"Thanks, Doris." She left as Foster checked off a name from a list he had withdrawn from a desk drawer. Shaking his head, he said, "That's how the guy communicates with me-by message. It's a good thing we have others at the Joint Conference Committee meetings. But, fuck him."
David had never heard him use the phrase.
Foster continued, "If you hadn't dropped by, I'd have called. I contacted Bugles' family, such as it is: two sons. That wasn't easy. Which reminds me-there could be a lawsuit here. Brother! Anyway, in case you haven't heard, there are no calling hours and the funeral is on Friday morning. Afterward, we're having some people over to the house. I hope you and Kathy can join us."
"Yes, of course, we'll be there."
David got up to leave and Foster waddled behind him to the door. "By the way," he said, "one more housekeeping detail. We checked with Credentials to get Dr. Cortez's address in Chile. We've been in touch with the family. The medical examiner's finished with the body and after the autopsy, we're shipping it down there."
David thanked him for the meeting and stopped at the secretary's desk to ask for Cortez's address. He would wire flowers later. He felt put through a wringer but it had missed the sweat he wore under his collar. Housekeeping details?
Back at the Hole, he slouched into a chair and let his arms drop to the floor. He felt ensnared in more ways than one.
"What's wrong?" Belle said. "You're a bundle of sighs."
"I couldn't wait to get out of there."
"Where?"
"The cabinet room of our eminent administrator. The housekeeper." He sat up. "I'm telling you, Belle, the more I pry, the more I realize we've got a swamp of grudges around here. And I thought I knew the landscape pretty well. Uh-uh."
"You sure you want to go through with all this?"
"The plying and prowling? The snoops? More than ever. So if I complain now and then, disregard it."
The phone rang and Belle picked up. As she traded barbs with a receptionist, David abbreviated a few thoughts in his notepad and punched in Sparky's number on his cellular.
"Sparky? David. Too soon to call?"
"Not at all. I got the blood confirmations a while ago."
"And?"
"Just as we suspected. The stains on the floor were Bugles' and the one on the lab door was Cortez's." "The locker shelf?"
"One spot was Bugles'. The smudge was all Cortez. And I couldn't lift a print anywhere-nothing on the locker or stool or walls except the attendant's. His were all over the place. I had him drop by for prints and they match."
"Maybe I should question him."
"I wouldn't bother. Mousy old guy, about five feet tall, all hunched over. Hope you don't mind, but I asked him if he saw anything unusual yesterday. He answered in the negative but said he leaves at two everyday. He mostly cleans and opens lockers for the morning docs who misplace their keys."
"Did your contact in Tokyo call back?"
"Yes. I went over the x-rays with him and he's certain there were no prints from Cortez's skin. But, David, listen to this. I described the pearl-handled dagger to him. He said if the pearl is real, the dagger could be an original from centuries ago when the samurai of his country had a foothold. They were very militaristic and he said they always carried swords and many of them, daggers. They carried them in pairs because they believed a single dagger gave protection but matched daggers also gave mystical powers. And he talked about Japan's great history of pearl production. So that fits."
"And if he's right, there's another dagger around somewhere?"
"Sounds like it."
David was taking notes and asked for a moment to catch up. Then, "What about the rock?"
"It's common sedimentary found anywhere around here. No prints. The writing on the tape came from a lead pencil, probably number two."
"It's ordinary adhesive tape, right?"
"Right. Nylon. From any doctor's office or hospital."
"So nothing spectacular there. What about the printing? Could you tell if he was right or left-handed by the way he printed?"
"Not at all. And I don't think the way the strips were laid really pinpoints it either. I got to thinking about it, in fact tried both ways. I'd say it favored a lefty a tiny speck-but no more than that, in my opinion."
"I tend to agree but if I were totally certain, I'd stop checking wrists. Maybe I will anyway."
"What?"
"Nothing important. Sparky, I want to thank …"
"One last thing. Two, really. About the tape. Stuck beneath one of the strips was a thin strand of fiber. It checked out to be cotton."
"Any dye?"
"No."
"Can you save it for me, or, at least, if I can hit upon where it came from, can you see if there's a match?" "Sure, but once again, it's always difficult to say positively."
"What's the other thing?"
"Well, I don't know if it means anything. The tape is old."
"Old?"
"Yes, frayed, faded-you know, yellow."
"Come to think of it, I remember that," David said. "You think it's important?"
"I'm not sure."
"We'll see. Anyway, Spark, good job. And, thanks a lot. I'll be in touch." David returned the phone to the case on his belt. Suddenly, he dwelled on daggers, museums and pawn shops.
Belle had finished her phone conversation. "Lots to dissect?" she asked.
"What? Oh, yeah, there is. Did you get ahold of Boston Childrens'?"
"Yes, Tanarkle was there all right. They thought he was great. Inspiring. Grand Rounds were held from nine to eleven. No one seems to know whether he stayed for lunch."
"That means he could have made it back in time."
Belle squinted and he waited for her to comment. "I find it hard to imagine his giving an inspiring presentation, then racing back here and committing those hideous things," she said.
"You took the words right out of my mouth," he said. "Now, next. Can you go back to having lunch with that gossip crew of yours from the E.R.?"
"Sure, and they're not gossipers. They just happen to know the pulse of the hospital."
"Okay, have it your way: keep it medical. And keep your ears peeled. See what you can find out."
"They're always peeled."
"I mean, even try to lead the conversation. But be subtle. Think along the line of, `Do any of you have any dirt on Spritz or Tanarkle or Foster'?"
"Oh, that's real subtle."
"I don't mean come right out and ask them. If they're talking about those guys, milk it along. Belle, you're a pain in the ass." He knew she smiled inside.
"You already said that today. Are they your suspects?"
"And Coughlin." David's. voice took on a deeper texture. "Of course, everyone's a suspect until proven otherwise."
"Well, I'll be darned," she said, fondling an amber locket that hung from her neck.
"What?"
"You're becoming a pro."
Chapter 6
Dating back to his medical school days and continuing on through his tenure in the Department of Pathology, David hated the sights, sounds and smells of a postmortem examination. He called them "flesh-in-the-raw" smells. But, particularly the sounds were awful. He could never harness the jolt to his body by the screech of rotary saw on skull bone or the splash of water hose on body parts, its sound shriller than the dousing of his front lawn on a dog day in August. The saw and hose seemed so out of place there, giving him as they did, the feel from chalk high-pitched on a blackboard.
At twelve-fifty, he set foot in the autopsy room and expected to watch Ted Tanarkle do the post on Charlie Bugles for only the time required to form an impression of the pathologist's demeanor. Besides, he had just yesterday witnessed the slaughter and later scrutinized the havoc in Bugles' belly.