Part 12 (2/2)
”You must be the American that's setting hearts aflutter,” Reese said, eyeing the agent up and down suspiciously.
”I must say that your reputation precedes you. I was lecturing in Amsterdam and your name came up in several conversations, especially concerning your studies into forensic anthropology. Your paper on the Jane Doe skeletal remains found in Iceland in 1989 was quite fascinating, even to a layman.”
Danny watched Bradshaw's obvious b.u.t.tering of Reese and stifled a smile as he watched it work. He had always had a problem with the police surgeon -a clash of personalities born out of a cla.s.s system hundreds of years in the making; perhaps Bradshaw would be of some use after all.
”I have some papers in my office if you're interested, Agent Bradshaw?” Reese beamed.
”Unfortunately, time is pressing, Doctor. Perhaps later,” Bradshaw said sadly. ”Maybe when you've finished with Inspector Meyers?”
”Oh yes, well I just wanted to follow up about the information that was picked up yesterday.”
”I'm sorry, Doc, but you've lost me,” Danny said, confused.
”I understand that this is of a sensitive nature, DI Meyers, but I can a.s.sure you of my utmost discretion,” Reese said, leaning in close and lowering his voice.
”And I can a.s.sure you, Doc, that I don't have a clue what you're talking about; who picked up what?”
Reese stared at him long and hard, seemingly weighing up a decision. ”Come into my office,” he finally said.
Danny motioned for Bradshaw to wait outside. The man was new and he didn't know how far he could be trusted yet. He closed the door behind them and waited for the doctor to speak.
”Can I have your a.s.surance that this does not leave the room?” Reese implored.
”You have it,” Danny nodded.
”You remember the Alan Holmes' murder scene?”
”Of course.”
”You remember asking me to cross-check the blood at the scene for identification?”
”Whose was it?” Danny asked, trying to contain his rising excitement.
”Well, you were right. I don't know how you knew but most of it didn't belong to Alan Holmes; a large quant.i.ty belonged to another man.”
”Have you been able to identify it?”
”Yes.”
”So it was in the system?”
”It was in our records from 8 years ago, Danny, and don't ask me what the h.e.l.l it means because I feel like we're in the Twilight Zone. It belonged to Arthur Durage.”
Danny's head spun at the revelation. He didn't know what he had expected, but a serial killer who had been supposedly dead for 8 years wasn't it. ”Who have you told about this?”
”Superintendant Chalmers came down and collected the files himself. He made it pretty clear that this wasn't for common consumption. Look, Danny. I know that you and I don't see eye to eye on most things, but I don't mind admitting that this is not sitting easy with me. I don't like secrets, especially within the police. They get out, Danny; maybe not today, maybe not next year but they always do. Nothing stays buried forever.”
”Thanks for telling me, Doc,” Danny conceded.
”I didn't tell you anything, okay? Not a d.a.m.n thing.”
Danny left the office with his mind still racing. After all, it had been his own father who had died a hero bringing down the man christened the Crucifier by the press. As far as everyone in and out of the police force was concerned, Arthur Durage was dead. There had been four people in the bas.e.m.e.nt that night: his father, Durage, Lana Genovese and Jane, and Jane was the only one who he knew to be still alive.
”Bad news?” Bradshaw asked as he exited the office.
”Honestly, I don't know what sort of news,” Danny sighed.
”Boss, BOSS!” DC Selleck bellowed down the corridor in a shrill panicked voice that got Danny's attention in a flash.
”What is it?”
”It's Wilson,” Selleck replied in a choked voice and Danny didn't need to hear the rest.
Jane had tried her best to convince Marty to let her call an ambulance to check his head wound but he had been insistent that he was fine. She had cleaned the wound and had been relieved to find that while the lump was large, the cut was small. She'd let him sleep the last few hours of night away in the spare room, checking on him from time to time. She was still recovering from her own head injury and the doctors had been concerned about concussion.
”Morning.” His sheepish voice startled her from behind as she sat at the kitchen counter nursing a coffee.
”How are you feeling?”
”Like someone hit me in the head with a sledgehammer,” he replied, rubbing the bandage. ”Hey. I'm only joking. I'm fine really,” he said quickly, in response to her worried expression. ”Tough as oak,” he said, tapping his head. ”My mother always said that it was full of nothing but rocks.”
”You want some breakfast?”
”Sure,” he replied, sitting down eagerly as though worried she would change her mind and cut short his stay.
”Why were you here last night, Marty?” she asked as she broke a few eggs into a pan.
”I heard about your accident. I just wanted to make sure that you were okay.”
”How did you know that I was home?”
”I called the hospital, said I was your brother,” he answered proudly. ”They told me that you had signed yourself out and had gone home. I just wanted to check on you..., I brought you some flowers; did you get them?” he asked, looking around worriedly.
Jane pointed to a vase on the table opposite. ”They're very nice. Thank you, Marty.”
He beamed and blushed in equal shades of red.
She had been hoping to avoid this conversation, especially when her own head still ached and she had inflicted a similar wound on the young man. He was a good kid, if a little over-zealous. ”Marty, we're friends right?”
”Sure,” he answered quickly.
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