I lean closer, and the odor is stronger.
“Acrid, like something shorting out, like a blow-dryer that overheats.” I do my best to describe it. “A battery smell. Sort of.”
“A battery?” He frowns. “No batteries I saw. No blow-dryer.”
He walks over to the sink and bends close. “Well, maybe,” he says. “Yeah, maybe something. I don’t have the best nose.”
“I think it would be a good idea to swab whatever this is in the sink,” I tell him. “Your trace-evidence lab has SEM/EDX? We should take a look at the morphology at high magnification, see if it’s some sort of particulate that was in a solution and figure out what it is. Metals, some other material. If it’s a chemical, a drug, something that won’t be picked up by x-ray spectroscopy? Don’t know what other detectors the GBI’s scanning electron microscope might have, but if possible, I’d ask for EDX, FTIR to get the molecular fingerprint of whatever this is.”
“We’ve been thinking of getting one of those handheld FTIRs, you know, like HazMat uses.”
“A very good idea these days, when you’re faced with the possibility of explosives, weapons of mass destruction, nerve and blistering agents, white powders. It would also be a good idea to charm whoever is in charge of your trace lab and get this analysis done quickly, as in now. They could do it in a matter of hours if they move it to the head of the line. I don’t like the symptoms described.” I talk quietly and choose my words carefully, because I don’t know who’s listening.
But I have no doubt someone is.
“I can be pretty charming.” Chang is small and slender, with short black hair, deadpan, almost monotone, but his dark eyes are friendly.
“Good,” I answer. “A little charm right now would be welcome.”
“You think she might have been sick in here?”
“That’s not what I’m smelling,” I reply. “But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t queasy, which is what her neighbor Ellenora described. A sour stomach.”
The most obvious consideration on the differential diagnosis is going to be what’s already being suggested by those who aren’t qualified to do so and certainly aren’t objective. Kathleen Lawler was vulnerable to a sudden cardiac death precipitated by physical exertion in conditions that were risky for a woman her age who has never taken good care of herself. She was dressed in a synthetic-blend uniform with long pants and long sleeves, and I estimate it is close to a hundred degrees outside, the humidity at least sixty percent and climbing. Stress makes everything worse, and Kathleen certainly seemed stressed and upset about being moved into segregation, and I won’t be surprised if we discover she had heart disease from a lifetime of unhealthy eating and drug and alcohol abuse.
“What about trash,” I say to Chang. “I noticed white trash bags on some of the doors, but I don’t see one in here. Empty or full.”
“Good question.” He meets my eyes, and we exchange an understanding.
If there was a trash bag or any trash in here earlier, it was gone by the time he arrived.
“Do you mind if I look around?” I ask him. “I won’t touch anything without your permission.”
“Except for anything you want me to collect, I’m done in here. So help yourself.” His gloved hands open the plastic packaging of sterile applicators as he moves past me to the sink.
“I’ll tell you as I get to whatever it is,” I inform him anyway, because legally the scene is his. Only the body and any associated biological or trace evidence are Colin Dengate’s, and I’m nothing more than an invited guest, an outside expert who needs permission. Unless a case is the jurisdiction of the Armed Forces Medical Examiners — in other words, the Department of Defense — I have no statutory authority outside of Massachusetts. I will ask before I do the smallest thing.
Built into the wall opposite the toilet are the two gray metal shelves arranged with books and notepads, and an assortment of clear plastic containers that are supposed to prevent the concealment of contraband. I open each and recognize the scents of cocoa butter, Noxzema, balsam shampoo, mint mouthwash, and peppermint toothpaste. In a plastic soap dish is a thick white cake of Ivory soap, in a plastic tube a toothbrush, and in another plastic bottle what looks like hair gel. I note a small plastic comb, a hairbrush without a handle, and large-size foam rollers, perhaps from a time when Kathleen Lawler’s hair was longer.
There are novels, poetry, and inspirational books, and transparent plastic baskets full of mail, notepads, and writing tablets. I see no evidence of a shakedown, nothing to suggest a squad has rifled through Kathleen’s belongings, but I wouldn’t expect obvious signs of disturbance. If her property was gone through before Chang got here, the purpose wasn’t to search for marijuana or a shank or anything else prohibited by the prison. The purpose would have been something else that at the moment I can’t fathom. What might a prison official have been looking for? I don’t know, but there isn’t a legitimate reason for someone to have removed her trash bag before the GBI got here, and my bad feeling is getting worse.
“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to look.” I indicate the contents of the baskets, informing Chang of my every move.
“Sure.” He swabs the steel sink. “Yeah, there’s sort of an odor, you’re right. And whatever it is, it’s gray. A milky gray.” He tucks the applicators into a plastic collection tube and labels the blue screw cap with a Sharpie.
Each notepad is ruled and has a glued top and a cardboard back, probably purchased from the commissary, where spiral notebooks would not be sold because wire could be fashioned into a weapon. The pages contain poetry and prose interspersed with doodles and sketches, but most are filled with journal entries that are dated. It appears Kathleen was a faithful and expansive diarist, and I’m immediately struck by the absence of anything current. As I flip through each notepad, I determine that she was consistent about making detailed daily entries dating from some three years ago, when she was returned to the GPFW for DUI manslaughter. But there is nothing after this past June 3, when she filled the notepad’s last page front and back in her distinctive hand:
June 3 Friday
Rain thrashes a world I’ve lost and last night when the wind hit the steel mesh on my window just right it sounded like a bending saw. Discordant then screaming like steel cables straining. Like some monstrous beast made of metal. Like a warning. I lay here listening to loud metal groans and reverberations and I thought, “Something is coming.”
In the chow hall at supper a couple of hours ago I could feel it. I can’t describe what it was. Not tangible like a stare or a comment, just something I sensed. But definitely I could tell. Something brewing.
All of them eating mystery-meat hash and not looking at me, as if I wasn’t there, like there’s a secret they keep. I didn’t speak to them. I didn’t see them. I know when not to acknowledge anyone, and they know when I know it. Everybody knows everything in here.
I keep thinking it’s about food and attention. People will kill over food, even bad food, and they’ll kill over credit, even undeserved and stupid credit. I published those recipes in Inklingsand didn’t give credit because it sure as hell wasn’t earned or remotely merited, and it wasn’t my choice anyway. I don’t have the final say and I did worry I’d get the blame. A little bit of blame goes a long way in here. I don’t know what else to figure. My magazine just came out and suddenly there’s a shift.
One microwave in the unit shared by sixty of us, and we all do the same damn things in Mama’s Test Kitchen, as the other inmates refer to me and my culinary creativity. Or they used to. Maybe they won’t anymore, even if the treats are my idea. Treats always have been all about me and my inventiveness. Who else would think of it when there’s not a damn thing to work with besides crap and more crap?