"I've never seen duct tape like this before," Richards was saying.
"And due to its high yarn count I can also say with confidence that whoever bought the tape did not get it from a store."
"How can you be so sure of that?" Wesley asked, "This is industrial grade, with a yarn count of sixty-two warp and a fifty-six woof, versus your typical economy grade of twenty ten that you might pick up at Walmart or Safeway for a couple of bucks. The industrial grade can cost as much as ten bucks a roll."
"Do you know where the tape was manufactured?" I asked.
"Shuford Mills of Hickory, North Carolina. They're one of the biggest duct tape manufacturers in the country. Their best-known brand is Shurtape."
"Hickory is only sixty miles or so east of Black Mountain," I said.
"Have you talked to anyone at Shuford Mills?" Wesley asked Richards.
"Yes. They're still trying to track down information for me. But this much we already know. The blaze orange tape was a specialty item that Shuford Mills manufactured solely for a private label customer in the late eighties."
"What is a private label customer?" I asked.
"Someone who wants a special tape and orders maybe a minimum of five hundred cases of it. So there could be hundreds of tapes out there we're never going to see, unless it turns up like this blaze orange tape did."
"Can you give me an example of what sort of person might design his own duct tape?" I inquired further.
"I know some stock car racers do," Richards replied.
"For example, the duct tape Richard Petty has made for his pit crew is red and blue, while Daryl Waltrip's is yellow. Shuford Mills also had a contractor some years back who was sick of his workers walking off the job with his expensive tape. So he had his own bright purple tape made. You know, you got purple tape repairing your ductwork at home or fixing the leak in your kid's wading pool, and it's pretty obvious you stole it."
"Could that be the purpose of the blaze orange tape? To prevent workers from stealing it?" I asked.
"Possibly," said Richards.
"And by the way, it's also flame retardant."
"Is that unusual?" Wesley asked.
"Very much so," Richards replied.
"I associate flame- retardant duct tapes with aircraft and submarines, neither of which would have any need of a tape that's blaze orange, or at least I wouldn't think so."
"Why would anyone need a tape that is blaze orange?" I asked.
"The million-dollar question," Cartright said.
"When I think of blaze orange, I think of hunting and traffic cones."
"Let's get back to the killer taping up Mrs. Steiner and her daughter," Wesley suggested.
"What else can you tell us about the mechanics of that?"
"We found traces of what appears to be furniture varnish on some of the tape ends," Richards said.
"Also, the sequence the tape was torn from the roll is inconsistent with the sequence it was applied to the mother's wrists and ankles. All this means is that the assailant tore off as many segments of tape as he thought he would need, and probably stuck them to the edge of a piece of furniture. When he began binding Mrs. Steiner, the tape was ready and waiting for him to use, one piece at a time."
"Only he got them out of order," Wesley said.
"Yes," said Richards.
"I have them numbered according to the sequence they were used to bind the mother and her daughter. Would you like to look?" We said that we would. Wesley and I spent the rest of the afternoon in the Materials Analysis Unit, with its gas chromatographs, mass spectrometers, differential scanning calorimeters, and other intimidating instruments for determining materials and melting points. I parked myself near a portable explosive detector while Richards went on about the weird duct tape used to bind Emily and her mother. He explained that when he had used hot blowing air to open the tape receipted to him by the Black Mountain police, he counted seventeen pieces ranging from eight to nineteen inches in length. Mounting them on sheets of thick transparent vinyl, he had numbered the segments two different ways-to show the sequence the tape had been torn from the roll and the sequence the assailant had used when he taped his victims.
"The sequence of the tape used on the mother is completely out of whack," he was saying.
"This piece here should have been first. Instead, it was last. And since this one was torn from the roll second, it should have been used second instead of fifth.
"The little girl, on the other hand, was taped in sequence. Seven pieces were used, and they went around her wrists in the order they were torn from the roll."
"She would have been easier to control," Wesley remarked.
"One would think so," I said, and then I asked Richards, "Did you find any of the varnish-type residue on the tape recovered from her body?"
"No," he replied.
"That's interesting," I said, and the detail bothered me. We saved the dirty streaks on the tape for last. They had been identified as hydrocarbons, which is just a highbrow name for grease. So this didn't guide us a bit one way or another because unfortunately grease is grease. The grease on the tape could have come from a car. It could have come from a Mack truck in Arizona.
12
Wesley and I went on to the Red Sage at half past four, which was early for drinks. But neither of us felt very good. It was hard for me to meet his eyes now that we were alone again, and I wanted him to bring up what had happened between us the other night.
I did not want to believe I was the only one who thought it mattered.
"They have microbrewery beer on tap," Wesley said as I studied the menu.
"It's quite good, if you're a beer drinker."
"Not unless I've worked out for two hours in the middle of summer and am very thirsty and craving pizza," I said, a little stung that he didn't seem to know this detail about me.
"In fact, I really don't like beer and never have. I only drink it when there's absolutely nothing else, and even then I can't say it tastes good."
"Well, there's no point in getting angry about it."
"I'm certainly not angry."
"You sound angry. And you won't look at me."
"I'm fine."
"I study people for a living and I'm telling you that you're not fine."
"You study psychopaths for a living," I said.
"You don't study female chief medical examiners who reside on the right side of the law and simply want to relax after an intense, long day of thinking about murdered children."
"It's very hard to get into this restaurant."
"I can see why. Thank you for going to a lot of trouble."
"I had to use my influence."
"I'm sure you did."
"We'll have wine with dinner. I'm surprised they have Opus One. Maybe that will make you feel better."
"It's overpriced and styled after a Bordeaux, which is a little heavy for sipping, and I wasn't aware we were dining here. I've got a plane to catch in less than two hours. I think I'll just have a glass of Cabemet."
"Whatever you'd like."
I did not know what I liked or wanted at the moment.
"I'm heading back to Asheville tomorrow," Wesley went on.
"If you want to stay over tonight, we could go together."
"Why are you going back there?"
"Our assistance was requested before Ferguson ended up dead and Mote had a heart attack. Trust me, the Black Mountain police are sincere in their appreciation and panic. I've made it clear to them that we will do what we can to help. If it turns out that I need to bring in other agents, I will." Wesley had a habit of always getting the waiter's name and addressing him by it throughout the meal. Our waiter's name was Stan, and it was Stan this and Stan that as Wesley and he discussed wines and specials. It was really the only dopey thing Wesley did, his sole quirky mannerism, and as I witnessed it this evening it irritated the hell out of me.
"You know, it doesn't make the waiter feel he has a relationship with you, Benton. In fact, it seems just a little patronizing, like the sort of thing a radio personality would do."