“You’ll let me know what he says?” Cassy asked.
“Absolutely,” Pitt said.
The squad room at police headquarters was always busy, especially around noon. But Jesse Kemper was accustomed to the bustle and could easily ignore it. His desk was in the back, against the glass wall that separated the captain’s office from the main room.
Jesse was reading the preliminary autopsy report that Dr. Curtis Lapree had sent over. Jesse didn’t like it one bit.
“Doc is still sticking to the idea of radiation poisoning,” Jesse called out to Vince, who was at the coffee machine. Vince drank on average fifteen cups a day.
“Did you let him know there was no radiation at the scene?” Vince asked.
“Of course I told him,” Jesse said irritably. He tossed the single-page report on the desk and picked up the photo of Charlie Arnold that showed the hole through his hand. Jesse scratched the top of his head where his hair was thinning while he studied the picture. It was one of the strangest things he’d ever seen.
Vince came over to Jesse’s desk. His teaspoon clanked against the side of his cup as he stirred.
“This has to be the weirdest damn case,” Jesse complained. “I keep seeing in my mind’s eye the appearance of that room and ask how.”
“Any news from that doctor lady about the science types she was going to have examine the scene?” Vince asked.
“Yeah,” Jesse said. “She called and said that no one had any bright ideas. She did say that one of the physicists discovered the metal in the room was magnetized.”
“So what does that mean?” Vince asked.
“Not much to me,” Jesse admitted. “I called Doc Lapree and told him. His response was that lightning can do that.”
“But everybody agrees there wasn’t any lightning,” Vince said.
“Exactly,” Jesse said. “So we’re back to square one.”
Jesse’s phone rang. He ignored it, so Vince picked it up.
Jesse rotated himself around in his swivel chair, tossing the photo of Charlie’s hand over his shoulder in the process. It landed back on the desk amid the rest of the clutter. Jesse was exasperated. He still didn’t know if he were dealing with a crime or an act of nature. Absently he heard Vince talking on the phone, saying “yeah” over and over. Vince concluded by saying: “Okay, I’ll tell him. Thanks for calling, Doc.”
Before Jesse could spin back around his eye caught two uniformed officers coming out of the captain’s office. What had attracted his attention was that both of them looked terrible, almost as pale as Charlie Arnold in the photo Jesse’d just thrown over his shoulder. The officers were coughing and sneezing like they had the plague.
Jesse was something of a hypochondriac and it irritated him that people were inconsiderate enough to be spreading their germs all over creation. As far as Jesse was concerned they should have stayed the hell home.
A muffled “oww!” emanated from inside the captain’s office and diverted Jesse’s attention from the two sick officers. Through the window Jesse could see the captain sucking on his finger. In his other hand he was gingerly holding a black disc.
“Jesse, you listening or what?” Vince demanded.
Jesse spun around. “I’m sorry, what were you saying?”
“I said that was Doc Lapree on the phone,” Vince said. “There’s been a further complication on the Charlie Arnold case. The body disappeared.”
“You’re joking,” Jesse said.
“Nope,” Vince said. “Doc said he’d decided to go back and take a bone marrow sample, and when he opened up the refrigerator where Charlie Arnold’s body had been placed, it was gone.”
“Holy crap,” Jesse voiced. He hauled himself to his feet. “We better go down there. This is getting too bizarre.”
Pitt changed into his basketball gear and used his bike to travel from the dorm to the courts. He and Beau played frequently in the intramural three-on-three league. The competition was always good. A lot of the players could have played intercollegiate had they had the motivation.
As was his custom, Pitt arrived early in order to practice his shooting. He felt it took him longer than others to warm up. To his surprise Beau was already there.
Beau was dressed to play but was off to the side, behind a chain-link fence, conversing intently with two men and a woman. What was surprising was that the people appeared professional and in their middle to late thirties. All three were dressed in business suits. One of the men was carrying a fancy leather briefcase.
Pitt picked up a ball and began shooting. If Beau noticed him he didn’t give any indication. After a few minutes something else about the situation seemed surprising to Pitt. Beau was doing all the talking! The others were simply listening, occasionally responding with nods of agreement.
The other players began to arrive including Tony Ciccone who made up the third person on Pitt and Beau’s team. It was only after everyone had arrived including the opposition team and had warmed up that Beau wound up his conversation with the three businesspeople and joined Pitt. Pitt was now doing some stretching exercises.
“Hey, man, good to see you,” Beau said. “I was afraid after that marathon you put in at the ER you weren’t going to make it today.”
Pitt straightened up and lifted a basketball in the process. “The way you were feeling the day before yesterday, you should be surprised you’re here,” he said.
Beau laughed. “Seems like ages ago. Now I feel terrific. In fact, I’ve never felt better, and we’re going to cream these pansies.”
The other three players were continuing to warm up down at the other basket. Tony was tightening the laces of his high-tops.
“I wouldn’t be too cocky,” Pitt said, squinting against the sun. “See the muscle-bound guy in the purple shorts? Believe it or not, his name is Rocko. He’s a ball-breaker and a good shot to boot.”
“No problem,” Beau said. He snatched the ball away from Pitt and let it sail toward the basket. It went through the goal with a snapping sound having hit nothing but net.
Pitt was impressed. They were standing a good thirty feet away.
“Best of all, we have a cheering section,” Beau said. Putting the tip of his thumb and index fingers together and puckering up his mouth, he let loose with a shrill whistle. About a hundred feet away an enormous light-brown dog got up from where he’d been lying in the shade and sauntered over. He collapsed at the edge of the tarmac of the court and lowered his head on his front paws.
Beau squatted down and gave him a series of pats on the top of the head. The tail wagged briefly then went limp.
“Whose dog?” Pitt asked. “If you can call it a dog. It looks more like a small pony.”
“He’s mine,” Beau said. “His name is King.”
“You got a dog?” Pitt asked incredulously.
“Yup,” Beau said. “I felt like some canine companionship, so I went out to the pound this morning, and there he was, waiting for me.”
“A week ago you said you didn’t think it was fair to have big dogs in the city,” Pitt said.
“I changed my mind,” Beau said. “The moment I saw him I knew he was the dog of my dreams.”
“Does Cassy know?”
“Not yet,” Beau said. He scratched King enthusiastically behind his ears. “Won’t she be surprised?”
“That’s an understatement,” Pitt said, rolling his eyes. “Especially a dog that size. But what’s the matter with him? Is he sick? He seems lethargic and his eyes are red.”
“Ah, he’s just having trouble adjusting,” Beau said. “He’s just been let out of his cage. I’ve only had him a few hours.”