The Burnt House (18 page)

“Girlfriends or boyfriends?” Marge asked.

“I was thinking girlfriends, but maybe she had another boyfriend. I wouldn’t know because like I said, we weren’t in contact anymore.”

Marge got out her notebook. “Can you tell me the names of some of her girlfriends?”

“Uh…” Another flick of the wrist to see the time. “I remember a Christie and a Janice. Or was it Janet?”

“Last names?” Marge asked.

Another sigh. “Christie…somethingson. Jorgenson, Ivarson, Peterson…”

“A Scandinavian name?”

“I think so.”

“What about Janet or Janice?”

“I never knew her last name.”

“What does Christie look like?” Marge persisted.

“Medium height, shoulder-length blond hair, blue eyes, button nose, anorexic with long legs and skinny calves. I think we met her around two, three times for dinner. Janice or Janet I met only once. She was a brunette, light brown eyes, good figure, and older. You’ve got to go now. My wife never found out about the affair, thank God, and I want to keep it that way. I been very cooperative and I expect some reciprocalness.”

Reciprocity,
Decker said to himself. “We’ll do what we can. You have my card, Mr. Holmes. If you think of Christie’s last name or anything else that could help us track Roseanne’s last movements, we’d be much obliged.”

“Aren’t you curious about what happened to Roseanne?” Marge asked.

“Sure I’m curious, but that’s as far as it’s going to go. Now I’m concentrating on my marriage and my kids.” Holmes smoothed his goatee. “But if you do find something, I wouldn’t mind a phone call. Especially since I’m being so cooperative.”

“I know, sir,” Decker said. “We’ll do what we can.”

“Then I’ll do what I can for you, Lieutenant. You know how it works. I scratch your back, you scratch mine.”

A
FTER DECKER PULLED
away from the curb, Marge asked, “What do you think?”

“The verdict is still out.”

“He was pretty cooperative.”

“I know. He kept telling us how cooperative he was being.”

“That could be his nerves talking.”

“Or it could be guilt. He was sweating a lot.” She thought a moment. “On the other hand, he’s sending us Xeroxes for the dates we requested.”

Decker shrugged. “He could be sending phony ones.”

“But then once we started verifying things, we would trip him up. He’s got to know that. It would be nice if we find Christie Norsewoman. If Roseanne visited her the night before the accident, she’d be Holmes’s alibi.”

“Maybe our next interview knows Christie Norsewoman,” Decker said. “Leslie Bracco. When are we supposed to meet her?”

“Five. It’s only three-thirty.”

“Can you call her and see if she can meet us earlier?”

“Sure, why not?” Marge turned on her cell phone. “I’ve got some messages. Maybe one of them is Leslie.” She listened to her answering machine and then punched in her code. “It’s Vega telling me she’s fine, but she’s turning off her phone to study. That girl is so high-strung—oh, it’s Willie…” She smiled as she listened. “Ah, he’s so cute…this one’s from Scott…”

“What going on with him?”

Marge listened for a moment. “Mike Hollander’s looking for you. He’s all excited. He got hold of the tape of the Wisconsin case.”

“That’s good.”

“Call him back when you’ve got a chance…wait, this is Leslie Bracco…she’s going to be late. ‘Don’t come any earlier than five-thirty.’” Marge snapped the cover back on her cell. “We’ve got two hours to kill. Want me to call back Oliver?”

“Absolutely. See if you can get Hollander’s number. I don’t have it on me.”

“Sure. I’m flagging a little. How about we get a cup of coffee?”

“I wouldn’t mind some food, actually. Last time I ate it was six in the morning and it was only a bowl of Cheerios. I could use something substantial.”

“Rina didn’t pack you a lunch?”

“She offered, but I told her not to bother. Lately it’s been hard to take anything on board. Lord only knows what’s next. Maybe bombs made out of roast beef.”

THE CELL RANG
just as Decker was paying for two tuna-fish sandwiches with coleslaw and french fries, plus two cups of coffee, all of it courtesy of LAPD. He was feeling more alert after having eaten, which made him wonder if he’d missed something crucial during the Holmes interview. He recognized the number as the one he had dialed about an hour ago and depressed the green button. “What’s the good word, Mike?”

“Life is good, Pete, and getting better. The name of the technology is Rapid Prototyping and here’s how it works—I think.”

“Hold on a sec, Mike. Let me get inside the car so I can hear you and scribble some notes.”

“Sure. Take your time.”

After he was ensconced in his seat—this time Marge elected to drive—Decker took out a notepad. “I’m going to put you on speakerphone so Margie can hear you as well.” He jacked up the volume, pushed the button, and laid the phone on the dashboard of the rental.

“Hi, Marge,” Hollander said.

“Hey, Michael. How does it feel to be a cop again?”

“Real good.”

“You have a home with us, buddy,” Decker said. “We’re ready. Lay it on.”

“I’m reading off my notes, so bear with me. Like I said, the process is called Rapid Prototyping. It’s used in industry to construct models. Let me give you the example like the tape did. Suppose Ford Motor Company designs an engine block on a computer? Now a computer image is a two-dimensional representation of something three-dimensional. But the company needs a three-dimensional object to work with. Say, for instance, using Ford Motor again, the company wants to place it in the hood of the car to see how much room it’s going to take up. That’s where Rapid Prototyping comes in. It’s a technology that makes a three-dimensional model off of the two-dimensional computer image.”

“Got it,” Marge said.

“This is how Wisconsin solved the problem. The first thing they did was to run the skull through a CT scan. I called up the coroner’s office. They don’t have a machine, but all hospitals do. Maybe we can ask county to borrow one. It’s not far from the Crypt. Anyway, once you have the machine, you’ll also need a technician to take serial cross-section X-rays of the entire skull. Are you two with me?”

“We are,” Marge said. “Go on.”

“Okay. Now each X-ray image from the CT scan is a one-millimeter cross section of the skull.”

There was a long pause. Marge said, “Mike, are you there?”

“Yeah, wait a sec…okay, here we go. Once you have the X-rays, you need someone to feed the shots into a computer that interfaces with this prototype machine. The computer tells the machine to laser-cut a piece of paper for every CT-scan X-ray you have. So each piece of paper represents a millimeter cross-sectional outline of skull. Not the inside part, obviously, just the perimeter. Am I making myself understandable? ’Cause it’s much easier once you see the tape.”

“I think I got what you’re saying,” Decker said. “You have a cross-sectional paper silhouette that’s one millimeter thick.”

“Exactly, except that each paper silhouette is only around one one-thousandth of an inch because the computer interpolates between the X-rays to make the model smoother.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “Go on.”

“So…where was I? Oh, here I am. The machine cuts out a paper silhouette about one-one-thousandth-inch thick and stacks it onto the previous paper silhouette. So in the end, you have a huge stack of paper silhouettes that represents the skull. Then another part of the machine squeezes the stack of paper silhouettes together until you have a three-dimensional representation of the original skull.”

Decker said, “Let me recap. The original skull is fed through a CT scan that takes cross sections of the skull about one millimeter thick. Then the CT-scan images are fed into a computer that’s attached to the prototyping machine. The prototyping machine cuts paper silhouettes of the computer model based on the CT-scan images. Each silhouette is about one-one-thousandth-inch thick. The paper silhouettes are stacked upon one another in order. Then another part of the machine compresses the paper so that the skull is basically reconstituted out of paper.”

“Exactly.” Hollander paused. “You’re pretty quick at this.”

“I’ve done some carpentry in my day,” Decker said. “Gluing layers of thin laminate on top of one another to get an odd shape. What you end up with is a skull that is in essence made out of wood.”

“Perfect!”

“And the forensic artist uses the wooden skull to construct a clay face onto.”

“One hundred percent. And here’s the best part, Deck. There’s legal precedent for doing this. The Wisconsin court ruled that the replica skull could be used for forensic purposes since the model was accurate with all its bony landmarks.”

“So let me get this straight,” Decker said. “We need to transport a very delicate skull to a CAT-scan machine. Once I do that, I need a CAT-scan technician to take a bunch of serial X-rays. Then I need to find a company who has access to a machine that does Rapid Prototyping. After we find the machine, we still need to find a programmer who can program the X-rays into the computer, and lastly, we need a technician to run the machine that produces the three-dimensional object.”

“It sounds like a lot, but I bet getting your hands on the machines isn’t as hard as it appears,” Hollander said. “We’ve got some automobile plants in the Valley.”

“You’re right. I’m not worried about finding the machinery. I am worried about finding the funding.”

There was a brief silence over the phone. Then Hollander said, “You see, that’s why I’m glad I retired. I liked the detective part of the job. It was the red tape that was always a bitch.”

THE RANCH HOUSE
was in the same area as Raymond Holmes’s renovation project, similar in style but tired. The paint job was cracking in spots and the landscaping was patchy. There was a porch with several lawn chairs, and that’s where Marge and Decker waited for Leslie Bracco to make her appearance.

As the time crept toward six o’clock, Marge called up Will and asked him to push the dinner reservation off until nine. In a gallant act of chivalry, Will told her that he was off early and that he’d be happy to drive down south, saving her some time and aggravation. There were a number of great restaurants in San Jose and several of them were open late.

Leslie showed up at six-ten, a set of keys in her hand. She was small and compact, square in the shoulders, a woman in her late forties, with helmet-clipped black hair streaked with silver. Green eyes and thick lips sat in a round face with big, apple cheeks. She wore a dark brown pantsuit, the jacket hugging a dusty-rose-colored wool sweater. Her shoes were simple brown flats. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The meeting just went on forever. We’ve been doing a rock-bottom savings promotion to try to woo back customers and it’s been very successful. WestAir has agreed to keep it going.” She opened the front door. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not too bad,” Decker said.

“You’re just being nice.” She walked into the house and began opening drapes and turning on lights. The detectives followed.

“It gave us a little time to catch up on our work.” Decker smiled and she smiled back with bleached white teeth. “I’m Detective Lieutenant Decker and I believe you’ve spoken to Detective Sergeant Dunn.”

“Hi.” Leslie shifted her purse from one arm to the other and held out her right hand. First to Marge then to Decker. “Sit anywhere you’d like. Sorry for the mess.”

The mess was a newspaper folded neatly on the coffee table. Other than that, the place was immaculate. The decor could have been lifted from a furniture ad—a traditional rose-patterned upholstered couch, matching love seat and armchair-with-ottoman arrangement. Sitting in the corner was a piano, the top obscured by family pictures. More photographs were hanging on the walls. The beige carpeting was thick ply and spotless.

Leslie threw her purse on the sofa. Then she looked at it and placed it upright on a walnut end table. “Can I get either of you coffee? I’m making decaf for myself, so it’s no bother.”

“That sounds fine.” Marge looked at the wall snapshots; most of them displayed Leslie, a husband, and three kids in the usual vacation backdrops. A more recent photograph appeared to be a skiing vacation—six young adults with four babies and toddlers. There was no husband in that picture, but there was a picture of a pale bald man
holding a baby. He was wearing an old terry robe and had an ear-to-ear smile.

Leslie was a widow and her husband had probably succumbed to cancer.

The flight attendant caught Marge staring at the photograph. Her eyes welled up with tears. “That was Jack.” A forced smile. “It’s been three years and I still miss the hell out of him.”

“Boy, was he proud,” Marge told her.

“Yes, he was.” She wiped her eyes. “Our first grandchild. How do you take your coffee?”

“Black,” Decker said.

“Same,” Marge answered.

“You two are easy.” She disappeared and came back a few minutes later with a tray and three mugs of coffee. She placed it on the sofa table and handed out the mugs, then sat down on the love seat, taking off her shoes and placing them neatly under the end table. Finally she curled her toes under her legs and picked up her mug. “Wow! That tastes good!”

“It does indeed,” Decker said. “You don’t look old enough to have four grandchildren.”

“Five, actually. That picture is old. And thank you for the compliment. People tell me I wear my age well. I think it’s because I had a good marriage. Jack was an airline pilot. We both loved to travel. Even when the kids were little, we’d schlep them everywhere. One of my sons inherited the wanderlust. My daughters are much more rooted.”

“Do they live near you?” Marge asked.

“The girls both married computer guys and live in nice houses in a great school district. My son and his wife live outside of Sitka, Alaska, and work for the Fish and Game Department.”

“There’s a switch,” Decker said.

“He definitely followed his own muse.” Leslie took a sip of coffee. “I understand from my boss that you wanted to talk to me about Roseanne Dresden. How can I help you?”

“So WestAir knows you’re talking to us?” Marge said.

“Oh yes. They’ve asked me to cooperate fully, which I would do
without their orders, but it seems important to them that I appear helpful…beyond making coffee.”

Decker smiled. “Hey, sometimes that’s enough. Anyway let me give you some details. Roseanne Dresden has not been seen or heard since the accident. So, at first, it seemed logical that Roseanne had jumped the plane without a ticket and had perished along with everyone else. Our problem is we can’t find any verification of that. No body, no personal effects, no ticket, no work order…absolutely nothing.”

“We’re treating it as a missing-persons case,” Marge said. “We’re trying now to retrace Roseanne’s last movements before she disappeared. We found a phone call on her cell, around midnight on the night before the accident. It came from a San Jose tower. Would you know anything about that?”

“No, nothing.” Leslie shook her head. “But I think I can help you in a big way. I saw Roseanne the morning of the accident.” Again, pools formed in her eyes. “I was working the ticket counter.” She smacked her lips shut. “I knew the entire crew. It’s everyone’s worst nightmare…oh my, here come the faucets again.” Tears erupted and trailed down her cheeks. She pulled a tissue and dabbed her eyes. “Every time I think about it, I just can’t stop crying.”

“I’m sure it’s still raw for you,” Decker said.

“That’s a good word…raw. That’s exactly it.”

Decker waited a few minutes for her to get the emotion out and for his racing heart to slow. Then he said, “You saw Roseanne the morning of the accident?”

“I saw her and I talked to her.”

Marge tried to appear calm. She flipped the cover on her notepad. “And when was this?”

“Very early in the morning…around four-fifteen maybe. She was hitching a ride to Burbank.”