Unknown Means (27 page)

Evelyn pulled the blood samples from the day’s victims out of the dumbwaiter and set them on the table to be entered and labeled.

“But I’ve got stuff to do!”

“Yeah. Crayons.”

“Crayons from a serial killer who’s gunning for Marissa.”

“I know it’s Marissa, believe me. If it’s not you reminding me every ten minutes it’s the ME. But Cleveland’s finest are working on that, and besides, these guys are just as dead.”

“But no one murdered them. It was an accident.”

“Hitting a light pole when you’re backing out of a space at Wal-Mart, that’s an accident. Screwing up so bad that seven people die, that’s a crime. And we investigate crimes.” He yawned, sending a wisp of Dorito-scented breath her way. “You think I wouldn’t prefer meeting with the cute OSHA lady to approving the air-flow setup for the new lab with the architects? If I can get out early, I’ll even take over for you. She’ll be here in twenty minutes. And change that lab coat.”

She shoved the bloods into the refrigerator and used the twenty minutes to confirm that the crayons matched. She had tested every color used on the drawings and the victims’ clothing. The pigments, of course, varied with the different crayons, but the base materials, the paraffin and its additives, were identical. The crayons had come from the same manufacturer, though not necessarily the same box.

Her brief moment of satisfaction faded almost instantly. She still had no idea who these crayons belonged to and what they had to do with Grace Markham or Frances Duarte. Neither woman had crayons in her apartment. David and Riley had not found a child in common through their interviews with friends.

Time, perhaps, to abandon crayons and move instead to the murder weapon.

“HOW YOU DOING, HONEY?” Margery Murphy said in greeting.

“You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“It feels like that. Did you find the gas leak?”

“Doesn’t seem to be one. I went down with a whole crew, and we couldn’t even get a significant reading.” She eyed the sealed brown bags, each resting in a seat in the old teaching amphitheater as if waiting for a lecture. “Is this the clothing from our dead guys?

Good.”

Evelyn opened the first bag and pulled out a work shirt, which had once been blue. She spread it on a fresh piece of brown paper.

The young man with Margery asked, “Does it always smell like this?”

“Victims’ clothing, or the building?” Evelyn asked.

He had close-cropped hair, dimples, and the beginnings of a beer gut. He had to be ten years her junior, but that did not stop him from being very friendly. “Both.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t mind him, honey,” Margery told her. “He’s new. This belongs to the one found completely under the overturned loader?”

“Yes, with just his hand sticking out.” The image came back to her in a sad, grainy picture of red blood against soot-blackened salt.

Suddenly she regretted having tried to blow off this investigation because of Marissa’s attack. Seven guys, just trying to bring home a paycheck . . . “Do you know what happened, if it wasn’t a gas leak?”

“We’re not sure.”

“Some anomalies have turned up in the batch of dynamite,” the younger one said, ignoring Margery’s warning look. “The natural gas stores are all accounted for.”

“We’re not sure of that yet,” Margery said, “so keep it under your hat.”

“Yes, of course.” Evelyn repackaged the shirt and brought out a pair of pants as Margery jotted notes on a pink notepad. “What about Kelly Alexander?”

“Out on bail,” the young man told her. “She’ll still be fined for not filing all the paperwork for the gas storage, but she might be off the hook for manslaughter. We don’t know yet. How long have you worked here, by the way?”

“Eleven years. What—”

“How does your husband feel about you working with stiffs all day?”

“I’m divorced, and we call them victims here. Wh—”

“So you’re single now.”

“Leave her alone, kid,” Margery said. “She’s way out of your league. And take a picture of these jeans while you’re at it.”

“What was wrong with the dynamite?” Evelyn asked.

Margery held a paper bag open for her partner to replace the blood-crusted pair of pants. “We’re doing tests now on the rest of the supply. The manufacturer’s quality control is up-to-date. Either a batch wound up overpowered or a worker screwed up and used too much. But the survivors didn’t see anything suspicious, unless they’re lying. I’d lie too if I screwed up and got seven people killed.”

“Maybe it was a bomb,” the younger one suggested. “And not the dynamite at all. Maybe it’s terrorists.”

Evelyn slid off one latex glove to rub her eyes. “So they take out a salt mine?”

“They’re terrorists. How bright can they be? Or maybe it’s industrial sabotage.”

“No motive,” Margery scoffed. “The owners were losing their shirt anyway.”

“Could closing it down improve their financial situation?” Evelyn asked. The odds of this disaster having any relation to the murders seemed nearly nonexistent, but it couldn’t hurt to examine all possibilities.

“Maybe they did it themselves!” the younger one said. “For the insurance.”

That seemed as likely to Margery as unintelligent terrorists.

“You can’t get insurance for something like that. Liability for injuries, yes, but not for simple failure to thrive. The mine will pay for itself eventually, though it will have to produce for years first, probably decades. But if it doesn’t operate, there’s no chance at all.”

Evelyn had an idea. “I’m just going to run upstairs and get something I’d like you to look at, if that’s okay.”

Margery nodded. The young man perked up, as if she might return with doughnuts, or at least some candy.

She left the room, running up the back staircase to the creaking protest of her knees, and collected the children’s drawings on their unique paper. Sure, evidence from a multideath incident had been left with unauthorized personnel. But if you couldn’t trust the people charged with safeguarding the working conditions of the American labor force, then who could you trust? All the same, she raced back before Tony could catch her.

Margery confirmed what Henry Taylor had said, that the thick, brittle paper could be used as gasket material in heavy machinery.

But what kind of machinery?

The young man rubbed a piece between his fingers. “Anything.

Vehicles, lifts, conveyor belts, elevators, assembly lines, factory equipment. Virtually anything.”

“A hospital?”

“Sure. Air conditioners, pump motors.”

She put the drawings away and retrieved, from a storage room

next door, the straps used to bind Grace Markham to her kitchen chair. They smelled considerably less than the ones used on Frances Duarte, and Margery’s partner already looked a little green around the gills. “What about this? What would a strap like this be used for?”

The young man examined one end as his partner continued to photograph the miners’ clothing. “Safety harness. Or a tow strap.

Or tie-downs—those are ratcheting straps used to secure cargo loads. This width could be used to hold gas tanks in a box truck or pipes or boards to a flatbed. What did you find on it?”

“Find?”

“Traces of stuff,” he went on, a slight impatience creeping into his voice—after all, didn’t she work in the Trace Evidence Department?

“If you find bits of wood, it could have been used to tie crates or planks. Flakes of metal could be pipes or even boxcars, but that would need heavier fabric. Plumbing supplies might leave bits of PVC.”

“Oil.”

“Oil, or grease?” Margery asked.

“All I know is it’s petroleum-based. I don’t usually work with in-organics.”

“Then it could be either. Grease is oil with a ton of stuff in it.

Additives are there to make the oil thick and sticky, to stay on whatever part it’s supposed to be lubricating. Sometimes things that are oiled accumulate dust and junk, and these stick to and mix with the oil until it becomes grease.”

“Lots of stuff contaminates oil,” the younger one put in.

“Take boron.” Margery warmed to her subject with the relish of a born lecturer. “If there’s a cooling system involved, then boron usually works its way into the lubricants—but some engine oils use it for antiwear and as a detergent.”

“How can you tell what’s meant to be in the oil and what’s a contaminant, then?”

“You can’t, unless you know what the oil was originally intended for. It’s like concrete. If you have a small sample of concrete with

fiberglass particles in it, the fiberglass might have flaked off parts of the mixing truck when they poured the concrete. But it might have fiberglass purposely added for strength because the concrete is from a load-bearing floor. See what I mean?”

“I do. And it’s a little overwhelming.”

“Unfortunately, yes. If you have no idea where this strap came from, you’re going to have a hard time distinguishing what is supposed to be on it and what isn’t. Your only hope is to find something completely unique.”

“Like what?”

“I wouldn’t have the slightest idea, honey. And I’m ready for the fourth victim’s clothing, if you don’t mind.”

C H A P T E R

25

YOU SEEM PRETTY PERKY FOR A GIRL WHO JUST

cheated death.”

Marissa could smile now that the breathing tube had been removed. She had been evicted from the ICU and freed from all the attendant devices, even the IV. A cop sat in the hall outside her room, but so far only reporters and minor political figures looking for a photo op had tried to approach. The precise outline of the mesh strap on Marissa’s neck had smoothed out, but the skin now bloomed in shades of purple and black. Her body remained de-pleted and weak, but considering what had happened to her, she seemed downright, well, perky. She could even talk. “You know me,”

she rasped out in a whisper Evelyn had to strain to hear. “One tough chick. Just tell me this will all be gone for the wedding photos.”

Evelyn had her doubts, but Marissa did not need to hear them at that particular moment. “You’ll be the most beautiful bride ever.”

“Ha.” Oxycodone eased most of her pain, though swallowing took visible effort. “And who told that reporter that some nonexistent ex-con ex-boyfriend beat me up? At least Mama set her straight before Robert’s mother could read that little tidbit with her coffee.”

“I don’t know. I’ve been wondering myself.”

“I’ll bet it’s that bitch in Toxicology.” Marissa’s eyes closed, the better to plan a wholehearted spate of vengeance.

Evelyn let her rest, planning how to word the questions she needed to ask, whether or not Marissa would thank her for it. There had to be a logic here, even a twisted one, and her best chance of finding that elusive thread lay before her in a bundle of crisp white sheets.

But she couldn’t wait for long. The cops wouldn’t be able to justify keeping a uniformed officer off the streets to guard Marissa for more than another day or two. The killer had not, so far as they knew, tried to approach Marissa again, and Evelyn could not prove he would. Eventually, the protective detail would pull out and her friend would be left vulnerable. Unless Evelyn could find the guy first.

Marissa had given a statement, telling them what she could recall of the attack, but it did not provide any new information. The man had worn a ski mask, approached her from behind, and seemed completely unfamiliar.

“Marissa.”

“Mmm?”

Evelyn explained about the clipping in Marissa’s purse. To her relief, her friend did not seem angry about the violation of her pri-vacy. But neither did she clear up the coincidence. “Robert keeps talking about moving his practice to Butterfly Babies. I cut out the article because it said they’ll be expanding, and if he wants to work there, this would be a good time to pursue it.”

“You don’t know the woman mentioned? Frances Duarte?”

The patient frowned slightly. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“It may all be connected with the attack on you.” She didn’t tell Marissa that the woman had been murdered, just as she didn’t tell her about the killer attacking Marissa a second time. The girl had come back from the dead; she didn’t need to know every horrific detail immediately. “Did you know a woman named Grace Markham? She lived in your building.”

“No.” As before, Marissa drew the vowel out in a note of uncer-tainty.

Evelyn held up Grace’s picture. “This is her.”

“Vaguely, maybe. I could have passed her in the lobby or something.”

“You did a co-op at Butterfly Babies and Children’s, didn’t you?”

The oxycodone-induced peace seeped from Marissa’s face.

“Yes.”

“Did you know a Mark Sargeant?”

“Why?”

“He’s head of the capital campaign committee, and both women were involved with benefit work there. Have you and Robert contributed to the building fund or attended any events for Butterfly Babies?”

“Yeah.” Marissa’s weariness seemed to turn to wariness in a flash; the assertive woman’s personality had not been choked out of her. “A dinner last Christmas, that’s all. Why? What’s Sargeant got to do with anything?”

“I don’t know, maybe nothing.” Evelyn hitched her chair closer and leaned in, smelling the pleasantly clean scent of hospital bedding. “What’s he to you, Marissa? He acts like he has a secret.”

“He doesn’t.”

“I’m not prying. I need to know.”

“He was head of the Path Lab, that’s all. He’s a jerk. I haven’t set eyes on him since I graduated, and I don’t want to either.” She turned her face away.

“I know you’re not feeling well, but, Marissa, that’s because someone tried to kill you, and there’s no reason to think he won’t do it again. Two women are dead already, and I’m out of time and out of information. I have to know everything. What did Sargeant do to you?”