“It’s not funny, guys.”
“Aw, hon,” Izzy says as he tries to catch his breath. “It is on our side of the equation.”
“Fine,” I say with feigned indifference. “Have a ball. Laugh all you want. I’m going home.” With that, I head out the door and back to the cottage. Once inside, I head straight for the freezer, grab a carton of Cherry Garcia, and settle on the couch with it and a spoon. It doesn’t matter that I’m already stuffed to the gills from dinner, I can always find room for ice cream.
One pint later, I toss the carton, rinse the spoon, and head to bed. As I undress, I take care to fold my clothes neatly, not wishing to repeat my prior sartorial disaster. As I fold my slacks, a white rectangle and a clump with a string attached fall out of one of the pockets. I pick up the clump first, recognizing the remains of a tampon. I toss it in the garbage, then pick up the rectangle; it’s the business card I found inside David’s tobacco pouch. I study the card a moment, still pondering the significance of it, if any. But my brain refuses to work, probably because all the blood and oxygen in my body is centered on my stomach, where it is busily trying to process enough food to feed a small, impoverished nation for a week.
I set the card on my dresser, figuring I’ll look at it again later. Then I drop into bed, falling asleep almost instantly and dreaming that I am five-foot-five, thin, and a gorgeous redhead.
Chapter 12
I report to work the next morning feeling bloated and cranky. Since there are no autopsies pending, Izzy gives me some forensics textbooks to read and settles me in a small library that is part of the office complex. I spend the morning being alternately fascinated and disturbed by the many ways there are to die, learning all about gunshots, stab wounds, hangings, drownings, explosions, and suffocations.
It’s easy for me to grasp the physiological stuff; I’ve seen all sorts of physical damage to the human body in my work as a nurse. But I am overwhelmed by the total science of death, which incorporates physics, chemistry, biology, and even entomology. Ethan would be in seventh heaven.
After a couple of hours of reading I need a break, so I wander upstairs using the new key card Izzy finally gave me. I find Arnie bent over a microscope in his lab, intently studying whatever he has beneath the lens. He appears totally focused and engrossed, so I’m surprised when he says, “Hello, Mattie,” without looking up.
“How’d you know it was me?”
“By the sound of your footsteps, the way you walk. Also the smell.”
“What smell?” I ask, fearing his answer will be a cross between garlic and Cherry Garcia ice cream.
“None.”
I shake my head. “I’m confused.”
“You don’t have a smell.” He pulls away from the microscope, takes off his glasses, and massages the bridge of his nose. Then he puts his glasses back on again, blinks several times, and looks at me as if I’m some sort of apparition. “That’s the key, you see,” he says. “You don’t have any smell. Izzy has a smell, some aftershave he wears. And Cass has certain perfumes she wears.”
“Cass? Who’s Cass?”
“Cass Zigler.”
I shrug and shake my head, letting him know I have no clue who Cass is.
“The secretary-slash-file-clerk-slash-receptionist?”
“We have a receptionist?” The idea seems rather silly to me when I consider that the bulk of our visitors are DOA.
“Cass only works part-time. She files our reports, answers the phone, types up dictation…that kind of stuff. I take it you haven’t met her yet.”
“Nope.”
“Boy, are you in for a treat. And speaking of treats, I have one for you.”
He rises from his chair, walks over to a counter, picks up a brown paper bag, and hands it to me. I open it and peer inside; at the bottom is my underwear. My face flushes red and I quickly close the bag back up. “Thanks. I think.”
Arnie grins. “Izzy told me what happened. Pretty funny.”
“So it seems.”
“Why didn’t you just fess up when Hurley first found them?”
“I don’t know,” I say, turning away. I’m not sure what is worse—having everyone know the underwear are mine or having them know I was too embarrassed by their size and condition to lay claim to them. “First-night jitters, I guess,” I tell him. “I wanted to make a good impression, and having my underwear fall out of my pants at the scene of a homicide didn’t seem like the best way to do that.”
Arnie snickers. “No, I don’t suppose so.”
A thought hits me. “Does Hurley know about them?”
Arnie nods and I start ticking through a mental list of other cities where I can live. Big cities. Where anonymity reigns.
“I had to tell him,” Arnie explains. “They were logged in as evidence. And all evidence has to be carefully tagged and tracked with a solid chain of possession. Otherwise, it becomes tainted and any decent lawyer will get it discounted. But I got news for you,” he adds, his grin widening. “It doesn’t matter that I told Hurley because he already knew.”
“What!”
“He knew the panties were yours and how they got there. He saw it when it happened. He just took advantage of the situation to mess with you a little bit. Sort of a hazing, I think.”
“A hazing,” I repeat, feeling my anger—and my humiliation—build. “What a cheap shot.”
“Aw, come on,” Arnie chuckles. “You have to admit, it’s kind of funny.”
“I have to admit no such thing.” I switch my mental list from cities where I can hide to some of the more heinous methods of dying I’ve learned about, trying to decide which one I’d most like to use on Hurley.
Arnie eyes me warily and says, “Uh-oh, I don’t like that look on your face. Right about now I’m really glad I’m not Hurley.”
“As well you should be. Because somehow, some way, he’s gonna pay.” When it comes to paybacks, I have a very long memory.
“Forget about Hurley a minute and look at this,” Arnie says, tapping his microscope. He slides over to make room for me. “This is a slice of Karen Owenby’s liver. Take a look.”
I put my eyes to the microscope and peer in at a reddish purple smear that looks like the aerial view of an odd-shaped swimming pool. “Is this something unusual?” I ask, clueless.
“Very. It’s a liver cyst caused by polycystic kidney disease, a rare, congenital disorder.”
“Karen had polycystic kidney disease? Doesn’t that usually manifest itself in infancy?”
“Usually. But there is one type that is inherited in an autosomal dominant pattern which doesn’t generally make itself known until middle age.”
“And that’s the type Karen had?”
“Yep. She was apparently asymptomatic, although there are indications she might have had some problems with high blood pressure.”
“Interesting,” I say, stepping away from the microscope. “That woman is just one surprise after another.”
“Ah, so I gather Izzy filled you in on the identification issues.”
“He did. Any leads as to who she really is?”
“Not yet. Her prints don’t match anything on file anywhere, so it may take a while. Hurley’s working on it.”
Hurley. The mere mention of his name makes my stomach tighten. It makes a few other muscles tighten as well.
“If anyone can figure it out, Hurley will,” Arnie says. “The guy’s as tenacious as a pit bull when he’s on a case. He has an amazing record.”
“How do you know that? Izzy told me Hurley was new here, that he moved up from Chicago a few months ago.”