Part 4 (1/2)
Theresa yawned her way into the laboratory Monday morning, catching the eye of her boss.
”Hot date?” Leo wanted to know, watching her pour a cup of what smelled like burned caffeine. ”Did you finally do the dirty with that hostage negotiator?”
”Fell asleep rereading Badal's In the Wake of the Butcher.”
”That's a sad commentary on your social life. You need to get married again, or at least get a dog.”
”I have a dog, and I was never lonelier than when I was married.”
”How about some Visine, then?”
She didn't tell him that red eyes were a small price to pay for having her mind occupied instead of lying in bed listening to every sound, automatically a.s.suming it to be Rachael and then having to remind herself it wasn't, that Rachael was away at college, growing up and growing away.
”How about the day off, then? It is a holiday.”
”You had the weekend off. One more day and we'll be buried.”
”You had the weekend off,” she said, correcting him. ”I had a bar brawl in the Flats that produced three dead bodies and a lot of blood spatter. I haven't even examined James Miller's clothing yet.”
”Better get to it. I got a phone call about you last night. At home, no less,” Leo said.
Her stomach did that little dipping maneuver, exactly as it did when she'd been called to the princ.i.p.al's office or her doctor said he needed to discuss some test results. ”Why?”
”You have to release that building today. The one on Pullman. Finish up whatever you've got to do and get out of there.”
”What? Why?”
”Why? Because the cops can't spare two patrol officers twenty-four/seven to keep an eye on it. Because it's practically rubble now, so what is it going to tell you about a seventy-five-year-old crime? Because Councilman Greer talked the city council into condemning the place and they in turn made a sweetheart deal with Ricardo Griffin and company to build a recycling plant there, and there's a completion clause in the contract.”
”But it could be another Torso killing-Cleveland's claim to fame, true-crime-wise! I thought you wanted to make some Hollywood magic with it.”
”Turns out Hollywood likes stories that have endings and the local paparazzi are already tired of staring at an empty building.”
”Not all of them,” Theresa muttered, recalling Friday night's visitor.
”Besides, after their cameras go on to the next warehouse fire or school shooting, I'm still going to be dealing with Greer, and the police chief, and their overtime budget.”
”But what's the freakin' hurry? That building has been there for, what, seventy-eight years?”
”Exactly-it's unsafe, about to fall in on itself. If murder groupies turn the place into a shrine, one of them is eventually going to get hurt. Or killed. Besides, shrines don't make money. Getting a huge federal grant to increase 'green' processes, that makes money.”
”Huh. Well, what else could they do with a location like that, between a freeway and the railroad tracks?”
Leo sipped his coffee, apparently the only nutrient he needed or wanted. ”What I'm saying is, get done with what you need to do and release the location, just like you would do for any other crime scene.”
She counter-offered. ”Can you get your buddy at the college of engineering to GPR the cellar?”
”Ground-penetrating radar? You think he buried bodies down there?”
”I think if he did, we should find them before the backhoes do.”
He considered this. ”Okay. I'll give him a call. But if he can't work us in by tomorrow at the latest, we forget it.”
She nodded, yawned again, refilled her cup, and walked down the three flights of steps to the amphitheater.
Theresa examined most clothing and evidence in the old teaching amphitheater, since it minimized contamination to the lab and also had more room. The lab and its wide windows had better lighting, but the amphitheater worked well when one wanted no lighting at all. The small windows had been boarded over years ago to make slide shows more visible, and if she needed pitch dark all she had to do was. .h.i.t the wall switch.
Never mind that most people would not want to find themselves standing in complete dark while inside a morgue. Theresa had worked there long enough to know that the dead will not bother you.
The living were, of course, another story entirely.
The back of the victim's s.h.i.+rt, having been soaked in the decomposition fluid that seeped out as the body mummified, held together much better than the front of it. It had hardened into a sort of s.h.i.+eld, which Theresa now slid underneath an infrared light.
She had observed the clothing first under ultraviolet light to see if any foreign fibers glowed or any defects-holes-showed up. Then she changed to infrared, which washed out blood and decomposition fluid and illuminated only the material underneath. Nothing of any interest.
She switched to the trousers, and what she saw surprised her.
She went next door to the photography department and fetched Zoe, explaining, ”I need to do pictures as I go. This material is so fragile I'm afraid I'll make a hole by touching it.”
The photographer sighed deeply. Then she made several trips between the two rooms, setting up two lights, a tripod for the camera, the red filter, and the remote shutter release, and sighed again. Infrared photography had to be done in the dark with an open shutter, so the subject-the pants-had to be completely still. Easy enough, but so did the camera. On top of that the camera had to be focused before the red filter blocked the view and then the filter added to the lens without disturbing the adjustment. ”What is it that you're trying to get?”
”Fouling,” Theresa told her. ”There's a little hole just under his waist-band, which I thought had just been the belt loop tearing away from the pants, but I saw what might be an oval of fouling around it. The killer might have shot him at close range with the barrel angled upward so the bullet traveled up the internal organs; that would explain why the anthropologist didn't find any marks on the bones. When we're done I'll do a Griess test, which will probably dissolve what's left of these pants.” She had hoped, against all probability, that James Miller had had a peaceful death. No such luck.
”Gunpowder will show up after a hundred years?”
”It's only been seventy-four, but I don't really know. I've never tested clothing more than a few days postmortem, that I can think of. I'll have to hope that nitrites don't decompose.”
”People do,” Zoe warned her.
”Thanks for the news flash.”
”I mean, I was just thinking...is that hostage negotiator still calling you?”
”I believe his interest has decomposed.” He would never be able to take anything as seriously as she took everything, and his hot and cold behavior must have been his way of telling her so. The irony of a man who made his living getting people to express their feelings not being able to express his own did not appeal to her. Theresa did not care for irony, which was too often cruel.
Zoe tested the shutter-release cable. ”Are you sure? He's been asking you out for, what, a year?”
Theresa didn't glare at the photographer as she had at Don. Women were supposed to talk about these things, at least according to TV commercials, and she'd grown tired of talking to herself about it. ”Chris Cavanaugh never wanted to date me. He wanted to sleep with me. G.o.d knows why.”
”Yeah, that's such a mystery. Can you get the lights?”