Absolute Instinct

TEN

Apartment of Giles Gabran, Milwaukee

The apartment smelled so strongly now of bleach and ammonia and muriatic acid that it'd gotten into the air ducts and visited apartments throughout the building. People began pouring past Giles Gahran s door, exiting the building, fearful some sort of terrorist attack had been accomplished, fearful their lungs were already in advance stages of collapse and decay. Even Mrs. Parsons was ambling past his door, and seeing him peeking out, shouted, “Giles! Get out of the building! It's awful. Some sort of airborne poison has been let loose in the building. Get out! Get out now!”

More people filed past as firefighters in protective gear rushed in, searching for the source of the disturbance. Giles slammed his door, gritting his teeth. He cursed himself for having overdone it with the cleaning fluids.

“Fuck me! Damn! All right… just have to remain calm. Guy's got a right to clean his place, even if he is moving out. Just tell 'em it's a compulsion, one of those anxiety things, a phobia of germs, microbes, dust mites. A personal war. They'll buy it. Hell, it's partially true. Hell, it's entirely true.”

A thundering pounding against the door through which Lucinda had attempted escape the night before now filled the room along with the pungent odors of the cleaning fluids and rags he'd used. Giles lifted the cleaning rags and the mop to the door and cracked it open. He stared out through the crevice at a huge, imposing fireman whose flat, black visor looked like the face of death, like Giles's dead, faceless father come to visit. Amadeus in a Milwaukee firefighter's biohazard suit.

Through a mechanical speaker below the visor, the man inside the suit, sounding like Darth Vader said, “Sir, we've traced an odor emanating from this unit that has disturbed all the inhabitants, most of them aged and now on the street awaiting our clearance. Can you give an explanation of what that odor is, sir?”

Giles smiled and chuckled.

“Something funny about all this, son?”

“No, no, of course not… Sorry, it's just that some old fool in the building called you guys out on a wild goose chase, I'm afraid, and it's… well… it's silly.”

“The odometers are registering high, son. So no one's thinking this silly, least of all the Milwaukee Fire Department.”

“But it's just my fucking cleaning fluids is all.” He pulled the door wider, showing off the mop, a bucket of water at the center of the room near all the crates, boxes, bags and luggage. Giles held out a handful of dirty rags toward the black-visored, tall man, now being joined by his fellow firefighters, curious and staring past the door and into the apartment.

Inwardly, Giles quaked. They stood only feet from Luanda's body, all his collection of spines and jars of blood-paint, all his sculptures. In a matter of minutes, if they chose to barge in and do a thorough inspection, Giles could be found out, more authorities called in, his crates ordered opened by a search warrant. In his mind's eye, Giles saw it all happening, a complete, total end to his quest to one day display all of his work in a glorious opening of his own choosing, his own time and place.

The big man with the dark visor finally removed his protective helmet, his ruddy good looks rivaling anything Giles had ever seen in the way of a magazine model. “We're just going to take these soaked rags with us, if you don't mind, Mr… ahhh?”

“Gahran… Giles Gahran.”

“Yes, Mr. Gahran, and if you don't mind, would you remove the mop head, and we'll remove that as well. It'll speed up the process of the odors dissipating in the building.”

“Oh, sure… absolutely… and I'm so sorry about all this. Really had no idea-”

A second, older fireman with gray-black hair pushed past the younger man, taking everything in, his uncovered nose sniffing. “You using some form of marine pool deck cleaner in here, young man?”

“Ahhh… yes, sir. Muriatic acid. Guy at the hardware said it'd get off any mildew on the planet and the moon. That's the way he put it. Said it'd clean a gravestone with a century's worth of mildew on it. So I got it.”

“Smell bleach, too,” replied the man.

“Yes, sir. I… I didn't entirely trust the hardware guy and the acid, so…”

“Son of a bitch… you mixed muriatic acid and bleach? What the fuck else did you throw into this cocktail? No wonder the odor don't bother you, boy. You've burned out your olfactory instruments, scudded out the lining of your nose, blown it out your ass. Fucking fool. Getting us all out here with all this gear and equipment, sending everybody in the fucking building into a panic. Christ, don't you watch the news, kid?”

“I don't, sir. No TV. Come in and have a look!” Giles stepped aside, inviting the man into the apartment, pointing to the interior. “A war could be going on and I wouldn't know. It's all negative vibes I just don't allow into my life.

“There is a goddamn war going on! We're sitting on a terror alert stage orange, fella! Get this out to the media, Tom,” said the older firefighter to the younger fireman, “and round up everybody.”

“Code thirteen, sir?”

“What the fuck else? We're done here! Christ, this is going to bite the budget.”

“Yes, sir, Chief. Right away, Chief.” The younger firefighter rushed off with the rags in hand. Giles heard him on the landing, shouting to other firefighters up and down the stairwell, “All's clear! That's a Code thirteen. We're outta here!”

The older man did a quick walk through of Giles's apartment, cursorily looking here and there. He noticed the ornate box on the kitchen table, commented on what a nice-looking box it was, and continued on. Giles popped open one of his crates and told him to have a look at one of his sculptures. The big fireman leaned in over the crate almost as tall as he, and stared down at the statue of a woman. “Looks inter-estin',” was his comment.

“Oh, it is, sir. And fulfilling, very fulfilling if you don't mind not eating that is.”

“The mop head, young man.”

Giles had been carrying the mop around with him, and now he stood with it and stared at the chief. “What?”

“Remove it and hand it over.”

“Oh, yes… absolutely… and I truly am sorry about this.”

“You might wanna get yourself to a hospital, kid.”

“Sir? I'm fine, really, but thank you for your concern.”

“Concern? Damn you, fella, I'm talking about when my boot goes up your ass. We're both going to need a medical professional to get my foot out your hole! Now give me the fucking mop head.”

Giles pushed the entire mop, handle and all, into the fire chiefs hands. “Take it. I'm moving out anyway. Won't need it.”

“Weird is what you are, kid. Who cleans up a dump like this while moving out?” He started away, in his huge boots, white biohazard suit, holding his visor in his right hand like the helmet of a knight, and the mop head flowing over his enormous gloved left hand as a scepter. If all of this incident hadn't so terrified Giles, he thought it would be laughable.

“Just my own concoction of cleaning fluids,” Giles said to yet another passing fireman.

“Some concoction, son.”

“My cleaning cocktail, I call it.”

This fireman also carried his helmet in his gloved hands, perspiration dripping from his face. “Enough kick in it to knock over a horse,” the stranger replied.

Giles closed his door on the retreating army. He took a whiff. It didn't seem so bad to him. Maybe the fire chief was right. Maybe he had blown out his olfactory senses.

The other side of the door remained noisy as more men filed out and the first brave souls of those who lived in the building began to trickle back. Giles pictured Mrs. Parsons as she'd looked going down those stairs. He'd never known the woman to move so fast. The image made him smirk and shake his head.

UPS would be here soon.

He still had as yet to clean out his bathroom medicine cabinet. As he did so, he breathed a sigh of relief. Things could have gone badly, but it seemed fate remained his friend.

Later the same morning in Milwaukee

Exhausted but so over tired he could not readily sleep, still pumped up from the excitement of discovery at the cemetery, Richard Sharpe telephoned from the privacy of his room at the best motel in Millbrook, the Minnesota Motorlodge. He stood staring out at the flat terrain overlooking a calm stretch of water the shape of an hourglass here in the land of ten thousand lakes, wondering what the locals had named the hourglass lake, or if they were in the habit of renaming their lakes like they did their cemeteries. What a spin they had put on the potter's field.

No answer at Jessica's end. Where the hell was she? Already out, at the crime lab in Milwaukee, he assumed. Still she should have her phone with her, and if so, on vibrate in her pocket.

Richard continued to stare out at the calming water, his thoughts going back to the lone meadowlark on the branch overlooking Louisa Childe's remains. How ironic, given her predilection for feeding birds. The exhumation and “theft” from the body concluded, he had an insistent urge to contact Jessica, to let her know of his progress, but mostly just to hear her voice.

The phone rang a fourth and a fifth time. The thing must be out of Jess's ear shot, ringing incessantly somewhere. Perhaps she was in the shower or otherwise indisposed. He flashed on the notion of seeing her in the shower via her cam-phone.

Finally the ringing ended and she was on, sounding a little winded as if she had just finished climbing stairs. Clearing her throat, getting her bearings. Another noise he could not place, an incessant knocking on a door, and then a sound like a grunting animal.

“Richard, it's you again!”

“Surprise, yes. Just got into my room here,” he replied. “Why is your cam off? I want to see you.”

“Ahhh… food is… room service just arrived.”

“That's a good thing normally.”

“And I'm running late. Lots to do at the lab. Lots to process, and I want to go over the evidence gathered and the body once again.”

“I'm going to sack out for a few hours, catch up, but I wanted to see you again before doing so. A funny thing…”

Something crashed to the floor at Jessica's end like silverware hitting one another.

“Please! Keep it down,” he heard Jessica say.

“Busy place you have there,” he commented. “Want me to call back?”

“No, no, dear. Just my breakfast, room service. I must have laid back down. Fell asleep after your last call… showered… almost missed your call.”

“Great to hear you, love. Strangest thing happened on my way to an exhumation today.”

“Can you hold that thought a moment, darling?” she said. “Didn't eat much last night,” she lied, “and-and I am so famished.”

“Switch on your camera, so I can see what you're having.”

Jessica feared him finding Darwin in her room at this early hour-despite her innocence, she told herself-but then she knew that her thoughts hadn't been entirely guilt free, and that this was making her sound erratic. Finally, she said, “Oh… ahhh… appears Darwin is here, too. He's brought over autopsy files on the Millbrook and Portland cases for me.”

“Then it does sound as if you are busy there. I'll just bugger off then and get some much-needed sleep.”

“No, no, Richard, hold on just a moment.”

Her camera came on. She panned around the room, showing the breakfast cart and cutting quickly to the table where folders lay stacked neatly. It panned to Agent Darwin Reynolds who smiled at Richard and lifted a tentative hand.

“Say hello to Agent Reynolds, dear. He wants to personally thank you for doing what you can from there.”

The two men exchanged pleasantries.

She had just moments before shushed Darwin after he had barreled past her to exchange their dinner dishes for breakfast, resulting in a lot of clanking noise. He had taken the hint. Darwin now grimaced and, like a bad actor, woodenly said to Richard via the cam-phone, “I brought Dr. Coran the latest toxin and serology reports over from Dr. Sands. He says basically there was nothing whatsoever in the woman's system. The bastard didn't even give her the benefit of a sedative.”

Jessica returned the camera focus to herself and smiling, said, “Why don't you get that well-earned sleep, Richard. I'll call you later before we fly out to Portland.”

“To Portland? Both of you?”

“To talk to the governor… bring him up to date on what we have, our suspicions, all of it.”

“No way they're going to have DNA tests completed by then. Last I heard the earliest is forty-eight hours even on a rush job.”

“I'm aware of that, sweetheart. But we've got to go with what we have. Try to stall the governor until these DNA tests in Minnesota are done.”

“Right… sure. Agreed.”

“So, what were you saying about the exhumation?”

“Ahhh… just a strange Jungian serendipitous thing having to do with a… a bird. Seems silly now. Nothing really.”

“This Dr. Krueshach, he did put your request at the head of the line didn't he?”

“In Millbrook, Minnesota, dear, even if you are at the head of the line, let me tell you, life moves slow here. I built as big a fire under their asses as I thought prudent without pissing them off. On second thought, I guess I did piss Krueshach off, but he's now moving as fast as he can, I assure you.”

“Then you did find enough tissue under her nails to have tests performed?”

On hearing her question, Darwin inched closer in an attempt to hear the answer. Richard saw a cup in one hand, a pastry in another.

“Affirmative, and I'm assured that a DNA fingerprint for Guide's murderer will come of it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Call it intuition, instinct, whatever. I sense the killer reasoned wrong, thinking his DNA was under only her left-hand nails.”

“You sound fairly certain of it.”

“You see, he didn't bother with the hand clutching the charcoal drawing. I see it this way: She tears at him with the one hand, and he grabs both her wrists, one hand clutching the drawing. He forces her to her knees and brings down the hammer. She was struck twice with it according to Krueshach. Once while standing, once while on the ground.”

“I see… on her knees, bending to his will.”

“Yes, he sees the drawing and draws the conclusion from it, that her scratching him had been done with the free hand, but-”

“-but somewhere in the struggle, she's exchanged the drawing from left to right, the actual hand she attacked with.”

“Precisely… perhaps. All hinges on these tests.”

“We don't have the luxury of time, Richard, so have them run a test for blood type in the interim. It's quick and easy. If the blood type foils to match Robert Towne's at least we'll have that to add to our arsenal of items that don't add up!”

“Good thinking.”

“Meantime, Reynolds and I will fly up to Portland, meet you there. We'll need time to locate Towne's DNA fingerprint.”

“Are you certain he has one on file in Portland?”

“Reynolds assures me he does. Nowadays, Portland, like a lot of cities, does a DNA fingerprint for anyone arrested on a class-A felony.”

Just then Reynolds knocked over a lamp on the table. “Zeus, what was that?” asked Richard.

“Sorry, Darwin's like a bull in a china shop.”

“Big man, I could see that much. And handsome.”

“I hadn't noticed.” she said, waving the silverware in her hand to cover the lie. Off camera, she gritted her teeth and glared at Darwin. He mouthed, Sorry.

“Darwin is leaving now. We are both late for Dr. Sands, who has been extremely cooperative, Richard. A delight to work with.”

She felt an unreasonable guilt over the lie of omission already, the failure to tell Richard that Darwin had in fact spent the entire night in her hotel room, regardless of its having been in a perfectly innocent fashion. “He's had his coffee and roll now and is out the door.”

She panned the camera on a willing subject now as the Milwaukee agent, coffee cup in hand, waved good-bye while disappearing through the door, closing it behind him.

“The privilege of your company,” began Richard, “I should think, is uppermost on that young fellow's mind. Wants to learn from you, doesn't he?”

“He wants to use me, if that's what you mean. It was a set-up from the get-go. Darwin didn't want us here to solve the Olsen woman's case but to prove his theory about the connection between Louisa Childe and Sarah Towne, and that this guy Towne is innocent. He's had a hard-on for it long before I got here.”

“And he wants your backing.”

“Exactly.”

“And he's won it?”

“Up to a point, but I'm not entirely convinced that Towne could not have killed his wife in copycat fashion, thinking authorities would be looking for the Minnesota murderer instead of him.” “But you're getting on a plane with this kid tomorrow for Portland and-”

“Today sometime, not tomorrow, because I am convinced Oregon needs to slow this down and give a hard look at the inconsistencies. Why not wait for the DNA test now that we have one in the offing?”

“Yes, of course. To be rational. But perhaps people in Oregon are not being particularly rational at this point.”

“Towne certainly has managed to engender hatred and blood-lust. Interesting that he refused any appeal.”

“You're a softy, Jessica.”

“Me? What about you, my sweet Richard of Millbrook?”

“Keep me apprised when you get to Portland, what goes down as you Yanks say.”

“Reynolds says he can get a chopper or a jet assigned to us from the local FBI pool.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

She tried to gauge the amount of sarcasm in his voice. He wouldn't ordinarily use such an American expression if he wasn't being sarcastic. “That's the plan, after I have one final look at Joyce Olsen's body. I pretty much left the initial autopsy to Dr. Sands. He's quite capable, and I want to be in Portland as early as possible, before official offices close down. Still, questions linger that I hope Olsen's body can answer.”

“I'm sure she'll sit right up and speak volumes to you, Jess. If anyone can get the dead to talk, it's you.”

“Oh, I much prefer the way the Dead Can Dance ensemble talks. And by the way, Richard, I'm so proud of you.”

“Oh? And where is that coming from?”

“The way you created DNA evidence where there was none before. You're some magician. Millbrook won't soon forget you.”

“Gary Cooper come to rescue the foolish from the more foolish?”

“Sleight-of-hand artist, that's what you are.” “I am more the trick cyclist, but let's not count our black doves before their curtain call. Thus far, all I've got are some additional nails and scrapings being analyzed at the local lab, which by the way has limited capability.”

“So now we go to Portland, take our trick cycling show on the road.”

“You can get their attention and stall them, Jess. I know you can.”

“I'll do my best.”

“That's quite the best. You lured me across an ocean.”

“Right, I did indeed.”

“Thief of my heart.”

She laughed lightly. “As if you had nothing to do with a like theft.”

Richard laughed his full, rich laugh. The sound filled her with warmth.

“You're leaving Millbrook a bit more on their toes than before your visit. Taught the yokels something about investigating, Agent Sharpe.”

“Good chaps actually, but much of the evidence was bungled from the gate. I dread to think if they had a child abduction here. It'd be the JonBenet Ramsey case all over again.”

“I love you, Richard, and I'll hopefully see you in Portland tomorrow with the DNA fingerprint?”

'Tomorrow midnight perhaps, and that's a big maybe. Operative words being maybe perhaps, understood? I've built a fire under authorities here, but I can't rebuild their lab overnight. You know very well how long it takes to get DNA tests accomplished.”

“It can be done if they work day and night.”

“They don't have our Quantico facilities, resources or manpower, Jess.”

“Then they should farm it out to a private lab in Minneapolis.”

“Not sure there's time. And I'm working with one proud, stubborn German here.”“Herman Krueshach, yes. Has he learned anything from all this?”

“Proud man like him? 'Fraid he's been-”

“Embarrassed? Shit, Richard, a man's life is at stake and he's worried about saving face?”

“And saving his ass along with his job.”

“Damned small-town M.E.s are all alike.”

“Bottom line is, we don't get instant DNA fingerprints. I'm not even sure we'll discover any DNA other than the victim's own in the sample.”

“Go for the blood type in the meantime.”

“I'll see to it before I nod off. You are now sounding far too hopeful, my sweet. Perhaps I can be there in time with some extenuating new actual DNA evidence, but as you warned me earlier, careful of flying too near the sun, my lady Icarus.”

“All right. I'll watch my wings don't get singed, but we can't afford even forty-eight hours, Richard, that's-”

“The space between eyelashes, I know.”

“-cutting things awfully close.”

“As shy as the horse to the saddle, I know,” he lamented. “Still, if I were to leave here any earlier, it would be empty-handed.”

She allowed his complaint time to settle. “I understand.”

“In meantime, you can play it up with the governor that we do have some new evidence being examined here. Perhaps that will cut some teeth.”

“Ice,” she corrected. “Cut some ice.”

“Very little ice, I fear.”

She smiled at him and waved to the camera lens. “All right, dear one, hurry as you can to Portland with the goods.”

“You know, Jess, it could turn out to be Towne's DNA we have here in Minnesota.”

“Let the evidence fall where it may, but there's no record of Towne's ever being in northern Minnesota.”

“When last did you meet a serial killer who kept flight records?”

“There was a guy who kept meticulous travel records for the IRS even as he murdered people all along his route, writing off mileage, food and lodging. He'd created a self-employment situation, a sole proprietorship-subcontracting out to medical supply companies as an independent contractor.”

“Christ… in a sense he wrote off murder to his business.”

“In the best tradition of the IRS, even after Matisak was long in prison, they sent him a bill for back taxes.”

“Ahhh, yes, that awful Matisak again.”

“Yes, Mad Matthew Matisak.”

“Who also had his murder weapon, that spigot he jammed into his victims's jugular vein to 'tap' into his supply patented with your U.S. Government Patent Office, correct?”

“That was Matisak all right, but he had help, a money-man, a lawyer-entrepreneur in the lucrative medical supply field. Lowenthal was only one of many Matisak dupes.”

“Well, then, I shall find you in Portland.”

“With the fingerprint, yes. And I love you as well, dear one.”

When Jessica closed her television phone, she turned to see Darwin peeking in to see if she were off the phone yet. He had used a coat hanger to keep the door from latching. “Reynolds. Damn it, Darwin, are you deliberately trying to make trouble for me?”

Darwin Reynolds had stood out in the hall, awaiting Jessica, assuming she'd want a ride to the crime lab. He patiently now awaited her last-minute primping, as he stared out over his growing metropolis. The midweek traffic jammed West Allis Boulevard for downtown Milwaukee, the skyscrapers of the business district standing sentinel to the influx of the Wednesday morning rush hour. He turned now, gritted his teeth and shrugged apologetically. “I'm sorry, Dr. Coran about earlier, if I caused you any embarrassment or a moment's awkwardness with your husband.”

She called back as she tied back her hair. “Richard is not my husband, not yet anyway.”

“Sorry again,” he said almost as if to himself, grimacing. “I'm just naturally clumsy.” He went to the tray and grabbed a doughnut and poured himself another cup of steaming coffee. “I really wouldn't-wouldn't-want anyone to get the wrong impression, and most certainly not your man or my wife, trust me.”

“Really? Well, it may be too late for that.” She wasn't about to let him off the mat.

Reynolds poured her coffee, shaking his head. He handed the black liquid to her. “I'll see what I can do to arrange for the jet.”

“Why aren't you gone and taking care of that?” she asked. “I can get a cab or walk to the morgue from here, Darwin.”

“Ahhh… I just… well, are you sure?”

“Sure, yes.”

“All right, then. I'll catch up with you there.” Feeling her ire, sensing her coolness, Reynolds took his doughnut and coffee out the door.

Jessica frowned after him, sat down and uncovered the hot plate of hash browns and scrambled eggs he'd ordered for her. “Carbs're going to kill that kid,” she muttered, “if I don't first.”

After reviewing the preliminary autopsy report, a thumbnail sketch of the final autopsy on Joyce Olsen-put off thanks to her having to focus on Oregon's Sarah Towne and Millbrook's Louisa Childe-Jessica realized that Ira Sands must know that it provided nothing new. Reynolds had somehow managed to get this early-stage report out of Sands sometime the night before, during that period when he had disappeared and suddenly appeared with last evening's room-service cart, she guessed.

She wondered if he were hiding something, some more personal stake in all this. Had he known one of the victims? Did he know Towne personally? Perhaps before becoming FBI? Had Towne somehow reached out to Darwin from behind prison walls for one man's sympathy or letters threatening blackmail?

Perhaps, perhaps not. Perhaps her unflattering suspicious nature, part of her job and makeup, was at work overtime. None of it made much sense except to excuse him on the grounds of having become a crusader, and yet she had learned long ago to trust her fears, to accept fear as a gift, a gift of innate intelligence that sounded certain bells within, and the ringing of said bells saved her life on more than one occasion. Not that she feared Darwin, but she wondered at the depth of his motives in all this. Then she chided herself, recalling the depth of her own feelings and motivation in many cases she had worked as a younger woman, and she realized why she liked X. Darwin Reynolds so much. His enthusiasm was contagious. So much so that even Richard must have felt it over the phone. And that enthusiasm re-minded her why she did what she did, reminded her who she was, what the culmination of years of FBI work meant to her.

“Guess I could use some of that kid's zeal about now.” She sipped at the hot coffee. Still a tweaking, annoying doubt hung in the air, suspicion lurking in the corners of her mind, some twinge of intuition that questioned Darwin's reasoning and actions. She caught a glimpse of herself in the hotel mirror, her long auburn hair tied in the businesswoman's bun. It normally trailed to her shoulders these days, playfully ribboning a frame for her emerald eyes, and she knew she looked good in the virgin-white of the hotel terry-cloth robe. Did Darwin have designs on her?

No… just a wrong instinct this time, she assured herself. The guy is desperate to help an innocent man, believes in Towne's innocence. Likely has allowed the case to consume him… obviously so. Likely hasn't slept a full night's sleep since beginning his quest to save Towne.

Jessica quickly finished breakfast, finished dressing, located her shoes and medical bag, and walked the few blocks to the morgue. When she arrived, she found Ira Sands already at work, having clocked several hours on the autopsy the day before, and being a thorough scientist like herself, taking enough time to be rested and coming back at it. He'd become obsessed in his effort to run down any miniscule medical lead in the Olsen matter. Perhaps to show her up… perhaps to beat out the most famous M.E. in America, so that he could tell the tale at the next annual meeting of the AMEA-the American Medical Examiners Association.

Jessica suited up and joined Sands for the second go-round.

Seeing the Olsen woman's body again shook Jessica to her core. Again the stark horror of the crime clawed at Jessica's own spine. It slithered upward and curled around her brain stem on its way to her innermost psyche.

With Sands closely watching her reaction, she shook off the paralyzing feeling and went to work. Several hours later, she and Sands finally gave up the ghost. There was nothing further that Joyce Olsen could tell them. Nothing further that Jessica and Ira could do beyond feeling absolute frustration. As in the Minnesota case, they had scant little to go on. The toxicology reports had come back absolutely negative. Serum and blood tests demonstrated there was no one's blood or saliva present other than the victim's. No evidence of rape, no DNA evidence, no fingerprints, no bite marks on the body. The only thing they could say for certain was that she, like the other two victims, had been struck by a blow to the head with a hammer.

Using the mop, which tested negative for prints, the killer had even robbed them of bloody shoe prints. The two M.E.'s hated to call any murder a perfect crime. To do so meant admitting failure. Still, this one had all the markings of a flawless crime.

She shared with Sands the one bit of good news about Richard's scavenger hunt through the Millbrook evidence lockup, morgue and cemetery, and the hope that Richard's investigation there held out.

“You're telling me our mastermind cut off the wrong fucking fingers?” Ira Sands's laughter filled the silent autopsy room. “That's rich. That does give us hope.”

“Still,” cautioned Jessica, “the DNA found in the exhumation is more likely to free a death-row inmate than to capture a murderer.”

“Unless someone's charged with the crime and his DNA is in the system and we gain a match.”

“A lot of ifs. Look, I have to get out of here, now,” she confided and marched off for the lockers.

Jessica felt a gnawing, clawing, claustrophobia creeping in, one she recognized as the frustration and stress monster her shrink had so often warned her to get as far from as possible when she felt the onset. “Go out and feed your inner child immediately. Go to a zoo, a museum, a park to watch the dogs frolic and kids laugh, anything but your grim reality, your fiicked-up work ethic, and your current case files.”

“But I'm twenty-four-seven an M.E.,” she'd argued at first.

“Then you gotta reclaim that time. No one else can do it for you, not even Richard.”

So she knew now, after the night she had spent and the day's autopsy, that she must release the little kid inside. “Gotta at the very least get the fuck out of the lab,” she swore aloud as she pushed through the doors leading into the locker room area for female medical personnel. She tore off her protective wear, showered and dressed a second time today. Grabbing her things, she went past Sands's office.

“Join me for coffee?” Ira held up a pot and a cup, a smile stretching his mustache.

“No thanks, Ira,” she responded to the offer. “I really have to get myself some air, get out of the building, you know. The kind of day you've had, Dr. Sands, you should play hooky with me.”

“A tempting, tempting offer, Jessica. Ahhh, yes, space and air… things I am denied for the time being. Go, yes! Go for the rest of us, and when you return, tell us what is out there in the land of the free, but no… can't break away just now. Too many people would have my scalp, but I quite understand the impulse, my dear. Go… go for both of us, Dr. Coran.”

“As quickly as possible, but you must come along, Dr. Sands. We've had not a moment to simply catch our breaths and talk,” she persisted, but there appeared no budging the man. He seemed in a marathon of his own making.

SHE easily found the local Caribou coffee house, where she sat in an enormous overstuffed chair by the window looking out on the avenue. She felt a need to control the sheer amount of aggravated, discouraged and stymied anger rising up in her as a result of this mad phantom who sketched his victims before killing them. And after a time of silent meditation and forced relaxation, she felt annoyed with Darwin Reynolds. To a far less degree than she did toward the “Butcher of West Allis,” as one paper's headline called the spine thief, but annoyed with Darwin nonetheless. She had time to think about the tall, handsome, broad-shouldered man who had popped up at times when she didn't need to hear from him. But now, when she wanted to hear news of their departure time, where the hell was he? She wanted to get out of Milwaukee, to put some distance between herself and the failed investigation, and the growing cancer of what appeared from the get-go as an un-solvable crime, a futile investigation-one that would never go away but remain on the open books forever.

Although fearing it a fantasy, perhaps some distance from the Olsen case might give her more perspective, the logic or illogic rather being that the farther she was from Milwaukee, Wisconsin, the more insightful, intuitive and clearheaded she'd become.

She struggled to clear her mind now, but try as she might, Jessica couldn't get the case out of her head. She tried concentrating on thoughts of Richard, tried thinking of their plans for the house, and for their bright future. She thought about her stable of horses back in Quantico, Virginia. She missed so much. She also fantasized a great fear as well, that some madman who made soups and stews of murdered women's bones lurked about Millbrook, Minnesota, and learning of the newly arrived FBI agent with a British accent and mild manner, hatched a plan of assassination borne of fear. She struggled to kill such thoughts at their inception. It was like living with the 9/11 fears of a terrorist on every street corner-simply an impossible ordeal for anyone. She forced herself to think instead of that sixteen-year-old furnished apartment of hers and how she'd had to give up all those comforting old furnishings so that she and Richard could find common furnishings they both could live with.

She stirred her coffee, listened to the light strain of New-Age music here, and gave her mind over to a great deal of decorating in the newly acquired old ranch house and stable that remained undone, given their competing schedules.

She next began to people watch both inside the shop and through the window, when her eyes lit on a large banner advertising a major new exhibit at the Hamilton Museum's Fine Arts Center. The exhibit featured some artist she had never heard of, a fellow by the name of Keith Orion, who billed himself as the “Professor of Shock Art.”

“Sounds more like a rock star than a painter, wouldn't you say?”

She saw Darwin's enormous shadow creep over her table, knowing it was him even before he'd spoken a word. Still, her look of surprise must have registered, as he hurled explanations at her.

“Sands told me at the morgue you'd gone out for air and coffee. Caribou is the only coffee shop on the block. I am, after all, a detective.”

“Obviously a regular bloodhound. I thought you said you'd call.” “I did.”

“You didn't.”

“I mean I said that I would, but since I had to come over to the morgue anyway… and I assumed you'd be there.” He sat across from her on an ancient-looking recently reupholstered paisley-patterned ottoman.

“Have we got clearance to use that FBI jet?”

“We do, but not until three-thirty.”

“But our meeting with the governor's at six, right? That's cutting things close, isn't it?”

“It's the best I could do. A commercial flight won't get us there any sooner,” he said, fingering the sandwich and desert menu.

The waitress came and he ordered a chicken salad sandwich and coffee. Alone again, he broke the silence. “Hey, I want to apologize again for this morning. I certainly don't want to cause trouble for you and yours.”

“No need to apologize, no problem.”

They sat in silence for an awkward moment. “So, since we have time to kill, why don't we walk across to the arts center and have a look at the new exhibit?” he suggested. “I live here and I never get to the museums.”

She considered this a moment, looked into his eyes and said, “No, I don't think so.”

“Come on, this is my town. Let me show you the finer side.”

She shook her head and then stared into his eyes again. “Reynolds, Detective Reynolds, our relationship has to remain on a-”

“-a professional level, I know that, but like I said, we've got two hours to kill. Trust me, Jessica, while I do find you attractive and intelligent, I have an Italian wife and three little girls.”

“Really? Photographs, let's see em.”

He pulled forth charming pictures of three girls ranging in age from four to seven. “Keep me hopping.”

“I'll bet.” She noticed he showed no photo of the wife.

“Children will keep you running on the one hand, grounded on the other, and all four of my girlfriends would bust my balls if I so much as looked at another woman.”

This made her laugh, and he joined in. “Sounds like you've got your hands full.”

“Oh, I do, I do!” H/s infectious smile is the irresistible part of him, that and his eyes, she thought, but she said, “What would she do to you if she knew you slept in my room the other night?” asked Jessica. “This Italian woman of yours?”

“Let's just say she wouldn't be as understanding as your friend Richard. Now that that's out of the way, how about we go see the Orion exhibit?”

“As soon as you finish your sandwich and coffee. I'll just go freshen up, Darwin. I like your name, Darwin.”

“Given to me by my adoptive parents,” he replied. “My adoptive parents were great people who happened to be black like me. I had a good childhood once I got hooked up with them. Prior to that… not so good.”

She dared not ask about the not so good, at least not here and now.

“So you like 'Darwin?” he asked.

“Yeah, interesting choice your parents made.”

“You mean it beats 'Thomas,' ” he joked. “I'll put a stop to the proposed name change proceedings.” Something jammed with sadness flitted across his eyes. The big black man sitting before her dropped his gaze. She thought she might see a tear fall into his coffee if she watched long enough.

She changed the subject. “I think an art museum opening would be just the thing to feed my child. It's a ritual I must go through so I have something positive to report to my therapist.”

“I hear you.”

“I suppose we both could use a break from this case.”

He nodded, looking up again at her, having regained himself, in control. “I'm with you.”

“But nature calls first. Be right back.”

He waved her off, dabbing at his eye with a napkin.

Inside the restroom, she stared at herself in the mirror for the second time today and said, “You damn sure still know how to make a fucking fool of yourself, Doctor Jessica 'Sensitive' Coran.”

But for the life of her, she could not decipher what had made Reynolds tear up.