Kay Scarpet - Cruel And Unusual Part 13

Typically, it looked as if a fierce wind had blown through, scattering papers across her desk, tipping books over in the bookcase and knocking others on the floor. Stacks of continuous-paper printouts spilled over like accordions, and indecipherable notes and telephone numbers were taped to walls and terminal screens. The minicomputer hummed like an electronic insect and lights danced across banks of modems on a shelf. Sitting in her chair before the system terminal, I slid open a drawer to my right and began rapidly walking my fingers through file tabs, I found several with promising labels such as "users" and "networking;" but nothing I perused told me what I needed to know. Looking around as I thought ,I noticed a thick bundle of cables that ran up the wall behind the computer and disappeared through the ceiling. Each cable was tagged.

Both tty07 and tty14 were connected directly to the computer. Unplugging tty07 first, I roamed from terminal to terminal to see which had been disconnected as a result. The terminal in Ben Stevensas office was down, then up again when I reconnected the cable. Next I set about to trace tty14, and was perplexed when the unplugging of that cable seemed to illicit no response. Terminals on the desks of my staff continued to work without pause. Then I remembered Susan. Her office was downstairs in the morgue.

Unlocking her door, I noticed two details the instant I walked into her office. There were no personal effects, such as photographs and knickknacks, to be seen, and on a bookshelf over the desk were a number of UNIX, SQL, and WordPerfect reference guides. I vaguely recalled that Susan had signed up for several computer courses last spring. Flipping a switch to turn on her monitor, I tried to log in and was baffled when the system responded. Her terminal was still connected; it could not be tty14. And then I realized something so obvious that I might have laughed were I not horrified.

Back upstairs, I paused in my office doorway, looking in as if someone I had never met worked here. Pooled around the workstation on my desk were lab reports, call sheets, death certificates, and page proofs of a forensic pathology textbook I was editing, and the return bearing my microscope didnat look much better. Against a wall were three tall filing cabinets, and across from them a couch situated far enough away from bookcases that you could easily go around it to reach books on lower shelves. Directly behind my chair was an oak credenza I had found years earlier in the stateas surplus warehouse. In drawers had locks, making it a perfect repository for my pocketbook and active cases that were unusually sensitive. I kept the key under my phone, and I thought again of last Thursday when Susan had broken jars of formalin while I was doing Eddie Heathas autopsy.

I did not know the device number of my terminal, for there had never been occasion when it mattered. Seating myself at my desk and sliding out the keyboard drawer, I tried to log in but my keystrokes were ignored. Disconnecting tty14 had disconnected me.

"d.a.m.n," I whispered as my blood ran cold. "d.a.m.n!"

I had sent no notes to my administratoras terminal. It was not I who had typed "I canat find it." In fact, when the file was accidentally created late last Thursday afternoon, I was in the morgue. But Susan wasnat. I had given her my keys and told her to lie down on the couch in my office until she recovered from the formalin spill. Was it possible that she not only had broken into my directory but also had gone through files and the paperwork on my desk? Had she attempted to send a note to Ben Stevens because she couldnat find what they were interested in? One of the trace evidence examiners from upstairs suddenly appeared in my doorway, startling me.

"h.e.l.lo," he muttered as he looked through paperwork, his lab coat b.u.t.toned up to his chin. Pulling out a multiple-page report, he walked in and handed it to me.

"I was getting ready to leave this in your box," he said. "But since youare still here, Iall give it to you in person. Iave finished examining the adhesive residue you-lifted from Eddie Heathas wrists."

"Building materials?" I asked, scanning the first page of the report.

"Thatas right. Paint, plaster, wood, cement, asbestos, gla.s.s. Typically, we find this sort of debris in burglary cases, often on the suspectsa clothing, in their cuffs, pockets, shoes, and so on."

"What about on Eddie Heathas clothes?"

"Some of this same debris was on his clothes."

"And the paints? Tell me about them."

"I found bits of paint from five different origins. Three of them are layered, meaning something was painted and repainted a number of times."

"Are the origins vehicular or residential?" I inquired.

"Only one is vehicular, an acrylic lacquer typically used as a top coat in cars manufactured by General Motors."

It could have come from the vehicle used to abduct Eddie Heath, I thought. And it could have come from anywhere.

"The color?" I inquired.

"Blue."

"Layered?"

"No."

"What about the debris from the area of pavement where the body was found? I asked Marino to get sweepings to you and he said he would."

"Sand, dirt, bits of paving material, plus the miscellaneous debris you might expect around a Dumpster. Gla.s.s, paper, ash, pollen, rust, plant material."

"Thatas different from what you found adhering to the residue on his wrists?"

"Yes. It would appear to me that the tape was applied and removed from his wrists in a location where thereas debris from building materials and birds."

"Birds?"

"On the third page of the report," he said. "I found a lot of feather parts."

Lucy was restless and rather irritable when I got home. Clearly, she had not had enough to occupy her during the day, for she had taken it upon herself to rearrange my study. The laser printer had been moved, as had the modem and all of my computer reference guides.

"Why did you do this?" I asked.

She was in my chair, her back to me, and she replied without turning around or slowing her finger; on the keyboard. "It makes more sense this way."

"Lucy, you canat just go into someone elseas office and move everything around. How would you feel ft I did that to you?"

"There would be no reason to rearrange anything of mine. Itas all arranged very sensibly."

She stopped typing and swiveled around. "See, now you can reach the printer without getting up from the chair. Your books are right here within reach, and the modem is out of your way completely. You shouldnat set books, coffee cups, and things on top of a modem."

"Have you been in here all day?" I asked.

"Where else would I be? You took the car. I went Jogging around your neighborhood. Have you ever tried to run on snow?"

Pulling up a chair, I opened my briefcase and got out the paper bag Marino had given me. "Youare saying you need a car."

"I feel stranded."

"Where would you like to go?"

"To your club. I donat know where else. Iad simply like the option. Whatas in the bag?"

"Books and a poem Marino gave me."

"Since when is he a member of the literati?" She got up and stretched. "Iam going to make a cup of herbal tea. Would you like some?"

"Coffee, please."

"Itas bad for you," she said as she left the room.

"Oh, h.e.l.l, "I muttered irritably as I pulled the books and poem out of the bag and red fluorescent powder got all over my hands and clothes.

Neils Vander had done his usual thorough examination, and I had forgotten his pa.s.sion for his new toy. Several months ago he had acquired an alternate light source and had retired the laser to the sc.r.a.p heap. The Luma-Lite, with its "state-of-the-art three-hundred-and-fifty-watt high-intensity blue enhanced metal vapor arc lamp," as Vander lovingly described it whenever the subject came up, turned virtually invisible hairs and fibers a burning orange. s.e.m.e.n stains and street drug residues jumped out like solar flares, and best of all, the light could pick up fingerprints that never would have been seen-in the past.

Vander had gone the gamut on Jennifer Deightonas paperback novels. They had been placed in the gla.s.s tank and exposed to vapors from Super Glue, the cyanoacrylate ester that reacts to the components of perspiration transferred by human skin. Then Vander had dusted the slick covers of the books with the red fluorescent powder that was now all over me. Finally, he had subjected the books to the cool blue scrutiny of the Luma-Lite and purpled pages with Ninhydrin. I hoped he would be rewarded for all of his trouble. My reward was to go into the bathroom and clean up with a wet washcloth.

Flipping through Paris Trout was unrevealing. The novel told the story of the heartless murder of a black girl, and if that was significant to Jennifer Deightonas own story, I could not imagine why. Seth Speaks was a spooky account of someone supposedly from another life communicating through the author. It did not really surprise me that Miss Deighton, with her otherworldly inclinations, might read such a thing. What interested me most was the poem.

It was typed on a sheet of white paper smudged purple with Ninhydrin and enclosed in a plastic bag: JENNY.

Jennyas kisses many warmed the copper penny wedded to her neck with cotton string.

It was in the spring when he had found it on the dusty drive beside the meadow and given it to her.

No words of pa.s.sion spoken.

He loved her with a token.

The meadow now is brown and overgrown with brambles.

He is gone.

The coin asleep is cold down deep in a woodland wis.h.i.+ng pond.

There was no date, no name of the author. The paper was creased from having been folded in quarters. I got up and went into the living room, where Lucy had set coffee and tea on the table and was stirring the fire.

"Arenat you hungry?" she asked.

"As a matter of fact, I am," I, said, glancing over the poem again and wondering what it meant. Was "Jenny" Jennifer Deighton? "What would you like to eat?"

"Believe it or not, steak. But only if itas good and the cows havenat been fed a bunch of chemicals," Lucy said. "Is it possible you could bring home a car from work so I could use yours this week?"

"I generally donat bring home the state car unless Iam on call."

"You went to a scene last night when you supposedly werenat on call. Youare always on call, Aunt Kay."

"All right," I said. "Why donat we do this. Weall go get the best steak in town. Afterward, weall stop by the office and drive the wagon home and you can take my car. Thereas still a little ice on the roads in spots. You have to promise to be extra careful."

"Iave never seen your office."

"Iall show it to you if you wish."

"No way. Not at night."

"The dead canat hurt you."

"Yes, they can," Lucy said. "Dad hurt me when he died. He left me to be raised by Mom."

"Letas get our coats."

"Why is it that every time I bring up anything germane to our dysfunctional family, you change the subject?"

I headed to my bedroom for my coat "Do you want to borrow my black leather jacket?"

"See, youare doing it again," she screamed.

We argued all the way to Ruthas Chris Steak House, and by the time I parked the car I had a headache and was completely disgusted with myself. Lucy had provoked me into raising my voice, and the only other person who could routinely do that was my mother.

"Why are you being so difficult?" I said in her ear as we were shown to a table.

"I want to talk to you and you wonat let me," she said.

A waiter instantly appeared for drink orders.

"Dewaras and soda, "I said.

"Sparkling water with a twist," Lucy said. "You shouldnat drink and drive."

"Iam having only one. But youare right. Iad be better off not having any. And youare being critical again. How can you expect to have friends if you talk to people this way?"

"I donat expect to have friends." She stared off. "Itas others who expect me to have friends. Maybe I donat want any friends because most people bore me."

Despair pressed against my heart. "I think you want friends more than anyone I know, Lucy."

"Iam sure you think that. And you probably also think I should get married in a couple of years."

"Not at all. In fact, I sincerely hope you wonat."

"While I was roaming around inside your computer today, I saw the file called aflesh.a Why do you have a file called that?" my niece asked.

"Because Iam in the middle of a very difficult case."

"The little boy named Eddie Heath? I saw his record in the case file. He was found with no clothes on, next to a Dumpster. Someone had cut out parts of his skin."

"Lucy, you shouldnat read case records," I said as my pager went off. I unclipped it from the waistband of my abs and glanced at the number.

"Excuse me for a moment" I said, getting up from the table as our drinks arrived.

I found a pay phone. It was almost eight P.M..

"I need to talk to you," said Neils Vander, who was still at the office. "You might want to come down here and bring by Ronnie Waddellas ten print cards."

"Why?"

"Weave got an unprecedented problem. Iam about to call Marino, too."

"All right. Tell him to meet me at the morgue in a half hour."

When I returned to the table, Lucy knew by the look on my face that I was about to ruin another evening.

"Iam so sorry," I said.

"Where are we going?"

"To my office, then to the Seaboard Building."

I got out my billfold.

"Whatas in the Seaboard Building?"

"Itas where the serology, DNA, and fingerprint labs moved not so long ago. Marinoas going to meet us," I said. "Its been a long time since youave seen him."