“I think I got what you’re saying,” Decker said. “You have a cross-sectional paper silhouette that’s one millimeter thick.”
“Exactly, except that each paper silhouette is only around one one-thousandth of an inch because the computer interpolates between the X-rays to make the model smoother.”
“Okay,” Decker said. “Go on.”
“So…where was I? Oh, here I am. The machine cuts out a paper silhouette about one-one-thousandth-inch thick and stacks it onto the previous paper silhouette. So in the end, you have a huge stack of paper silhouettes that represents the skull. Then another part of the machine squeezes the stack of paper silhouettes together until you have a three-dimensional representation of the original skull.”
Decker said, “Let me recap. The original skull is fed through a CT scan that takes cross sections of the skull about one millimeter thick. Then the CT-scan images are fed into a computer that’s attached to the prototyping machine. The prototyping machine cuts paper silhouettes of the computer model based on the CT-scan images. Each silhouette is about one-one-thousandth-inch thick. The paper silhouettes are stacked upon one another in order. Then another part of the machine compresses the paper so that the skull is basically reconstituted out of paper.”
“Exactly.” Hollander paused. “You’re pretty quick at this.”
“I’ve done some carpentry in my day,” Decker said. “Gluing layers of thin laminate on top of one another to get an odd shape. What you end up with is a skull that is in essence made out of wood.”
“Perfect!”
“And the forensic artist uses the wooden skull to construct a clay face onto.”
“One hundred percent. And here’s the best part, Deck. There’s legal precedent for doing this. The Wisconsin court ruled that the replica skull could be used for forensic purposes since the model was accurate with all its bony landmarks.”
“So let me get this straight,” Decker said. “We need to transport a very delicate skull to a CAT-scan machine. Once I do that, I need a CAT-scan technician to take a bunch of serial X-rays. Then I need to find a company who has access to a machine that does Rapid Prototyping. After we find the machine, we still need to find a programmer who can program the X-rays into the computer, and lastly, we need a technician to run the machine that produces the three-dimensional object.”
“It sounds like a lot, but I bet getting your hands on the machines isn’t as hard as it appears,” Hollander said. “We’ve got some automobile plants in the Valley.”
“You’re right. I’m not worried about finding the machinery. I am worried about finding the funding.”
There was a brief silence over the phone. Then Hollander said, “You see, that’s why I’m glad I retired. I liked the detective part of the job. It was the red tape that was always a bitch.”
THE RANCH HOUSE was in the same area as Raymond Holmes’s renovation project, similar in style but tired. The paint job was cracking in spots and the landscaping was patchy. There was a porch with several lawn chairs, and that’s where Marge and Decker waited for Leslie Bracco to make her appearance.
As the time crept toward six o’clock, Marge called up Will and asked him to push the dinner reservation off until nine. In a gallant act of chivalry, Will told her that he was off early and that he’d be happy to drive down south, saving her some time and aggravation. There were a number of great restaurants in San Jose and several of them were open late.
Leslie showed up at six-ten, a set of keys in her hand. She was small and compact, square in the shoulders, a woman in her late forties, with helmet-clipped black hair streaked with silver. Green eyes and thick lips sat in a round face with big, apple cheeks. She wore a dark brown pantsuit, the jacket hugging a dusty-rose-colored wool sweater. Her shoes were simple brown flats. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The meeting just went on forever. We’ve been doing a rock-bottom savings promotion to try to woo back customers and it’s been very successful. WestAir has agreed to keep it going.” She opened the front door. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Not too bad,” Decker said.
“You’re just being nice.” She walked into the house and began opening drapes and turning on lights. The detectives followed.
“It gave us a little time to catch up on our work.” Decker smiled and she smiled back with bleached white teeth. “I’m Detective Lieutenant Decker and I believe you’ve spoken to Detective Sergeant Dunn.”
“Hi.” Leslie shifted her purse from one arm to the other and held out her right hand. First to Marge then to Decker. “Sit anywhere you’d like. Sorry for the mess.”
The mess was a newspaper folded neatly on the coffee table. Other than that, the place was immaculate. The decor could have been lifted from a furniture ad-a traditional rose-patterned upholstered couch, matching love seat and armchair-with-ottoman arrangement. Sitting in the corner was a piano, the top obscured by family pictures. More photographs were hanging on the walls. The beige carpeting was thick ply and spotless.
Leslie threw her purse on the sofa. Then she looked at it and placed it upright on a walnut end table. “Can I get either of you coffee? I’m making decaf for myself, so it’s no bother.”
“That sounds fine.” Marge looked at the wall snapshots; most of them displayed Leslie, a husband, and three kids in the usual vacation backdrops. A more recent photograph appeared to be a skiing vacation-six young adults with four babies and toddlers. There was no husband in that picture, but there was a picture of a pale bald man holding a baby. He was wearing an old terry robe and had an ear-to-ear smile.
Leslie was a widow and her husband had probably succumbed to cancer.
The flight attendant caught Marge staring at the photograph. Her eyes welled up with tears. “That was Jack.” A forced smile. “It’s been three years and I still miss the hell out of him.”
“Boy, was he proud,” Marge told her.
“Yes, he was.” She wiped her eyes. “Our first grandchild. How do you take your coffee?”
“Black,” Decker said.
“Same,” Marge answered.
“You two are easy.” She disappeared and came back a few minutes later with a tray and three mugs of coffee. She placed it on the sofa table and handed out the mugs, then sat down on the love seat, taking off her shoes and placing them neatly under the end table. Finally she curled her toes under her legs and picked up her mug. “Wow! That tastes good!”
“It does indeed,” Decker said. “You don’t look old enough to have four grandchildren.”
“Five, actually. That picture is old. And thank you for the compliment. People tell me I wear my age well. I think it’s because I had a good marriage. Jack was an airline pilot. We both loved to travel. Even when the kids were little, we’d schlep them everywhere. One of my sons inherited the wanderlust. My daughters are much more rooted.”
“Do they live near you?” Marge asked.
“The girls both married computer guys and live in nice houses in a great school district. My son and his wife live outside of Sitka, Alaska, and work for the Fish and Game Department.”
“There’s a switch,” Decker said.
“He definitely followed his own muse.” Leslie took a sip of coffee. “I understand from my boss that you wanted to talk to me about Roseanne Dresden. How can I help you?”
“So WestAir knows you’re talking to us?” Marge said.
“Oh yes. They’ve asked me to cooperate fully, which I would do without their orders, but it seems important to them that I appear helpful…beyond making coffee.”
Decker smiled. “Hey, sometimes that’s enough. Anyway let me give you some details. Roseanne Dresden has not been seen or heard since the accident. So, at first, it seemed logical that Roseanne had jumped the plane without a ticket and had perished along with everyone else. Our problem is we can’t find any verification of that. No body, no personal effects, no ticket, no work order…absolutely nothing.”