Читать книгу Working Stiff - Annelise Ryan - Страница 14

Hurley hauls David off, just as I feared he would. I try to tag along but Hurley shoots me another one of his looks and says, “Stay put. Your turn is coming.”

I take that as my cue to leave. Molinaro is in a huddle with several of the ER nurses as I make my exit through the doors to the ambulance bay, planning to walk around the outside of the building so I can avoid another encounter with Gina and her TV crew.

I head for work, where I find Izzy in his office. Sitting next to him is a man about my age with long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. He’s wearing glasses so thick they make his eyes look bigger than his head.

“Ah, Mattie,” Izzy says. “We were just talking about you. I want you to meet Arnie Toffer.”

Arnie stands and gives my hand a hearty shake. He’s about six inches taller than Izzy, which still leaves him a good half-foot shy of me. I’m starting to feel like Snow White.

“Arnie just got back from a seminar on fiber analysis,” Izzy explains. “He’s an evidence technician and someone you’ll need to work closely with. His job involves processing fingerprints, tire tracks, fibers, tox screens…that sort of stuff. Snagged him from LA. He’s one of the best.”

I instantly make the connection that, as an evidence technician, Arnie is the person most likely to be in possession of my underwear, which means he is about to become my new best friend. And despite what the cliché says, I know that the quickest way to a man’s heart isn’t through his stomach, it’s through his penis. So I shift into light flirt mode, hoping that Arnie isn’t gay and likes to read comic books about women from the planet Amazon.

“You sound like a pretty versatile guy,” I tell him, making and holding eye contact. “You must be very smart to know how to analyze all those different types of evidence.”

“Well, I have had a lot of experience,” he says, puffing his chest out a bit.

“I’ll bet you have,” I say, flavoring my tone with the barest hint of innuendo. “And since I need to learn how to do some of this stuff, I’d love to be able to watch what you do. To see you in action.”

Arnie’s smile broadens into something uncomfortably close to a leer. He stares at me a moment and then officially completes our little mating dance by ogling me from head to toe and winking. “I’d love to show you some action,” he says with a crooked, half grin.

Damn, Animal World would be proud.

“Good idea,” Izzy says, seemingly oblivious to all the innuendo zipping through the air. “We don’t have any autopsies pending so why don’t you take Mattie up to your office, Arnie, and show her a few ropes.”

The mention of me and ropes in the same sentence makes Arnie’s eyes grow wide. “Sounds good to me,” he says, licking his lips and making me wonder if I’ve taken the flirting thing a bit too far.

“When you’re done with Arnie you can take the afternoon off if you like, Mattie. Make up for the time we spent out in the field last night.”

“Thanks. I could use a nap.”

“One other thing,” Izzy says, opening his desk drawer. “I want you to have this so I can reach you more easily.” He hands me a cell phone along with a battery charger, and I realize my days of ignoring pages are over. Then he hands me a piece of paper. Typed on it is the number for my phone and instructions for its use. At the bottom, written in Izzy’s hand, are instructions for paging his beeper.

Fully wired for communication, I leave Izzy’s office and follow Arnie down the hallway, studying a bald spot that is starting to appear on the crown of his head. He stops by a locked door that marks a flight of stairs, sliding a card into a panel on the wall. I hear a faint click and he pulls the door open.

“Only one flight up,” he says.

“A key card?” I say with a sinking feeling. Without access to the area where the evidence is kept, it’s going to be much harder than I thought to steal back my underwear.

“Didn’t Izzy give you one yet?”

I shake my head.

“He should have. Ask him about it. He probably just forgot. All the employees have one. It’s one of the security measures we use to assure the integrity of any evidence we keep here.”

I make a mental note to ask Izzy about the key card as soon as possible. Arnie waves me through the door, insisting I go up the stairs first. I sense his eyes on me as I climb and try to clench my ass cheeks together so they won’t jiggle too much. But this makes me feel like Herman Munster when I walk so I give up, letting my jiggly parts jiggle and letting Arnie watch. I consider it a fair trade. After all, I did gawk at his bald spot.

Arnie’s office is nothing more than a desk parked in one corner of a laboratory. Lining the walls are various machines, several of which are humming, whirring, or making other odd mechanical noises. A gooseneck lamp sits on the desk—the only significant source of light in the room at the moment, though I notice there are fluorescent fixtures in the ceiling.

“This is the true brain of forensics work,” Arnie says proudly as we enter the room. “Sometimes the cause of death is as obvious as the nose on my face and then there are times when the cause isn’t obvious at all. That’s when you have to get down to the microscopic level to find the real answers.”

He pauses and gives the room a wary once-over, as if he expects to see someone lurking in the shadows. When he looks back at me his eyes are drawn down to a steely glint. “Even when the cause of death seems obvious, it may not be,” he says, his voice a few decibels lower. “There are things…people…ways…. You know what I mean?”

I don’t and start to wonder if Arnie might be a slice or two shy of a full loaf.

“You married?” he asks me.

“Not exactly,” I answer, taken aback by the sudden change of topic.

“Last time I checked, the law says you either are or you aren’t.”

“What are you, the marriage police?” I sneer, wishing an instant later that I could take it back. I need Arnie to like me.

He chuckles. “Divorced, eh? I figured as much when I saw the band on your finger.”

“I’m not divorced yet. But I will be soon,” I add quickly. “And what band?” I examine my hand, curious. I’d removed my wedding ring the day after I moved out of the house and haven’t worn it since.

“That white band of skin at the base of your left ring finger,” Arnie says. “Shows you were wearing a wedding band until recently. That, combined with your bitchy attitude when I asked about marriage, suggests divorce.”

“Oh,” I say, seeing that there is indeed a small band of skin at the base of my finger that looks like the underbelly on a fish. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that it’s still a sore subject.” I settle into a nearby chair, grimacing as I hit the seat a little harder than planned, reminding myself of another sore subject in the most literal sense. “Didn’t Izzy tell you about my situation?”

Arnie shook his head. “Izzy doesn’t talk much about personal stuff. He values his own privacy a lot so he’s pretty good at respecting others’. If you have a secret you don’t want to get out, it’ll be safe with him. Discretion is an important part of his job. And his life.”

I know that what Arnie says is true. In a small town like this where old-fashioned values still prevail and dirty secrets don’t stay secret for long, having an openly gay government official is a bit unusual. While the position of coroner is a state-elected office, a county board can opt to appoint a medical examiner for an unlimited term instead of, or in addition to, electing a coroner. In counties with populations over five hundred thousand, a medical examiner is mandated, but in our county, the presence of a trained forensic pathologist who was interested in the job was all it took.

Izzy does his job and does it well and that results in a lack of flack from the citizenry. And while Izzy doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s gay, he and Dom always exercise great discretion when it comes to their relationship. They live together and that alone is enough to raise an eyebrow or two. Whenever they appear in public together, they are models of just-friends behavior.

“Though really,” Arnie goes on, “in today’s society privacy is nothing but an illusion. The government knows everywhere you go, everything you do. You know those little magnetic strips on the back of your credit cards and bank cards?”

I nod.

“Tracking devices. They’re encoded with all kinds of information about you. Every time you use one of those cards, a bunch of information gets recorded in some secret computer the government has hidden away. They put trackers on money, too. Little wires embedded right into the fabric of the bills. And those UPC codes they use to scan purchases? That’s the government’s way of keeping track of everything you buy. They know what you like to eat, what you like to wear, your favorite color, even your favorite TV shows. Cable works both ways, you know. While you’re watching it, someone else is watching you. And do you know why it seems as if the homeless problem in this country has become so rampant?”

I don’t answer, which is just as well since Arnie doesn’t stop long enough for me to get a word in edgewise.

“Because half of those people aren’t really homeless, that’s why. They’re spies…government spies. The government learned long ago that it’s the perfect cover. No one is as invisible as a homeless bum on the street.”

He pauses to breathe and I guess my skepticism is showing because then he says, “What? You don’t believe me?”

“Well…” I eye him warily, unsure if I should try to humor him and slowly back out of the room, or if it’s safe to go ahead and tell him I think he’s nuttier than my Aunt Gertrude’s pecan pie. “Maybe some of that stuff is possible,” I venture, “but I don’t think the government uses it much. I mean why would they care about what I eat or what TV shows I watch?”

“Because, while our free society is just an illusion, it’s an important illusion. It’s what keeps us happy and content. It keeps us from rising up against the government. It keeps us placid. But the truth is, our government is far from a democracy. A few key people have all the power and pull all the strings. The rest of them are merely for show.”

“Come on,” I argue. “Don’t you think that’s a bit farfetched?”

“You can believe that if you want, but I know the truth. They’re out there. Hell, do you have any idea how many man-made satellites are now in orbit around the earth? More than eight thousand. Eight thousand! Why do we need eight thousand satellites? For cell phones and TV signals? Not hardly. Of course, the official line is that only about six hundred of those satellites are actually working.” He scoffs so hard and fast it sounds like a gunshot.

“Like we’re gonna believe that!” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And even if it is true, we only need a handful of well-placed satellites to handle all the communications and legitimate research needs we have in the world. Know what all those other satellites up there are for?”

I have no idea but I’m beginning to hope one of them is aimed at Arnie. And that it has a death ray of some sort, though I’ll settle for stun mode.

“To watch us. That’s what they’re for. They can remote control a satellite right now and aim it at your house. They have special cameras that can see right through your roof and walls, watch you in your bedroom, watch you in your bathroom, for Christ’s sake!”

My face flushes hot as I think about some super-duper eye-in-the-sky watching me in my bathroom. The very idea gives me the heebie-jeebies.

Arnie sucks in a deep breath and looks around the room with a startled expression on his face, as if surprised to find himself here. “Sorry,” he says. “I sometimes get a little emotional about this stuff.”

The man is a master of understatement.

“So, anyway—he makes a broad sweep with his hand—“this is where I work.”

“It’s…um…very nice. Are you happy here?” I can hear how dumb it sounds even as I say it, but I’m still a bit rattled by Arnie’s rant and it’s all I can think of at the moment.

“Yeah, I love it,” Arnie says. “Izzy is great to work with. He’s got a great mind. And I’m often on my own here. I work better that way.”

That isn’t too hard to believe, I think.

“My primary function is to review, examine, process, and interpret the evidence we collect, everything from fibers and dust particles to bloodstained clothing.”

“So, walk me through a case from start to finish,” I say, glad to have him finally focusing on the topic I want to discuss. “Tell me what evidence was collected and what you did or intend to do with it. For instance, that case that came in this morning, the woman who was shot to death. What have you done with the evidence related to her case?”

I purposely don’t mention Karen’s name, striving for a tone of reasonable curiosity peppered with indifference. I don’t know if Arnie knows of my connection to the case, but if he doesn’t, I want to get as much out of him as I can before he finds out. Hurley told me to stay away from Karen’s autopsy, but he didn’t say anything about learning what the evidence might reveal. Besides, if I’m going to be investigating cases, I need to know all this stuff.

Arnie leans back against the countertop and wags a finger at me. “See, now that’s where you’ll go wrong every time. Lesson number one: Why do you think she was shot to death?”

I blink at him in confusion. “I was there at the scene. I saw her.”

“What did you see?”

“A woman with a bullet hole in her chest and lots of blood all around.”

“How do you know it was a bullet hole?”

I think about that. “Because the cops said it was.”

“Don’t believe what you hear. Only believe what you know to be true based on your own observations and research. Are you absolutely certain the hole in her chest couldn’t have been made by something else?”

“No,” I admit.

“For the sake of argument, let’s assume it was a bullet hole. How do you know the bullet killed her?”

“Well, she was dead. And I do know dead,” I assure him. It’s amazing the things I can take pride in.

“But how do you know she was shot while she was still alive? How do you know she wasn’t killed by some other means and then shot to cover up the real method?”

I think Arnie is getting a bit farfetched now, but I’m starting to get into it. Besides, he has a point. The clues have to be carefully and scientifically evaluated. I’m beginning to see how jumping to conclusions can be dangerous.

“Well, there was a lot of blood,” I tell him. “If she was already dead when she was shot, her heart wouldn’t have been pumping and there wouldn’t have been so much blood. Plus, there were some sprays of blood, from arterial pressure. If she’d been dead already, she wouldn’t have had any arterial pressure.”

Arnie gives me a look of surprised pleasure. “Very good,” he says. “That’s the type of observational skills that will serve you well around here.”

I beam at him, feeling like a character in an Agatha Christie novel.

“Now, let’s look at the other evidence we have on that case.” He turns toward the countertop and picks up a clipboard.

“We have lots of trace evidence,” he says, scanning what appears to be a checklist on the clipboard. “We have the bullet that killed her—it’s from a .357 Magnum and we can match it to a specific gun if we find one. We also have some trace evidence Izzy found on the body that doesn’t appear to have come from the location where the victim was found: two blond hairs, each one about an inch or so in length, and three wool fibers in a teal blue color, most likely from a carpet.”

I feel my skin grow cold. David’s hair is blond and the carpet in our living room is teal-colored wool.

“Then there’s this,” Arnie says, showing me a picture. It’s the back of a shoulder, the white skin marred by three, oval-shaped bruises. In my mind I replay the scene where David leapt from the couch and grabbed Karen by her shoulders, shaking her. Somehow I know his fingers will fit those bruises perfectly.

I must look as shaken as I feel because Arnie is staring at me kind of funny and asks, “Are you all right?”

I nod.

“You weren’t there during the autopsy this morning, were you?”

I shake my head but offer no explanation.

“Why not?”

There is a long silence while I stare at the walls and Arnie stares at me. Then I have a brainstorm. “I’m sorta kinda too close to the case,” I tell him. “I know the victim.” I hope this will be explanation enough. At the hospital, it was always understood that no one would work on anyone they were related to if it could be avoided. I feel certain the same principles apply here.

“Know her how?” Arnie persists.

I let out a perturbed sigh, realizing that Arnie won’t give up until he knows it all. “I think I might be a suspect,” I admit.

“A suspect?” I expect Arnie to throw me out of his lab immediately. Instead he says, “Wait, let me guess. Your almost ex was dipping his wick in the victim.”

“Yeah,” I say, surprised and impressed by Arnie’s ability to ferret out the truth. Later I’d learn the dink had known the whole story all along and had, in fact, assisted Izzy on the autopsy in my absence.

“So did you do it?” Arnie asks.

“No! Of course not.”

“Bet you would have liked to though, huh?”

I start to utter another protest but quickly realize Arnie will see right through it. “The thought might have crossed my mind a time or two,” I admit sheepishly.

“Good.”

“Good? I admit to contemplating the homicide of a woman who is now dead and you say good?”

“Absolutely. One of the most important things you’ll learn in this job is who you can trust. Had you told me you’d never thought about killing the woman who stole your husband, I’d know you were lying to me. It’s perfectly natural to hate the other woman, to wish all kinds of pestilence on her, and to dream up at least six miserable ways for her to die, preferably with you as the executioner.” He stops and gives me another long look. “Though I gotta say, if your husband was baking his cake in someone else’s oven when he had you at home, he must be a total idiot.”

I’m flattered. And more impressed with Arnie each passing minute. “Thanks,” I say, bestowing him with my best smile.

“So do you think your old man might have offed her?”

My mood does an immediate nosedive. I don’t know what has me more upset, the thought that David might have killed Karen or the fact that I even care.

“I don’t know. I don’t think he did it. But I saw—”

I stop, realizing I’m about to tell Arnie about the argument I witnessed. Until I have a chance to evaluate things a little more I don’t want that information to get out. But Arnold Paranoianegger zeroes in right away. “What? What did you see?” he pushes. I know in my heart he’ll never let it go and I resign myself to spilling the beans. But then the phone rings and I realize that for once, the Fates are on my side. My salvation proves painfully short-lived, however.

“Yeah, she was here,” Arnie says into the phone, widening his eyes at me. “But she just this second left. Want me to see if I can catch her?” He listens, says, “Hold on,” and then hits a button that sends the caller to Hold Hell. “It’s Detective Hurley,” he tells me. “You know him?”

“Oh, yeah.” I roll my eyes and lick my lips. Talk about conflicted!

“He wants to talk to you. Should I tell him I wasn’t able to catch you? There’s a back stairway to your left that will take you straight out to the parking lot. Go right now and by the time Hurley figures it out you’ll be long gone.”

“You’d do that for me? How do you know you can trust me, that I’m not a killer?”

“Because you didn’t lie to me. And because Izzy says so and his word’s good enough for me. Besides, I consider myself to be a good judge of character and I can tell you’re not the killing type.”

I can’t help myself. I sandwich his face between my hands and plant a big kiss on his forehead. “Thanks, Arnie. I owe you one.”

As I dash toward the stairs, I hear him say, “Hot damn! Can’t wait to collect on that one!”