Through the corner of an eye blurred by the bare bulb above, the oil-stained cardboard came into focus. He folded it in a plastic sheet and, along with the bag of vacuumed matter, compressed it atop the gloves in Friday. He then knelt and, beaming the light on the floor below the car's crankcase, saw no oil droppings.
David's sweat felt heavy at his neck and along his spine. And he hadn't yet entered the room he was anxious to enter. He unbuttoned his raincoat and opened the rear door to Spritz's gun collection and war memorabilia. The splash of lights and martial music startled him even though he knew what to expect. He marched straight for the case marked "MISCELLANEOUS-90's." Its middle shelf contained a tray of pistols labeled, "KIMBER.45 ACP's." Within the tray, four guns lay spread out in a row. Corresponding cards beneath them read, "CUSTOM"-"TARGET"-"POLYMER"-"COMPACT." In the center, a fifth card was labeled, "GOLD MATCH STAINLESS." The space above the card was empty.
Hallelujah! Sparky's words about the Kimber series thundered in his ears. One more thing to do, but not here.
He changed his mind, entered the house itself and checked the front door and all the downstairs windows. On the way out, he examined the back door closely, blocking out the damage he had created to the jamb minutes before. Other than his own, there had been no forced entry into the Spritz house.
David had fulfilled his twin objectives: to collect particulate evidence that might be there, and to determine if another evidentiary item might or might not be there. Two bonuses were the powder-stained gloves he happened upon and the oily cardboard he had kicked against the garage wall forty-eight hours before.
On the ride back to the hospital grounds, he decided not to fine-tune the meaning of his discoveries until Kathy returned from church. Some pieces were beginning to fit, but he wanted her input.
The overnight rain and rising temperatures had melted the snow into dirty water on and around the red Honda. David's single purpose in returning to the parking lot was to compare the black oil stains beneath the cycle with the ones on the piece of cardboard. They matched. Another hallelujah. He rubbed his decision scar. But wait, isn't an oil stain an oil stain? Sure, but one's color could have been golden. For good measure, he checked the footrests and found no particulate matter stuck to them.
At eleven-thirty he arrived at Kathy's condo.
Chapter 22
David asked Kathy why raincoats are hot and winters don't stay cold and how does anybody know what to wear? He ripped off his dark blue London Fog, a lighter blue sweater and, exhaling a full morning's breath, spread out stiffly in an easy chair like a dental patient awaiting root canal surgery.
Kathy ignored the questions and said, "You want coffee, or some lunch?" She had just returned to her condo from church and wore a pink cowlneck sweater and black pants. He got up and followed her into the kitchen.
"Just coffee. I'm not hungry." He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, sat at the small table before a bay window, and placed Friday in front of him.
The kitchen was airy with pastel-colored appliances. Scant white curtains hung over double windows facing the driveway and on the bay window of the opposite wall.
"So what did you start with?" she asked, flicking on the coffeemaker and joining David at the table.
"Come again?"
"The plan. Your strategic plan."
"Tactical."
"All right, tactical," she said, derisively.
"The Coughlin site."
"And?"
David was not being unattentive but realized that once he got started, the findings of the day-and his interpretation of them-could flow nonstop. He evened the attache case with the near edge of the table as he arranged his thoughts.
"David, are you sharing with me or not?"
"Of course. I just don't know where to start." He snapped Friday open, removed one of the bags of bluish particles and the bag of vacuumed material from Spritz's car, and laid them aside. "Okay, let's do it this way. First off, I think the evidence is overwhelming that Spritz wasn't set up and that he murdered the others. His was the rifle used to kill Coughlin, the writing samples match, he had the opportunities and plenty of motive and besides … "
"Wait now," Kathy said, "motive for which killing?"
"All of them." He counted on his fingers, "Tanarkle-Coughlin-Foster-Bugles. They were the EMS committee that turned him down. Remember, we're dealing with a paranoid schiz here. So he kills the first two, lets Foster go because he was a supporter, and as far as Bugles goes, that was a special case. And forget Dr. Cortez-he had to be eliminated in order for Spritz to get to Bugles."
"Why's Bugles a special case-except for the brutality?"
"Precisely." David underscored the word by slamming two fingers against the table. "The brutality. There had to be something more to kill like that, and it's obvious: the drug connection. Something went sour between Bugles and Spritz, and Spritz handled it his way. His psychopathic way. He'd been around hospitals for years and undoubtedly understood some anatomy and had observed O.R. procedures, and he had the balls to pull off … as we say … the brutality."
Kathy looked as though she didn't want to get up to get the coffee, but did. "Hold up a minute," she said. She poured two cups and cut two squares from an apple Danish. David would never have guessed his charged moment might allow an appreciation of coffee aroma. He took a long swallow, felt the burn on his palate, and followed with two cautious sips.
He held up for not much more than her requested minute, then raised the bags to the light and, after describing their origin, received Kathy's concurrence that a match was indefinite to the naked eye.
"Is Sparky any good in forensic geology?" he asked.
"I thought he was a suspect," she responded, biting into the pastry.
"He is." David twisted his mouth. "Hmm-yes, of course. Anyone else around?"
"Sure. Joe Bangor. He's a geology professor over at the university. We've used him in the past. Good with the microscope."
"If I leave these specimens with you, can you arrange for him to examine them?"
"It'll be done tomorrow."
"Good." He eyed her suspiciously. "Is it okay if I dip a corner of this?" he asked, dangling the Danish over his coffee.
She skewed her lips and said, "Yes, certainly. Anyone who lives in a pad is entitled to dip a Danish."
"Hey, that's clever," he said, buoyed by the way his evaluation was proceeding. "Now then, there's the matter of these gloves." He pointed to the pair in Friday. "I found them in Spritz's laundry room. I don't feel like putting on latex when I'm having coffee so take my word for it-on their undersurface, there's a powder which I'm quite sure is fireclay."
"Fireclay, like in safes?"
"Like from the lining in safes. I learned all about that from Musco. I'll wrap them in plastic before I leave. Can you give them to your professor friend?"
"Yes."
"See if he agrees it's fireclay. And don't bother asking me-I have no idea yet where it fits in. All I know is these gloves weren't at Spritz's when I was there on Thursday."
"Do you think they belong to Spritz?" "Absolutely-if we've ruled out evidence planting …."
"And we haven't."
"Kath, let's just say we have. I can't imagine someone sprinkling blue mortar powder around the floor of a car. But, regardless …" He let the sentence trail because he was anxious to speak of the missing pistol and the Spritz murder.
"Now, moving on," he said, "I think I have a reasonable explanation of the events leading up to Spritz's death. Sparky said the murder weapon was probably a handgun from the Kimber series, right?"