"That was never established, was it, Dr. Repasi?" she asked.
"As a matter of fact, there were some high concentrations of an over-the-counter sedative found in the blood, Dr. Coran. But no needle tracks or hard drugs, no."
"Well, if I'm to locate that kind of information, gentlemen, I'll need a lab, I'll need seven hundred thousand times the light and a powerful magnifying glass, an electronic comparison microscope, blood and serum samples, a gas chromatography setup. Do you see a possibility for any of that happening here in this room?'' Instantly, Jessica felt apologetic for her outburst, for sounding off, and coming off, as so officious and bitchy, but the past two days and nights weighed heavily, a damnable burden and strain on her nerves, and these men seemed only to be adding to her stress.
McEvetty's unrestrained, snaking smile created a new mask of his face, and he sputtered in an infectious schoolboy fashion now, saying, ''But Dr. Coran, on our way up here, we heard you were some kinda-what, Mac? — miracle worker. That you could see like a cat in the dark. That the dead whisper in your ear? Isn't that right, Ed?"
Jessica laughed with them to lighten the moment, but just the same, she had had enough of the Hardy boys.
"Call in the paramedics, Jess," said Repasi. "Let's ship Mr. Martin here to the morgue, so I can do a thorough job of it. You'll have a copy of the report by nightfall."
With this request coming from Repasi, Jessica looked up at J. T., who took her aside and said, "I don't know what Repasi's game is, but he's way out of his jurisdiction. He's the M.E. for Pheonix, not the state of Arizona.
"Yes, and he's built up quite a reputation there. He's terribly anxious to help us out, isn't he?"
"Maybe he wants your job, Jess."
"He can have it."
She then tore off her gloves and tossed them atop the mummified remains before her, the photographer snapping a quick shot of her gloves atop the body. She grabbed her bag and left the two area FBI men to exchange looks, while J. T. followed her out and Karl Repasi scratched at his head and beard, as if utterly confused by her anger.
Jessica, a bit tired of being assessed, stopped in the hallway, where she found the air less foul, and after taking in a deep breath, barked orders down the corridor. "You can get the medics in now; have 'em take the body to the nearest medical facility with the best lab equipped for morgue work, will you, fellas? And what would that be, and will you get me there?"
"We only got one hospital in Page, ma'am," replied the uniformed officer nearest her.
She nodded, sighed, feeling foolish. "It'll have to do then."
Jessica was about to leave with J. T. at her side when a distraught man in cowboy boots, string tie, and ornamented belt, and sporting a Stetson hat, rushed into the fray, his face beet red with anxiety. "My God, is it Mr. Martin's room? I just learned of the fire. God, the bus'll be delayed."
"Did you know Martin?" asked Jessica.
"He was on my bus. One of my travelers."
"Your bus?"
"I'm Ronny Ropers. I'm a tour bus guide. Mr. Martin's one of my charges. Someone's going to have to notify the family, and since I'm captain of the ship, so to speak… Nothing like this has ever happened before, not on my watch. I mean, sure I've had some die on me; we book more over-the-hill passengers than any tour line going, but it's always been of natural causes. I heard talk of… of murder?''
"You have any idea who might have wanted Martin dead?"
"What're you talking about? We're all just touring the country, having a good time, all except Himmie."
"Himmie?"
"Mr. Herndorf, Klaus Herndorf, dour guy, keeps entirely to himself at the back of the bus, doesn't participate, always a glum response, talks very little English, voted most likely to Uzi the bus."
"Did you see Martin with Herndorf or anyone else last night?"
"I spoke to him myself last night before going into the village. He was fine."
"Was he alone?"
"Yes, just going down to dinner." Ropers was visibly shaken. "He was just a sweet old man. Who'd want to murder him? I was just kidding about Himmie, of course."
"We'll want to meet with and talk to everyone on your tour, Mr. Ropers."
Suddenly he looked even more stricken than before. "But that will delay us for hours."
"I'm sorry, but it will be necessary."
Jessica and J. T. followed Ropers outside to his bus, weaving in and out through a parking lot littered with tour buses. They had to be led to the bus that belonged to Martin's group. There she began the tedious questioning of other tourists who might shed some light on the Martin case. So far, all they had in the way of an identification of the mysterious man who had dined with Martin was the shaky description of a waitress who had very poor recall.
From the look of the crowd on the bus, Jessica held out little hope of learning much more than why older people on vacation were willing to make absolute fools of themselves in what they chose to wear, and certainly not any more than they already knew about the killing.
''Martin was a loner,'' said one of the elderly ladies near the front. "He kept going off by himself. Didn't mingle well."
"Poor social skills," added the lady traveling with her.
"We tried to involve him more," said another gray-blue-hair across from these two, her garish green sunglasses and bonnet bobbing with her speech.
Ropers reluctantly agreed. "I found it difficult to involve him. Usually, I can get anyone involved in the time-passing games we play on the bus, but Martin was a real dour fellow, not unlike Mr. Herndorf in that regard, but at least Martin would crack a smile now and again, show he was listening in."
"He was traveling alone, recently widowed, somewhat soured on life," supplied another elderly lady.
The image made Jessica think of how lions in Africa picked out their prey from among the aged, dying, and weak who could not keep up with the herd. Had Martin died because he was lonely? Did he have absolutely no connection to Chris Lorentian? If so, then the victims were randomly selected by the killer, and the killer did not know his victims, save for what he might surmise from their body language, perhaps.
Did Chris Lorentian look like an easy target, like Mel Martin had looked like an easy target?
Jessica met with and spoke to Herndorf, who was every bit as sourpussed as Ropers had described him. He expressed in broken English his regret about Martin, but assured Jessica he had not seen or spoken to the man the night before and knew nothing of his accident, as he put it. Herndorf seethed throughout the interview, angry at the Gestapo-like treatment and the FBI's putting them off schedule.
Feydor Dorphmann felt an overwhelming need to catch up on his sleep as he boarded the large, comfortable, air-conditioned bus that had snaked its way through canyon passes, pulling out of Page, Arizona, at dawn along with thirty-six other passengers. He had seen the activity of fire trucks, a paramedic wagon, and local police milling about the scene of his last destruction.
He had located his usual seat at the rear and settled in, placing his hefty black briefcase in the overhead and grabbing a pillow for his head. He had loosened up with the other passengers now, saying good morning to each as he passed them, remembering some of the names, asking forgiveness from those he could not recall. He nestled into the cushions of one chair and put his feet up on the one beside him.
The other passengers had long before become curious about him. They had all become "real chums" at the inaugural dinner the night he had burned Chris Lorentian to death. They had all exchanged information about themselves to one another, all at the coaxing of Doris, the tour director, a woman whose makeup-if not her face-might crack if she smiled once more. No one on the bus knew anything about Feydor, and he knew he must come up with some answers to some inevitable questions. He wondered if he ought not revert to his German, as bad as it was, and pretend to know very little English. It could save him a lot of trouble.