube in her hand before she took a gulp.
“Have you tried the new black cherry flavor?” Peabody asked her.
“Yeah, but it’s got an aftertaste. I’m pretty well hooked on the Lemon Zest. It’s got a nice zing.”
“I like Blue Lagoon. There’s something about drinking blue that feels energizing.”
“Excuse me,” Eve said, brutally polite. “This talk of flavors and favorites is fascinating, but maybe we could take a moment to discuss—oh, I don’t know—evidence?”
“Sure,” Harpo said as Peabody cleared her throat. “I got hair from your crime scene. ID’d some from each of your vics, no prob. Got some not theirs, but no roots. So no DNA for you on that, but I started a standard anal. You want to eliminate animal—like a rat, or a stray cat, whatever. And I could—I figured anyway—give you some basics. Synthetic, human, if it was treated, color, and like that. But I can’t, ’cause it’s not.”
“Not what, Harpo?”
“It’s not synthetic. That’s solid. But it’s not exactly human and not exactly animal. It’s sort of both.”
“It can’t be both.”
“That’s right.” Harpo pointed a finger tipped with a metallic purple nail. “But it is.” She glanced at Berenski for permission, then used one of the comps to call up her file. “What you have here,” she said, tapping that bright nail to the image, “is human hair, and this”—she split the screen with a second image—“is ape.”
“If you say so.”
“Science says. See, on the human hair the cuticle scales overlap smoothly. On the ape hair, they’re rough—they, like, protrude. Get it?”
“Okay, yeah. So?”
“So this—” Harpo added another image. “Okay, this is from your crime scene. It clearly shows characteristics of both—rough and smooth—on one strand. What you got here, Dallas, is mutant hair. It’s like somebody mated a human with an ape, and here’s the hair of the result.”
“Give me a break, Harpo.”
“Science doesn’t lie. It screws up sometimes, but it doesn’t lie. I ran this through everything I’ve got and did the same with the other strands the sweepers sent me. Same result. About two this morning, I gave up and tagged my old man—”
“Your—”
“My father’s head of forensics at Quantico. Look, Dallas, it’s not like I go running to Daddy whenever I hit a snag. In fact, this is the first time ever because it’s way out of orbit, and he’s the best there is—anywhere.”
“Okay, Harpo, okay. What was his take?”
“He’s stumped, just like me. This sort of mutation shouldn’t be possible. But I’ve got hair—five samples—that says it is.”
“So, you’re telling me I’m looking for an ape-man? Seriously?”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re looking for, is what I’m telling you. Come on, Dickie, give her yours so she stops looking at me like they let me out of the ward too early.”
Berenski folded his arms. “Harpo got what she got, and I got what I got. You got green skin.”
“I know that, goddamn it.”
“I mean green. Not makeup, not tinted. It’s green down through the subcutaneous tissue. Your vic got some blood along with the flesh, and that’s not right either.”
“Green blood?” Eve asked, ready to be annoyed all over again.
“It’s red enough, but it’s not human. Not all the way. I get what Harpo got on the hair. A combination of human and ape. DNA’s like nothing I’ve seen before, and I’ve seen it all. It is what it is,” he snapped out before Eve could protest. “You’ve got some mutant freak running around killing people. I want some fucking coffee.”
He shoved up, stomped away.
“His girlfriend dumped him a couple days ago,” Harpo said. “He hasn’t said it, but we figure. He’s been hell to be around since. But he’s right. It is what it is. My old man, he’d like to consult on this if you give him the nod.”
Eve squeezed the bridge of her nose. “I’m going to get DNA from the suspects. When I do, can you match it to this?”
“Dickie’s got DNA from the skin and blood the vic scraped off. He can match it if you get him the killer’s. You get hair, I can match it. But it shouldn’t be a problem to find some half-ape guy with green skin. Right?”
“Jesus,” was all Eve could think of.
Wisely Peabody kept her thoughts to herself. She managed to be wise until they’d gotten back in the car.
“You know Harpo’s solid. And Dickhead’s a dickhead, but he’s one of the best there is. If they both come up with the same results, and really, when you look at the killer, he’s just not . . .”