“They never asked for dental impressions,” replied Krueshach. “Tell him, Brannan. It wasn't our case or jurisdiction.”
“But Reynolds must have asked you do so.”
“Reynolds is not the Oregon State Prosecutor's Office or the defense team up there.” Krueshach now merely shrugged as if he'd won a point in a handball match.
Brannan, ever the skeptic, added, “Not likely those little marks'd convince a jury of his innocence.”
“But it might help the governor to decide. Still,” continued Sharpe, pacing now, “we really hoped for a DNA sample to be absolutely conclusive, but you failed to take nail scrapings on the right hand.”
“ 'Fraid so.” Krueshach obviously knew to say as little as possible on the subject.
“I want it done,” said Sharpe, “and I want it done immediately.”
“What? What can be done? What do you want us to do?” asked the befuddled M.E.
“Take scrapings from the right hand.”
“It's been two years, Sharpe,” Brannan uselessly reminded him.
“Look, it makes no sense for the killer to've cut off the fingertips of her left hand if there was no DNA evidence to be found there. You said the man was meticulous about leaving no clues, that he seemed up on what we do nowadays with electron microscopes and scientific investigation, and yet he slices off only the woman's left fingertips which carried no DNA from him, so why? Why?”
“I don't follow you, Sharpe,” said Krueshach.
Brannan said, “Why did the killer cut off her damned fingers to begin with if… yeah, Herman, think about it. He wanted the nails off and incinerated along with everything else he threw down that garbage shoot. He had to've been scratched by her. He wanted the nails off.”
Krueshach's only reaction to Brannan's sudden excited state was another shrug. Is the man suffering Tourette's syndrome or a bad case of palsy? Sharpe angrily wondered. Finally, the M.E. said, “But there was nothing under the nails.”
“So… so he got confused as to which hand she used. That's what Agent Sharpe is driving at.”
“He disfigured the wrong hand,” said Sharpe. “Like the rest of you, he was thrown off by the sketch she clutched.”
“Do you think she knew what she was doing?” asked Brannan.
“I don't know… I don't know how clever she was. But if she did scratch off some cells and blood, we've got the DNA then. But fuck, it's inside her coffin with her.” Sharpe heaved a sigh and raised on his heels, rocking a bit. “Look, the two of you, I understand she had no relatives, so there's no one to stand in the way of an exhumation.”
“That's rather extreme,” Krueshach argued.
“It's the last hope of a man on death row, and it may be Louisa's last hope of resting in peace. If you don't arrange it, Brannan, Dr. Krueshach, then I'll arrange it through our field office here and take the case entirely out of your hands.”
“You know what, Sharpe? You do that. You just fucking do that,” Brannan shouted.
“Where are the sketches?” “My desk. I've looked at them every damn day since the murder. That is, all but one.”
“All but one?”
“The one she was clutching in her fist the day I walked into that room and found her with her back splayed open like a melon. Louisa took that sketch into death with her, and I believed she wanted to take it to the grave with her, and I saw no reason why not. I put it in her hand just before they lowered her.”
“The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Will you arrange for an exhumation today?”
“The earliest would be tomorrow morning,” said Dr. Krueshach. “But the order must come from the chief of police recommended by the principal detective on the case. Other than that, you'd have to go through your federal channels.”
“Then that is what I'll do.” Sharpe pulled out his cellular phone and dialed Eriq Santiva to wake up and get a court order. He was in mid-sentence, having awakened Eriq, when Dr. Krueshach waved Sharpe down, protesting.
“All right! All right, I'll sign off on an exhumation.”
“Then do it,” he said to Krueshach. Turning to Brannan, he stated, “Detective, are we agreed?”
“All right, all right if Herman's going to sign off on it. We don't need to involve a lot of people. I'll make the necessary phone calls.”
Krueshach had gone to his file cabinet and pulled out a blank document. “Here's the exhumation order. You'll need to sign alongside my signature.”
Sharpe took the form and signed it, handed it back and thanked him. “I'll see you at the exhumation.”
Dr. Herman Krueshach nodded but said nothing. A man of few words, Sharpe thought, or a man with a guilty conscience. Jessica would call him incompetent to lose so much in the way of evidence.
Brannan said he'd awakened the mortuary and cemetery people who would meet them at the burial site on the out skirts of Millbrook. Together Brannan and Sharpe exited Dr. Krueshach's office.
As they climbed into Brannan's Oldsmobile, the Millbrook detective softly excused Dr. Herman Krueshach with something about incompatible software systems, horrible budget cuts, little assistance, and no incentives.
Sharpe didn't want to hear it.
EIGHT
Infernal or heavenly, divinity itself is transitory.
Milwaukee, Wisconsin Same night
A shadow moved across the page she sat reading. Looking up, Jessica found Reynolds staring down at her in a kind of silent examination. “I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I was hoping we'd have come to some conclusions about what next.”
“What next?” He seemed awkward, his white shirt open, the linen contrasting sharply with his black chest. “Where do we go from here.”
“Enough with the arcane science lesson, huh?” she replied. All the wine was gone, but she tipped the bottle anyway, studying it as if to have some focal point. “I think to bed is where we go.”
“What?”
“I'm sorry. I meant to sleep, to sleep.”
“Oh, yeah. What time is it anyway?”
“Three, three-ten in the A.M. Not even conventioneers… not even God is awake at this hour,” she lamented.
“Let's just go over the Sarah Towne killing one more time.” “I can do it in my sleep, I promise you, Darwin.”
“They're still taking orders at room service. I can get us another round of drinks. Whiskey sour, right? Jack Daniel's with a lime, lemon, cherry and an orange slice.”
“You are a quick study, Detective. Know just how to tingle a girl's backbone all right, but no, no, and no.”
“I'll just order that right up.”
“Along with your gin and tonic.”
“Hold my seat.”
“Will do.”
With his return, again dropping into the chair opposite her on this cool night, Jessica again noted how tall and imposing a man Darwin was. She watched him grab his shirt for an invisible pack of cigarettes. “Trying to give it up,” he muttered.
Somewhere from another balcony, a piano player made beautiful music, reminding her of Billy Vaughn. Whoever this imposter was, he proved extremely good on the ivories, now playing “Danny Boy.” No doubt a music student.
Whoever he or she was, the pianist slipped unnoticed into an equally beautiful rendition of “I Can't Help It (If I'm Still in Love with You).” The melody made Jessica think of how far apart she was from Richard.
“I wonder why the hell I'm here in the beer capital of the world chasing yet another monster,” she confided in Darwin. “I'm not sure I have the stomach for it any longer, Darwin-the process necessary to locate, capture, and put an end to the career of a man bent on ripping out people's fucking spines. Maybe this is a job for younger-”
“What the fuck is this, why-me-whine-fest time?”
The fatigue and the booze conspired against her having any reply to this.
Darwin firmly added, “You are here, Dr. Coran, to teach me, remember? And because you're needed.”
“You have any idea how tired I am of chasing down these fucking freaks, these inhuman humans? And in the chasing, how often I've lost myself, my own soul, Darwin? And you keep at it this way, you'll join me in hell.”