The criminalist was a forty-some-odd throwback to a Western Union clerk in a 1940's B movie: slicked down black hair parted in the middle, wire-framed glasses, gartered shirt sleeves.
David snapped Sparky's suspenders and said, "Morning, my friend, I have a little something for you."
"Hey, David. I thought you'd be phoning me." Sparky popped up briefly to shake hands.
"Hope you're not too busy." David took off his scarf and gloves and placed them over the back of a chair. "It's no problem. I'm always too busy."
David opened Friday, draped a handkerchief over the taped rock and deposited it on the desk.
"This was tossed toward my window last night. Lousy shot. Can you run it through the usual checks? I can call this afternoon if that gives you enough time."
"Late afternoon should be fine." Sparky read the message and shook his head. "Did you see the guy?"
"Nope. And there were no tracks in the snow just acceleration gauges. Sure as hell sounded like … " David caught himself. Don't want to mention the garage incident, right? Almost blew it, pal. He launched into his next sentence without missing a beat. Sparky seemed preoccupied with the rock, anyway.
"Look, Spark, if I ask you for another favor and you can't do it, would you have to mention to anyone that I asked you for it?"
The criminalist removed his visor and, leaning back, said, "I never breach confidences. How can I help?" "Don't tell Kathy or Nick about the rock, okay?" "I suppose, but why not?"
"My first murders, my first ultimatum-you know-I don't want them tightening the reins."
"I won't say a word, but don't be silly. If you want the truth, we're so damned busy around here, they think you're a godsend. Really. I've heard them say it."
"Thanks, that's what I needed to hear." He sat on the edge of the desk. "Now, about Bugles and Cortez …" Sparky didn't let him finish.
"David, I dusted and sprayed and dipped and fumed. I couldn't bring out any prints other than their own except probably the locker room attendent's. His-I assume his-are all over most of the lockers. I'm checking it out. But nothing on the dagger. Or on Cortez's skin, so far. I had to act fast on trying to lift there. I used x-rays and I've got a call in to the Tokyo Police Department to see where we go from here. They've perfected the technique. The blood-I'll have all that by the time you call about the rock. I've got to warn you, though, David, prints rarely come through from rock or stone. Brick, for that matter. And incidentally, I found a couple blood smudges on the shelf in the locker." He looked at the clock on the wall. "I'll know whose by noon."
"Good. And the dagger?" David moved away, hands on hips.
"I've never seen one like it. The blade's ten inches. Steel. I'm still checking on the handle and, sorry, I can't release it to you but here are some photocopies plus a few stills from both scenes." He pulled out a batch of photographs from a drawer and handed them to David who put them in Friday without examination.
"What about the trajectory of the stab wound? From above, right?"
"The chest wound-correct. The abdominal one-you saw that?"
"Yes."
"It was shoved in most likely underhanded, just to stun the guy."
"I figured." David put on his scarf and gloves and expressed his thanks. "I'll call you later today, then," he said.
"I should have it all put together."
"Great. And one last thing, Spark. If a guy puts a piece of tape on a rock from, say two o'clock to eight o'clock, and then crosses it with another piece from ten to four, what would you conclude if the second piece was the top piece?"
The criminalist frowned. "Sorry, David, I don't quite follow. What are you getting at?"
"Just this. It seems to me that's what would happen if someone right-handed put the tape on.-But for a left-hander, that top strip-the one from ten to four-would be on the bottom. See, look here." David picked up the rock and pointed to the top strip. "See, ten to four. This bastard could be left-handed, wouldn't you say?"
The criminalist put his visor back on as if it imparted greater lucidity. He examined the rock, twisting it around with one hand while making crosses in the air with his other. Finally, he said, "By golly, I think you're right. I've never had evidence like this before, but I think you're onto something. Of course we've had things tossed through windows-mostly bricks-but never with messages on adhesive tape. Usually on paper secured with rubber bands. Sometimes twine. Come to think of it, maybe the way rubber bands are put on could tell us the same thing."
"It could. Just work backwards … I guess." David added the last two words to soften any perception of up-staging. For good measure, he called on humor: "I won't charge you for any of this, you know."
"Wait'll you get my bill" They both smiled.
"But seriously," David said, "even though what I said about the tape strips could be possible, wouldn't you agree this right-handed-left-handed stuff isn't foolproof?"
"No."
"No, it's foolproof or, no, it isn't foolproof?" "Sorry. Yes, it's not foolproof."
David left the crime lab and thought of visiting with Kathy and Nick several suites away but was anxious to question Ted Tanarkle in Pathology and the hospital's administrator, Alton Foster. Buoyed by Sparky's assurance that he was considered a member of the investigating team-if not, the team, he thought-he swaggered from the building more aware of his surroundings. Looking around and recalling the crime lab, he imagined Methuselah trying to catch up to Bill Gates.
As he approached the pathologist's office back at the hospital, David spotted a familiar figure down the hall. The director of the Emergency Medical System was struggling with a bulky carton at the door aside the old dispatch window.
"Vic," he hollered, "hold on, I'll give you a hand." He quickened his step and helped unwedge the carton from the door, guiding it to the floor." He felt his knee complain.
"Thanks, David. Haven't seen you in a long time. What are you up to these days?"
Victor Spritz. Smooth-faced, fashioned hair, shorter than David by a hand, and older by a decade. Roots unknown. Etched smile. Coppery hair. Angles at the wrists. Elbows exaggerated laterally. A twenty-year veteran at Hollings and a loner, he headed up the city's Emergency Medical System which was administered from the hospital. Despite Spritz's medical care orientation, David believed he had the personality of a hornet in a Mason jar.
"Oh, not much. Still making house calls and sleuthing on the side, but I'm thinking of reversing that."
"Because of the murders?"
"Because of the murders."
Spritz shook his head. "How God-awful."
David peeked behind Spritz into the EMS office. He saw chairs stacked on tables, books piled on the floor, papers strewn about. The room beyond an archway appeared undisturbed, a space he'd heard Spritz call his "Ambulance Without Wheels" with its spare stretchers and benches of masks, aspirators, oxygen tanks, splints and canisters. "What's going on?" he asked.
"I'm moving out." It was uncharacteristic of Spritz to wear a blue denim shirt and tattered jeans while in the hospital. Rarely was he in coat and tie, but usually, as a hands-on director, he sported the customary uniform of the EMS paramedics in Hollings: dark blue trousers, white shirt-open at the collar-with insignia on the sleeve and name pin over the left breast.
"Moving out? Why?"
"Haven't you heard? I lost the contract. As of the first of the month, I'm terminated. Out of here."
David understood the awarding of the EMS contract had been a yearly problem not only for both city hospitals but also for rival companies. He, himself, had once lobbied for Spritz among the joint oversite committee members of both hospitals.
"I'm sorry to hear that." He put his arm around Spritz's shoulders which stiffened. David was momentarily lost for words. He managed, "So what happens to your fleet?" The ambulances were maintained in a bank of garages two streets away. EMS crews occupied quarters upstairs at the same site.