“How long will it take him to find something?” I asked, knowing full well how scientists, given an intricate puzzle, love to play with it for an eternity.
She didn’t pick up on my suspicious tone, or didn’t choose to. “That depends on what process of elimination he employs. He obviously has to compare our sample to known entities in order to come up with an identification. That’s quite a list, as you can imagine. I think, however, that you’ll be pleasantly surprised. This is an inspired researcher, and we have already given him a leg up.”
“How so?”
“Well, the histamine wheal-that’s the red halo around the injection site-is uncharacteristic of either heroin or cocaine, and the urinalysis revealed only cocaine metabolites, or leftovers if you will, indicating the victim’s last usage was several days ago. Furthermore, I removed a large tissue section at the injection site for Dr. Gramm’s use, which should be a big help to him.”
“So, the bottom line is what? A month?”
“At the outside. I’m not going to push him, since he’s doing this as a courtesy, but I have seen him when his interest is piqued. If that happens, results will be forthcoming much faster.”
I looked up and saw Tyler hovering outside my office door. I motioned him to enter and sit. “Let’s hope he’s piqued half to death, then. I really appreciate it, Doctor. I promise I’ll sit tight till I hear from you.”
“Not to worry, Lieutenant. It’s always a pleasure.”
I hung up and looked at Tyler. “What’ve you got?”
He leaned forward and placed one of our own fingerprint index cards on my desk. I twirled it around and read, “Millard ‘Milly’ Crawford.”
“Mr. Crawford’s thumb print was flat-dab in the middle of the cocaine envelope you found at Jardine’s place.”
I read the card more carefully. Milly Crawford was a regular client, an erstwhile car thief, dealer in stolen goods, and-recently-a drug dealer. I knew him personally, of course; few of these guys become regulars without also becoming acquaintances with everyone on the force. But I had never had much to do with him. “Nice work.”
“That ain’t all.” Tyler pulled his notebook from his pocket and thumbed through several pages. “The cigarette we found in the grave had saliva on it. We managed to type it-the guy was a secretor, lucky for us. It’s AB, which is pretty rare; only about ten percent of the population is AB, so that might come in handy somewhere down the road.”
Not too far down, I thought. I remembered from his file that John Woll’s blood type was AB.
Tyler flipped a page. “And last but not least, we found out that the woman’s blouse you found in Jardine’s laundry was probably bought at a store called One Hundred Main, which is, predictably, on Main Street.”
“Yeah, I know it-been open about six months.”
“Right. They import very upscale stuff, like that blouse, which, it turns out, is a rare designer item.”
“You don’t know yet who bought it, though?”
“No. I called the distributor in New Jersey, which led me to One Hundred Main. I called them, too, but only to ask if they’d sold any of the blouses. I figured you’d want to send somebody down there to get the details.”
“How many had they sold?”
He grinned and held up one finger.
I nodded. “Lucky again. Anything else?”
He got up. “That’s it. I should be hearing from Waterbury about the specific makeup of the cocaine later this afternoon, but I doubt it’ll be worth much. Unless it was stepped on with something weird like Tylenol or boric acid, it won’t really help identify the manufacturer.”
“Stepping on” cocaine meant cutting it with some cheap powdery substitute so dealers could swell both inventory and profits. In the movies, they always use powdered sugar or milk; real dealers know those are too sweet and detectable. “Do you know what Milly Crawford’s preference is?”
Tyler went back to his notebook. “I wrote that down somewhere… Last time we arrested him, he had several jars of Coke Buster in his apartment. I think that’s mannitol with a sexy name, but everyone uses it-you can buy it under that trade name in any head shop.”
I stopped him as he reached the door. “By the way, does Crawford still live at the same place?”
“Yup. Been there for years.”
I waited until he’d closed the door, pulled a set of keys from my pocket, and unlocked the only drawer in my desk I kept secure. There I had an extra gun and some ammunition-strictly against the rules-some private papers, and my “snitch book”-an address book filled with the names of Brattleboro’s nether world, some of whom, paradoxically, were pillars of the community. But whether they were high or low on the social ladder, or had criminal records or not, they were here if I’d ever thought they might be useful, and if I had some information on them that could be used as leverage. You never knew, for example, when an almost perfectly legit dealer in wrecked cars and scrap iron might be the innocent connection between a crook and his victim.
In this instance, however, my target wasn’t even remotely innocent. “Dummy” Fredericks, whose true given name was Alphonse, was one of society’s true leeches. At the ripe old age of thirty-two, he had benefited from just about every parking spot the establishment had ever conceived for the wayward. From reform school to prison, from halfway houses to alcohol wards, from methadone programs to mental-health clinics, Dummy had made the rounds. I expected that if anyone filled with altruism and grant money ever opened a treatment center for deranged, left-handed, bald, Argentine-born Lithuanians with severe chemical imbalances, Dummy would find some way to qualify.
I found him, after a couple of false starts, at one of the local detox houses. “Hi, Dummy, it’s Joe Gunther.”
There was a long pause during which I could hear, and from past experience almost smell, his rank breathing. Personal hygiene had never been one of Dummy’s great interests. “What d’ya want?”
“I want to give you twenty bucks.”
“What for?” Small talk had never been too big either.
“So you can buy some dope for me.”
“Can I get my ass shot off?”
“Only if you try. The dealer’s a friend of yours.”
“Why should I burn a friend?”
“I was using the term loosely. Besides, you’d burn your mother for twenty bucks.”
“She’s dead. Who is it?”
“Will you do it?”
“For forty.”
“Thirty if you do it right now, as soon as you hang up. I’ll meet you at Mortimer’s mother with the thirty and the buy cash. Deal?”
Another pause. “You guys must really be in a rush.”
“Come on, Dummy, don’t live up to your name. You don’t want to do it, I’ll call the next guy on my list.”
“Jesus, I didn’t say I wouldn’t do it. Who is it?”
“Milly Crawford.”
“That asshole? Shit, you could’ve had it cheaper.”
“Sure, you would’ve done it for free, right? We got a deal?”
“Yeah-Mortimer’s mother.”
I hung up and tapped my fingers on the desktop nervously.
There was one thing that needed doing before I headed back out. I called in Harriet Fritter and dictated enough information for her to prepare an affidavit for a duces tecum-a “produce the records”-search warrant for Charlie Jardine’s business files. Then I crossed the hallway to clear my deal with Dummy Fredericks with Brandt. He listened to my rationale, pulled out the money in old, mixed bills from the “informant fund,” recorded their serial numbers, and had me sign on the dotted line.
“Mortimer’s mother” was a century-old gravestone set far to the back of Morningside Cemetery, out of sight from the street but with a good, long view all around. The inscription read:
POTTER, HELENE 1810-1883
Here lies Mortimer’s mother,