Who could live with him? Who could stand it?
“Is the blood Daggie Simister’s?” Scarpetta bluntly asks.
Like everybody else, she logically would suspect that the bloody glove found at the scene of Daggie Simister’s homicide would, no doubt, be covered with her blood.
“Well, actually, the blood from the carpet is.”
“He means the carpet by the window where we think she might have been hit on the head,” Joe says.
“I’m talking about the blood on the glove. Is it Daggie Simister’s?” Scarpetta’s voice asks, and it is beginning to sound strained.
“No sir.”
Randy says “no sir” to everyone, regardless of the person’s gender.
“That’s definitely not her blood on that glove, which is curious,” Randy tediously explains. “Now, you would expect it to be her blood.”
Oh God. Here he goes again, Matthew thinks.
“Here are these latex gloves at the crime scene, and the blood’s on the outside of one but not on the inside.”
“Why would blood be on the inside?” Marino scowls at him.
“It’s not.”
“I know it’s not, but why would it be?”
“Well, for instance, if the perpetrator injured himself somehow, bled inside the glove, perhaps cut himself while he was wearing gloves. I’ve seen it before in stabbings. The perpetrator has on gloves, nicks himself and gets his blood inside a glove, which clearly didn’t happen in this case. Which brings me to the important question. If the blood is the killer’s in the Simister case, why would it be all over the outside of a glove? And why is that DNA different from the DNA I got from inside that same glove?”
“I think we’re clear on the question,” Matthew says, because he can stand Randy’s supercilious sidewinding monologue maybe one minute longer.
After a minute, Matthew will have to walk out of the lab, pretend he has to visit the men’s room, run an errand, eat poison.
“The outside of the glove is where you’d expect blood to be if the perpetrator touched something bloody or someone bloody,” Randy says.
They all know the answer, but Scarpetta doesn’t. Randy’s building up to the crescendo, playing it out, and no one can steal his thunder. DNA is his department.
“Randy?” Scarpetta’s voice sounds.
It’s the voice she uses when Randy is confusing and annoying everyone, including her.
“Do we know whose blood it is on that glove?” she asks him.
“Yes sir we do. Well, almost. It’s either Johnny Swift’s or his brother, Laurel. They’re identical twins,” he finally says it. “So their DNA’s the same.”
“You still there?” Matthew asks Scarpetta after a long silence.
Then Marino comments, “I just don’t see how it could beLaurel’s blood. He’s not the one whose blood was all over the living room when his brother’s head was blown off.”
“Well, I forone amtotally baffled,” Mary, the toxicologist, joins in. “Johnny Swift got shot way back in November, so how does his blood suddenly show up some ten weeks later in a case that doesn’t appear to be related?”
“How does his blood show up at the Daggie Simister murder scene at all?” Scarpetta’s voice fills the room.
“It’s certainly within the realm of possibility that the gloves were planted,” Joe says.
“Maybe you should state the damn obvious,” Marino snipes at him. “And what’s obvious is whoever blew that poor old lady’s head off is telling us he had something to do with Johnny Swift’s death. Someone’s fucking with us.”
“He’d had recent surgery…”
“Bullshit,” Marino snaps. “No way the damn gloves came from some carpal tunnel surgery. Jesus Christ. You’re looking for unicorns when there’s horses everywhere.”
“What?”
“I think the damn message is pretty damn clear,” Marino says again, pacing the lab, talking loudly, his face bright red. “Whoever killed her is saying he also killed Johnny Swift. And the gloves are to fuck with us.”
“We can’t assume it’s notLaurel’s blood,” Scarpetta’s voice says.
“If it is, that certainly might explain things,” Randy says.
“It don’t explain shit. IfLaurelkilled Mrs. Simister, why the hell would he leave his DNA in the sink?” Marino retorts.
“Maybe it’s Johnny Swift’s blood, then.”
“Shut up, Randy. You’re curling my hair.”
“You don’t have any hair, Pete,” Randy says seriously.
“You want to tell me how the hell we’re going to figure out whether it’s Laurel or Johnny, since their DNA’s supposedly the same?” Marino exclaims. “This is so fucked up it isn’t even funny.”
He looks accusingly at Randy, then at Matthew, then back at Randy. “You sure you didn’t get something mixed up when you did your tests?”
He never cares who hears him when he impeaches a person’s credibility or is just plain nasty.
“Like maybe one or the other of you got swabs mixed up or something,” Marino says.
“No sir. Absolutely not,” Randy replies. “Matthew received the samples and I did the extractions and analyses and ran them in CODIS. There was no break in the chain of evidence, and Johnny Swift’s DNA is in the database, because everybody who’s autopsied these days goes in there, meaning Johnny Swift’s DNA was entered into CODIS last November. I believe I’m right about that? You still there?” he asks Scarpetta.
“I’m still here…” she starts to say.
“The policy as of last year is to enter all cases, whether it’s suicide, accident, homicide or even a natural death,” Joe pontificates, interrupting her as usual. “Just because someone’s a victim or his death is unrelated to crime doesn’t mean he might not have been involved in criminal activity at some point in his life. I’m assuming we’re sure the Swift brothers are identical twins.”
“Look alike, talk alike, dress alike, fuck alike,” Marino whispers to him.
“Marino?” Scarpetta’s voice resumes its presence. “Did the police submit a sample of Laurel Swift’s DNA at the time of his brother’s death?”
“Nope. No reason to.”
“Not even for exclusionary purposes?” Joe asks.
“Excluded from what? DNA wasn’t relevant,” Marino says to him. “Laurel’s DNA would be all over that house. He lives there.”
“It would be good if we could testLaurel’s DNA,” Scarpetta’s voice says. “Matthew? Did you use any chemicals on the bloody glove, the one from Daggie Simister’s scene? Anything that might cause a problem if we want to do further testing?”
“Superglue,” Matthew says. “And by the way, I ran the one print I got. Nothing. Nothing in AFIS. Couldn’t match it up with the partial from the seat belt in the station wagon. Wasn’t enough minutiae.”
“Mary? I want you to get samples of the blood on that glove.”
“Superglue shouldn’t have made a difference since it reacts to the amino acids in skin oils, sweat, and not blood,” Joe feels compelled to explain. “We should be all right.”
“I’ll be glad to get her a sample,” Matthew says to the black telephone. “There’s plenty of bloody latex left.”
“Marino?” Scarpetta’s voice says. “I want you to go to the ME’s office and get Johnny Swift’s case file.”
“I can do it,” Joe quickly says.
“Marino?” she reiterates. “Inside the file should be his DNA cards. We always make more than one.”
“You touch that case file, your teeth will end up in the back of your head,” Marino whispers to Joe.
“You can place one of the cards inside an evidence envelope and receipt it to Mary,” Scarpetta’s voice is saying. “And Mary? Take a sample of the blood from that card and a sample from the glove.”