“Perishable evidence is at the crime lab, across town. I'll get you there.”
Sharpe worked the glass fragments, overalls and shirt back into the box, and he returned the sad assortment of death-by-murder artifacts to Pyle. He then followed Brannan out into the institutional-gray corridor.
“Whatever became of the sketches the killer supposedly left behind?” he asked Brannan.
“I've got 'em.”
“Really? On your wall or under key?”
“For a long time they kept me mindful of the fact this killer's still out there somewhere alive and living while Louisa Childe is in her grave. When I heard what Towne did in Oregon to his wife, I knew then and there I could stop taking those sketches out and staring at them.”
“I'd like to see them sometime. In fact, I think the authorities in Milwaukee would like to have them examined side by side with sketches left at the crime scene there-a case, as you know, with some striking resemblances to yours, Lieutenant.”
“I finally flush this case from my system and now this. You really think Reynolds is onto something?”
“I trust Jessica Coran's instincts.”
“Dr. Jessica Coran?”
“FBI M.E., yes.”
“The one who nabbed and killed Mad Matthew Matisak in a New Orleans Mardi Gras warehouse after Matisak left a trail of blood throughout the Midwest, the prairie states, all the way to Louisiana? That Coran?”
“That would be her, yes. Now… there's also a little matter of the authenticated sketches from Oregon and Milwaukee being identified as having been created by the same hand.”
“Jessica Coran,” Brannan repeated.
Sharpe kept speaking. “This alone must give you pause. Towne could not have committed this latest murder in Milwaukee as he was serving time on death row.”
“Whose to say that Towne didn't pay someone to do a copycat killing? You know, just to get leverage to make his case.”
“Be a pretty heartless bastard then, wouldn't he?”
“Which one, Towne or the guy that pimped it for him?”
“Even if that were so, a different man leaves different tracks as surely as a different animal. The striking similarities in all these cases are simply too many to ignore.”
“You're sure of that?”
“I tell you, Brannan, in my experience, seeing modus operandi work as it does, whoever is responsible for each of these deaths, he meticulously designed his every move.”
“All three were precisely, perfectly designed spine thefts.”
“Despite their having been years apart in execution.”
“The other two same exact way, the taking of the spine, same modus operandi, you're sure?”
Sharpe felt exasperation wantonly flirting with him now. He let out a long breath of air with his “Yes, veeery.”
“Call me Dan.”
“Richard.”
“And just how well do you know Dr. Coran? You know, I've read her book on the nature of evil, one hell of a research job. Damn, I had no idea how far back it all went, and how bad it was before the advent of forensic sciences and mass communications.”
“Indeed, the world has been plagued by murder since before man was man,” agreed Sharpe. “Survival of the fittest animal in the jungle, all that. Murder began as feeding, and little wonder it remains in our genetic makeup.”
“Then you believe in all that business of what she says about the aggression gene, and brain implanting, and conditioning… Brainwashed and predisposed to murder and that we'd better learn to accept it so we can deal with it, and all that stuff about us evolving from killer apes that damn near wiped out all other species comparable?”
“I do indeed.”
“Let's get a cup of coffee. Kick this over, huh?”
“Perhaps after I've concluded my business in Millbrook. You can get me back to the airport. I saw a little coffee shop there.”
Brannan nodded affirmatively. “Sure… sure thing. What was the name of her book again?”
Sharpe didn't miss a beat. “Neuronet Map to Murder- Brain Maps and the Evil Inherent in a Beastial Lifeform. Kind of a reverse Origin of Species or Ascent of the Killer Ape.”
“Oh, yeah… right. Weird title but it made sense, all of it. And where'd she come up with all that scientific evidence?”
“U.K. mostly, over several trips. We were first to develop DNA fingerprinting, you know, and now we're ahead of you Yanks on brain mapping. Jessica is pioneering it here and linking it to hereditary issues.”
“An amazing woman.”
“And agent. An agent for good, you might say. Listen, do you think we can open up the M.E.'s office here?”
“You mean like now?” He glanced at the clock which read 2 A.M.
“A man's life is at stake and the sand is emptying on his life each hour.”
“Reynolds sure has a crusade going on.”
“Yes, and it is now the FBI's crusade as well. Can you get the M.E.'s office open for me?”
“I'll call Krueshach. He's the only one who might authorize it at this hour.”
Sharpe followed Dan Brannan into the building where they traveled through a maze of corridors to locate the M.E.'s office. As they did so, Sharpe complimented Millbrook on its resources. Brannan replied, “Still, it's never enough to wage the war we're in, is it, Sharpe? You wouldn't know it to look down our quiet, well-manicured streets lined with red maples and chestnuts that this town harbors a hotbed of lunatic drug dealers, pimps and prostitutes, but we do. We get the spillover population of crap from the Twin Cities.” Brannan had called and gotten the M.E. out of bed to meet them here.
“Right-o… I'm sure.”
“You can bank on it.” Brannan banged open the interior lab door and announced himself with his enormous bulk alone until he shouted at the local M.E., “Like I warned you, Herman, we've come to have a look at a two-year-old sandwich and Louisa Childe's frozen fingertips.”
“The fingertips were returned to the body, buried with it, Dan. You know we scraped them for anything useful but found nothing. Since we didn't need the actual fingertips, I saw to it they got back to Miss Childe, to take to eternity with her.”
“And you found nothing under her other nails?” asked Sharpe.
“We didn't bother with it. She was lying there stiff with her right hand clutched around one of the sketches. You remember, Dan, and the super said she was left-handed, so I assumed if she had had a chance to scratch her assailant, it would be with her empty left hand.”
“I see,” said Sharpe, trying to follow the man's logic and finding it questionable at best. Perhaps rationalizing away anything that might cast doubt on the Millbrook police.
Sharpe knew that Jessica would explode if she heard that last line about not bothering to scrape the nails of one hand belonging to the victim of a brutal mutilation murder. “Well, then, I guess I've come a long way to see a two-year-old sandwich.”
Brannan smiled at this. Herman Krueshach said, “ 'Fraid I have to disappoint you there, too. Remember, Dan, it was sent over for orthodontia forensics for that partial bite mark we had, and some idiot there forgot to put it away, and a night watchman discovered it… and I'm afraid the man ate it.”
“This before any tests were run?”
“Well, we did get a plaster cast of the bite mark.” “But no DNA tests? So you really don't have any DNA on file for this guy?” Sharpe fought to contain himself, fought back what he wanted to shout. Calm, Richard… stay calm, old man, he silently warned himself.
“ 'Fraid not, but we know his distinctive bite marks. We have the cast taken from the sandwich bite mark.”
“Like fingerprints… without a suspect to match the bite to… fairly useless,” Brannan said.
“The marks could be compared to Robert Towne's bite. Were they used when you sent them to authorities in Oregon?” Sharpe's tone grew in intensity with each word, and from the look on the M.E.'s face, Sharpe read a disturbing truth. “You never sent the impressions to Oregon, did you?”