Jayne’s eyes widened. ‘They had to leave it.’
‘Probably.’
‘And it would make him identifiable as hell.’
‘Yep.’ Steelie was warming to the subject. ‘According to the file, Cullen’s parents only referred to a dentist, not a doctor, when they put in the missing person report. It wasn’t until they came to see us that they started to look for medical X-rays. Didn’t even think they’d find any. So . . . since the dental hasn’t made the match yet, I think we should put out an ACB.’
An ACB was an All Coroners Bulletin. 32/1 had developed it to notify coroners with unidentified bodies when there was new information about highly identifiable characteristics on missing persons; details that couldn’t have been included in the original police report and therefore wouldn’t be in the FBI’s national database, NCIC. The ACB was in its pilot phase, with strict usage guidelines the Agency had established in concert with coroners nationwide.
‘This’ll be the first one. We’ll have to follow protocol to the letter, Steelie.’
‘I know the rules. Unknown or suspicious circumstances only.’ She indicated a manila folder on the counter. ‘I’ve got the Cullen file right here. I’ll check it out.’
The lights suddenly dimmed and the lab computer behind them turned off, then restarted itself.
‘Shit. Brownout,’ they said simultaneously.
‘We’ve got to get a generator, Jayne.’
‘I know. They say it’s going to be a long, hot summer.’
‘It’s LA. It’s always a long, hot summer,’ Steelie dead-panned. ‘You said our budget’s strapped?’
Jayne pushed off the counter. ‘We’d have to raise the cash separately unless I’m reading the charity rules incorrectly. Maybe you can have a look also.’
When Carol announced Scott Houston on Line 1 later, Jayne answered the phone at her desk before she took her eyes off the sentence she was reading, which made her sound distracted.
‘Scott. How are you?’
‘Good, but you sound tired. We get you up too early this morning?’
‘Very funny. What’s up?’
‘Well, when was the last time you ate?’
‘What are you, my mother? I’m not that tired.’
‘Actually, I was trying to ask you to lunch.’
‘Oh.’ Jayne looked at her watch but couldn’t take anything in. ‘Is it lunchtime already?’
‘Is that a ladylike way of saying, “No, thanks”?’
‘Only a more gentlemanly invitation would get you a ladylike response.’ Jayne was focusing now.
‘Oh ho! I’ll send round an embossed card with gold edging next time.’
‘Yeah, I’d like to see the words “In-N-Out Burger” in calligraphy.’
‘I can do better than that. Cal Plaza.’
‘Downtown?’
‘Why not? It’s only ten minutes from your shop.’
‘I know. I mean, Cal Plaza’s great but you moved to LA, like, a week ago. I’m surprised you’ve even heard of it.’
‘Hey, I get out,’ he protested.
She wondered with whom.
He spoke into her silence. ‘Is that a yes?’
‘Yeah.’
‘OK, I’ll be by around noon.’
‘With Eric?’
‘Nope, Eric will be eating with the Critters at the site.’
‘They’re still there, then?’
‘You fishing, Jayne?’
‘No. I’m not asking you to divulge—’
‘Relax! I’ll tell you all about it at lunch.’
When Jayne returned to the lab, Steelie was just hitting the Print key on the computer. Jayne sat on a neighboring stool. ‘Scott’s going to bring me up to speed on the BP case.’
‘Cool. When?’
‘Noon.’
‘A lunch date,’ Steelie chirped.
‘No one used that word.’
‘Wait, “lunch” or “date”?’
Jayne gave her a quelling look.
Steelie relented. ‘I’ve got something more interesting than Agent Houston right here.’ She whipped the paper out of the printer tray and handed it to Jayne.
It was the ACB. It looked serious and officiaclass="underline"
* * ALL CORONERS BULLETIN * *
Dear Coroner/Medical Examiner,
In the matter of CULLEN, Thomas
DOB 03-01-1959, NCIC# M-004517592
Please be informed that the aforementioned individual sustained GSW to palate and sphenoid with projectile remaining lodged in sphenoid and visible on attached LEFT radiograph dated 04-15-1992. For further information, contact:
Steelie Lander
Agency 32/1
‘That looks good,’ Jayne said. ‘What were Cullen’s circs in the end?’
‘The cops logged him in as unknown. He had asked for a few days off work, didn’t return, car found at John Wayne Airport. I think he went to do the same thing as in ’ninety-two but with something more reliable than a handgun. Pills, maybe.’
‘Go on.’
‘He flies up to Alaska, to see the ex.’
‘What ex?’
‘It’s in your interview transcript: the girlfriend who left him in ’ninety-one and the reason I think he tried this number.’ Steelie tapped the X-ray image of the bullet.
‘OK.’
‘He tootles up there, says goodbye or what-have-you, takes his pills, and suddenly he’s Alaska’s problem.’
‘Could be.’
‘Well, whatever happened to him, if he’s been found and they’ve done a craniotomy – or even if an Anthro pulled the maxillae to X-ray the teeth – they would’ve been clued into the old bullet. Even if he’s alive and has amnesia, this X-ray is key. The fact that the police didn’t know he had a bullet in his head when they did his misper report warrants the ACB.’
‘No argument from me. You have the checklist for the protocol?’
‘Right here.’
‘OK, let’s sign it so you can get this sent out.’
As they finished up, they heard Carol talking to someone at reception.
‘That’ll be your lunch,’ Steelie commented.
‘If it is, he’s early.’
The two of them walked to the front of the building. Scott was leaning on Carol’s counter. Their receptionist was finishing a sentence with, ‘. . . afford it on my salary.’
Steelie interrupted in a warning tone. ‘Don’t try to tempt Carol away with your government wages, Houston.’
He stepped back from the counter with his hands raised, palms out. ‘I would never do that to the Agency. You should know that about me.’
‘Yes,’ Carol began. ‘Agent Houston and I—’
‘Please call me Scott.’
‘Very well. Scott and I were just comparing the V-six and the V-eight when used in the four-wheel-drive Chevrolet Suburban.’
He looked at Jayne and Steelie. ‘You guys knew that Carol rode shotgun when her mom drove the Alaska Highway just after it opened in the forties?’
‘In a wood-panel Suburban,’ Carol added with pride.
Scott leaned toward her again. ‘I look forward to continuing our discussion another time.’
Jayne thought their receptionist was on the verge of patting her hair demurely, so she propelled Scott out the front door and into the heat of the day.
THREE
The mist of California Plaza’s fountains kept its amphitheater of granite steps cool even when the Santa Ana winds were blowing hot over Los Angeles. Every riser supported a person’s back and every flat surface was a perch for buttocks and take-out sushi. Scott and Jayne had opted for hot dogs from a deli and they sat at the top step with their backs to Angel’s Flight, the funicular that used to carry people up and down Bunker Hill for 25 cents. All talking had been deferred in favor of eating, so there was just the hum of others’ conversation, the occasional outburst of distant laughter, and the unpredictable ha-sisssss-fwap of the fountains’ geyser-like water jets falling back to the granite floor far below them.