Close to the Bone (26 page)

To call Oliver a friend would constitute a gross exaggeration. To call him enormously useful would not.

As always, he showed the rest of the world his back, hunching over his keyboard with his long, mostly gray ponytail snaking along his spine. His massive frame – which was
not
all muscle, or even partly – hung over both sides of his task chair. He did not acknowledge her presence even when she knocked on one of the gas canisters.

‘I need your expertise,’ she said, outright flattery being the only approach to show success in past trials.

‘Uh.’

‘Diana’s toxicology report contains some pretty mysterious terms.’

‘Which ones are perplexing you?
Blood
, perhaps? Or
urine
?’

‘
N, N
-dimethylim‌idodicarbonimidic diamide hydrochloride.’ She had written them down on a piece of scrap paper. Oliver hated nothing so much as inexactness.

‘Metformin.’ He whirled around, beady eyes focusing on her face. ‘I hear you spent a number of torturous hours in the presence of a serial killer.’

She didn’t argue with the adjectives – that would only prolong the line of conversation. ‘Yes.’

‘Who was then killed, but not by you.’

‘Correct.’

He watched her for a while. For a delirious moment she thought he might ask after her health or mental condition, but he seemed to think better of it. A reputation as a curmudgeon required years of work and thoughtful tending – and was not an accomplishment to be thrown away lightly. ‘What other conundrums can I dispel for you?’

‘Why would someone who wasn’t diabetic be taking metformin?’

‘Some new diet craze? I don’t know. Why do people get deadly toxins injected into their faces?’

‘So they can look like their granddaughters. There’s something else in here, too. Doxylamine succinate.’

‘Antihistamine. Nothing exciting.’

‘But she didn’t have a cold. I don’t remember her ever mentioning an allergy. So why an antihistamine?’

‘Maybe she felt one coming on. Did she tend toward hypochondria?’

‘No.’

‘Some hide it better than others.’

‘Okay. Three, four-pyridinedimethanol, five-hydroxy-six-methyl-hydrochloride.’

He frowned. ‘Give me that!’

She handed it over. Supposing – or suggesting, certainly – that he had been stumped would not help her achieve her stated objective.

He typed the terms on his keyboard, then studied the monitor – which had been fitted with a non-county-issued privacy screen, rendering it impossible to read from anywhere except where he sat, directly in front.

‘Hmm,’ he said. After a few moments, he said it again, until she could stand it no longer.

‘
What
, Oliver?’

‘Nothing terribly interesting. It just might explain the antihistamine. And the metformin.’

‘Hooooow?’

‘The pyridinedimethanol can be used together with the antihistamine to make a new drug called Diclegis. It’s for morning sickness. Ah, your eyes widen. That means something to you? Our dear, departed Diana had been knocked up?’

‘I’m getting conflicting reports on that. Is this stuff over-the-counter?’

‘Nope, has to be prescribed. The FDA is very fussy about that sort of thing, ever since the whole Thalidomide debacle. That’s why they panicked and took Benedictin off the market in the early eighties, leaving virtually nothing to replace it with, so ladies expecting a confinement just had to keep puking until very recently when the FDA were finally ready to admit that oops, sorry, it’s not so bad after all. But manufacturers know all about how name recognition is a double-edged sword, so they changed the name to Diclegis. It’s basically the same formula.’

Theresa zoned out as he discussed the current history of morning sickness medication. Diana couldn’t have gotten the stuff except from a doctor, and a doctor would not have prescribed it unless they had been absolutely certain of her pregnancy. Her opinion and/or a home pregnancy kit would not suffice. She might have gotten some from a friend or some other backwater route, of course, but there would be little need for that. She had adequate medical insurance. ‘You said it also explained the metformin.’

‘Provided, of course, she had not actually been diabetic. Do you have any proof of that?’

‘No, but let’s assume it for the sake of argument.’

‘Then the only other reason – to my knowledge, and I assure you my knowledge is formidable—’

‘Acknowledged.’

‘Thank you. The only other reason would be to combat polycystic ovary syndrome.’

He waited to see if she would recognize the term, which of course she didn’t, yielding what passed for a smile of equal parts condescension and triumph.

‘Women with PCOS have too-high levels of the male hormone testosterone – not something one would suspect of the comely Diana, but there you have it – which, among other things, causes irregular ovulation and menstruation. It also causes insulin resistance, which prevents the endometrial lining from getting in shape to nurture one’s little bundle of joy.’

‘So the metformin might have been prescribed to prevent a miscarriage.
If
Diana had this PCOS.’

‘Exacta-mundo.’

She stood up, turned to go and walked into one of the gas canisters.

‘Try not to blow us up on your way out,’ Oliver said. ‘What’s on your mind? How does PCOS explain all that has occurred, in both the past and the present?’

‘I’m not sure it does yet. I have to check some things out.’ She walked out of the lab, literally feeling her way along the counter, unable to see what stood in front of her, her mind so full of shifting facts and suppositions and—

‘You’re
welcome
,’ Oliver called after her, his pissy tones bouncing between the glassware and Nalgene jars.

The basement seemed no more or less creepy than it always did, the crypts holding their secrets and the four-inch-thick doors waiting to lure in a passing victim and then encase them forever. A weak and fading light shone through the one set of windows in the entire level, a small set of clear squares that let one see a few blades of errant grass and the bumper of someone’s car. She both feared and appreciated the basement; it would be impossible to ignore the childhood terrors it evoked, but at the same time she could always work there in peace and quiet. She made her way down to the end of the hallway and had just slipped her key into the lock when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

She screamed. Literally. There was no way to qualify it, she screeched like a little girl and that was that.

‘Sorry!’ The woman, a complete stranger, wore a black skirt and a deep-blue blouse, black pumps and a little too much eyeshadow for her pale complexion. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘Who – what – where did you come from?’

‘The elevator.’

Theresa honestly debated for a moment whether the woman might be a ghost. She had never encountered one in the Medical Examiner’s Office, or anywhere else, but then again there would be a first time for everything and it would not be the worst thing that had happened to her that day – until she realized that the woman probably meant the
other
elevator. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Theresa MacLean, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Claire Donovan with the county manager’s office. I just have some questions for you.’

Theresa blinked. ‘It’s been a really long day.’

‘I know! So awful, what you’ve been through. So I won’t take much of your time. It’s routine stuff, really. Is this where evidence is stored? That would be great, because I kind of need to see it.’

‘A really long day,’ Theresa repeated. ‘Can’t we do this tomorrow?’

‘Unfortunately, the manager wants my report as soon as possible.’ Her voice sounded sweet and soft and utterly unrelenting, as did her perky smile. I’ve got to learn how to do that, Theresa thought.

‘Uh—’

‘Tell you what, just continue with whatever it is that you’re doing and we can talk while you’re working. How’s that? It would really help me out.’

Theresa unlocked the door and followed the labeled bags of clothing back through the years until she found Diana’s. Claire Donovan paused only for a moment from the funky, dusty smell and the cavernous collection of murder and mayhem. Then she plunged back in. ‘How long have you worked here? Is this door always kept locked? How do you know what is what? Do you spend a lot of time here after hours?’

To this last question Theresa answered ‘no’. The county loathed overtime, so she would only be here when someone had been murdered during inconvenient hours – and they were often inconvenient hours – and the cops wanted her to go to the scene. She blew the dust off a paper grocery bag containing the clothing Diana Allman had worn upon her death.

Claire Donovan coughed. ‘What about your chief medical examiner? Does he spend a lot of time here when not on duty?’

‘I wouldn’t have any idea. Since I’m not here myself.’

‘I thought there might be talk.’

‘Not to me.’ Theresa headed for the door.

‘Your supervisor’s position has been empty for a while.’

‘Yes.’
Would you like to see the storage room? The door still shows signs of the explosion.

But County Auditor Donovan did not seem interested in salacious details. ‘Any plans to hire a new one?’

‘Supposedly, they’re getting a recruitment effort together.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know; whoever handles nationwide talent searches. HR? The county exec?’

‘Wouldn’t you be part of that process?’

‘Haven’t been asked yet.’ Theresa locked the door behind them.

‘And you’ve been acting supervisor?’

‘Yes.’

‘Without a bump in pay?’

‘Without.’ They moved through the basement, and Theresa punched the button for the elevator. ‘Why?’

‘Oh,’ Claire Donovan said. ‘Just routine.’

Routine
what
? Theresa wondered, but felt too tired to care much about it.

‘Your DNA analyst, Don Delgado?’

Theresa felt a rumbling through her midsection, which meant that if she were a dog her fur would be starting to stand up. ‘Yes?’

‘Does he have a PhD?’

‘Yes, he does.’

‘But you don’t.’

‘No.’ The doors opened, and Theresa stepped into the elevator. ‘I don’t.’

The auditor made some note of this on her clipboard as the car rose with its usual groan. ‘I see.’

Theresa turned to her. ‘What do you see, exactly?’

‘That this is my floor. Take care of yourself, Theresa.’ The woman stepped into the lobby, now dimmed for the off-hours. ‘You should get some rest tonight. You look exhausted.’

The doors closed before Theresa’s lips could form a good, sneering, ‘Oh, really?’

She did what she always did in times of utter confusion. She went back to the evidence. Don had already done the fingernail scrapings, so that only left the tapings and the clothing; he had gone home at last, leaving her a note to call him if she felt like talking. She assumed Shephard had done so as well. She felt abandoned, with that sort of post-event let-down that makes one reluctant to say goodbye to people met on vacation or in a long line, despite knowing that they’ll be forgotten within the half-hour, and she chided herself for it. She should go home too; they had all reached the living-dead level of exhaustion. James’ reign of terror had ended, and it seemed extremely unlikely that his killer would have anyone else in his sights. And he still could have been shot by a nemesis from his past, from his neighborhood or his prison, someone who had never been within ten miles of the medical examiner’s office. And if his murderer did hail from inside the ME’s walls, that person would have better sense than to start up another spree and leave bodies scattered along the hallways.

The image gave her pause.

She might be working alongside a cold-blooded murderer. She might have been doing so for the past ten years. And, just as when James had been in their midst, she had no idea who, or how, or why.

She pulled out the tapings and her slides. Around her, the building quieted down into its night-time mode. Soon there would be no sound or movement on any of the three floors save for the television in the deskmen’s office and their desultory conversation as they discussed what to order for their meal break. They would need those distractions tonight; it couldn’t be easy to function in a space that still smelled of the bleach used to clean up their co-worker’s blood.

She went back to the animal hair she had mounted and found a few more on the tapings. None had roots, which restricted her ability to identify them. They were either a tan or white color and appeared to be simple, undyed wool. But the overlapping scales of the cuticle seemed much thinner and numerous than in wool fibers. In frustration, she laid one between two pieces of plastic cut from the rings that held a six-pack together and let the little sandwich warm until softened on the electric stirrer/warmer. Then she used a clean scalpel to slice off pieces, as thin as she could make them – the poor man’s microtome. Crude, but usually effective enough.

The building had truly gone silent now, and oddly enough she found it comforting rather than scary. She had been surrounded by stressed-out human beings for going on forty-eight hours now, and the peace and quiet felt like a balm across her chafed brain.

The cross-sections let her look at the inside of the fiber, which told her nothing except that it was semi-hollow. A convenient quality for a fiber, lightweight and warm, but—

Hmm.

Her mind began to travel down roads she didn’t want to follow, forming images she didn’t want to see.

Theresa stood up and went downstairs, feeling the darkness close enough to touch. It watched her from every angle as she slipped down the back staircase.

The two deskmen on duty started a bit when she appeared in their doorway.

‘Don’t sneak up on us like that, man!’ one told her. ‘Especially now. We didn’t think anyone was here.’

She smiled. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘James really locked you in the trunk?’

‘Yeah.’