22.

IN THE TRACE EVIDENCE LAB, forensic scientist Junius Eise holds a tungsten filament in the flame of an alcohol lamp.

He prides himself that his favorite tool-making trick has been used by master microscopists for hundreds of years. That fact, among others, makes him a purist, a Renaissance man, a lover of science, history, beauty, and women. Gripping the short strand of stiff, fine wire with forceps, he watches the grayish metal quickly incandesce bright red and imagines that it is impassioned or enraged. He removes the wire from the flame and rolls the tip into sodium nitrite, oxidizing the tungsten and sharpening it. A dip in a petri dish of water, and the sharp-tipped wire cools with a quick hiss.

He screws the wire into a stainless-steel needle holder, knowing that taking time out to make a tool this time was procrastination. Taking time out to make a tool meant he could take himself out of service for a moment, focus on something else, briefly regain a sense of control. He peers into the binocular lenses of his microscope. Chaos and conundrums are right where he left them, only magnified fifty times.

“I don’t understand this,” he says to no one in particular.

Using his new tungsten tool, he manipulates paint and glass particles recovered from the body of a man who was crushed to death by his tractor a few hours ago. One would have to be brain damaged not to know that the chief medical examiner worries that the man’s family is going to sue somebody, otherwise trace evidence would not be relevant in an accidental death, a careless one at that. The problem is, if you look, you might find something, and what Eise has found doesn’t make sense. At times like this he remembers he is sixty-three, could have retired two years ago, and has repeatedly refused promotion to Trace Evidence Section Chief because there is no place he would rather be than inside a microscope. His idea of fulfillment is disconnected from wrestling with budgets and personnel problems, and his relationship with the chief medical examiner is the worst it has ever been.

In the polarized light of the microscope, he uses his new tungsten tool to manipulate paint and metal particles on a dry glass slide. They are mixed with other debris, some sort of dust that is gray-brown and strange, unlike anything he has seen before with one very significant exception. He saw this same sort of trace evidence two weeks ago in a completely unrelated case, and he assumes that the sudden, mysterious death of a fourteen-year-old girl is unrelated to the death of a tractor driver.

Eise scarcely blinks, his upper body tense. The chips of paint, about the size of dandruff, are red, white, and blue. They aren’t automotive, not from a tractor, that’s for sure, not that he would expect them to be automotive in the accidental death of a tractor driver named Theodore Whitby. The paint chips and the strange gray-brown dust were adhering to a gash on his face. Similar if not identical paint chips and a similar if not identical strange gray-brown dust were found on the inside of the fourteen-year-old girl’s mouth, mainly on her tongue. The dust bothers Eise the most. It is a very odd dust. He has never seen dust like this dust. Its shape is irregular and crusty, like dried mud, but it isn’t mud. This dust has fissures and blisters and smooth areas and thin transparent edges like the surface of a parched planet. Some particles have holes in them.

“What the hell is this?” he says. “I don’t know what this is. How can this same weird stuff be in two cases? They can’t be related. I don’t know what’s happened here.”

He reaches for a pair of needle-tip tweezers and carefully removes several cotton fibers from the particles on the slide. Light passes through lenses and a congregation of magnified fibers look like snippets of bent white thread.

“You know how much I hate cotton swabs?” he asks the virtually empty laboratory. “You know what a pain in the ass cotton swabs are?” he asks the large angular area of black countertops, chemical hoods, work stations, and dozens of microscopes and all of the glass, metal, and chemical accoutrements that they demand.

Most of the lab’s workers aren’t at their work stations but are in other labs on this floor, preoccupied with atomic absorption, gas chromatography and mass spectroscopy, x-ray diffraction, the Fourier Transform Infrared Spectrophotometer, the scanning electron microscope or SEM/Energy Dispersive X-ray Spectrometer, and other instruments. In a world of endless backlogs and little money, scientists grab what they can, jumping onto instruments as if they are horses and riding the life out of them.

“Everybody knows how much you hate cotton swabs,” remarks Kit Thompson, Eise’s nearest neighbor at the moment.

“I could make a giant quilt out of all the cotton fibers I’ve collected in my short life,” he says.

“I wish you would. I’ve been waiting to see one of your giant quilts,” she replies.

Eise grips another fiber. They’re not easy to catch. When he moves the tweezers or tungsten needle, just the slightest fan of air moves the fiber. He readjusts the focus and bumps down the magnification to 40X, sharpening his depth of focus. He barely breathes as he stares into the bright circle of light, trying to find the clues it holds. What law of physics dictates that when a disturbance of air dislodges a fiber, it moves away from you as if it is alive and on the lam? Why doesn’t the fiber drift closer to captivity?

He backs off the objective lens several millimeters, and the tips of his needle-sharp tweezers hugely invade the field of view. The circle of light reminds him of a brightly lit circus ring, even after all he’s been through. For an instant he sees trick elephants and clowns in a light so bright it hurts the eyes. He remembers sitting in wooden bleachers and watching big pink puffs of cotton candy float by. He gently grabs another cotton fiber and air-lifts it off the slide. He unceremoniously shakes it loose inside a small transparent plastic bag filled with other spidery cotton debris that most certainly is Q-tip-type contaminants and of no evidentiary value.

Dr. Marcus is the worst litterbug of all. What the hell is wrong with that man? Eise has sent him numerous memos insisting that his staff tape-lift trace evidence whenever possible, and please, please, don’t use cotton-tipped swabs because they have zillions of fibers that are lighter than angel kisses and get all tangled up with the evidence.

Like white Angora cat hair on black velvet pants, he wrote Dr. Marcus several months back. Like picking pepper out of your mashed potatoes. Like spooning the creamer back out of your coffee. And other lame analogies and exaggerations.

“Last week I sent him two rolls of low-tack tape,” Eise is saying. “And another package of Post-its, reminding him that low-tack adhesives are perfect for pulling hairs and fibers off things because they don’t break or distort them or shed cotton fibers all over the ranch. Or, not to mention, interfere with x-ray diffraction and other results. So we’re not just being finicky when we sit here picking them out of a sample all the livelong day.”

Kit frowns at him as she unscrews the cap from a bottle of Permount. “Picking pepper out of mashed potatoes? You sent Post-Its to Dr. Marcus?”

When Eise gets impassioned, he says exactly what he thinks. He isn’t always aware, and probably doesn’t really care, that what is inside his head is also escaping from his lips and audible to all. “My point,” he says, “is when Marcus or whoever checked the inside of that little girl’s mouth, he swabbed it thoroughly with those cotton-tip swabs. Now, he didn’t need to do that with the tongue. He cut the tongue out, now didn’t he? Had it lying right there on the cutting board and could plainly see there’s some sort of residue on it. He could have used a tape lift, but he kept on with the Q-tips, and all I do these days is pick out cotton fibers.”

Once a person, particularly a child, has been reduced to a tongue on a cutting board, he becomes nameless. That’s the way it goes, without exception. You don’t say, we worked our hands into Gilly Paulsson’s throat and reflected back tissue with a scalpel and finally removed the organs of Gilly’s throat and Gilly’s tongue, pulled them right out of that little girl’s mouth, or we stuck a needle in little Timmy’s left eye and drew vitreous fluid for toxicological testing, or we sawed off the top of Mrs. Jones’s skull, removed her brain and discovered a ruptured berry aneurysm, or it took two doctors to sever the mastoid muscles in Mr. Ford’s jaws because he was fully rigorous, very muscular, and we couldn’t pry open his mouth.

This is one of those moments of awareness that passes over Eise’s thoughts like the shadow of the Dark Bird. That’s what he calls it. If he looks up, nothing is there, just an awareness. He won’t go any further with truths of this sort because when people’s lives become pieces and parts and eventually end up on his slides, it’s best not to look too hard for the Dark Bird. The bird’s shadow is awful enough.

“I thought Dr. Marcus was too busy and too important to do autopsies,” Kit says. “In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve even laid eyes on him since he was hired.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s in charge and makes the policies. He’s the one who authorizes all those orders for Q-tips or their generic and cheap equivalent. As far as I’m concerned, everything’s his fault.”

“Well, I don’t think he did the autopsy on the girl. Not on the tractor driver who got killed at the old building either,” Kit replies. “No way he would do either one. He’d rather be in charge and boss everybody around.”

“How you doing for ‘Eise Picks’?” Eise asks her, his slender hand agile and steady with the tungsten needle.

He’s been known to go through obsessive-compulsive spells of handcrafting his tungsten needles, which somewhat magically appear on the desks of his colleagues.

“I can always use another Eise Pick,” Kit dubiously replies, as if she really doesn’t want one, but in his fantasies, she is reticent because she doesn’t want to inconvenience him. “You know what? I’m not going to permanently mount this hair.” She screws the cap back on the bottle of Permount.

“How many you got from the sick girl?”

“Three,” Kit replies. “It’ll be just my luck DNA will decide to do something with the hairs, although they didn’t seem interested last week. So I’m not going to permanently mount this one or the others. Everybody’s acting weird these days. Jessie was in a scraping room when I got here. They’ve got all the linens in there. Apparently DNA’s looking for something they must not have found the first time, and Jessie about bit my head off and all I did was ask what was going on. Something strange is going on. They already had those linens in the scraping room more than a week ago, as you and I both know. Where do you think I got these hairs from? Strange. Maybe it’s the holidays. I haven’t even thought about Christmas shopping.”

She dips needle-tipped forceps into a small transparent plastic evidence bag and gently lifts out another hair. It looks five or six inches long and black and curly from where Eise sits, and he watches Kit drape it over a slide and add a drop of xylene and a cover slip, mounting a weightless, barely visible piece of evidence that was recovered from the bed linens of the same dead girl who had paint chips and strange brown-gray particles of dust in her mouth.

“Well, Dr. Marcus certainly isn’t Dr. Scarpetta,” Kit then says.

“Only took you half a decade to realize they aren’t one and the same? Let me see. You thought Dr. Scarpetta had a complete makeover and turned into that squirrelly little old maid Chief Bozo down there in the corner office, and now you’ve had an aha moment and realize they’re two totally different people. And you figured it out without DNA, God bless you, girl. Why, you’re so smart you should star in your own TV show.”

“You’re a crazy man,” Kit says, laughing so hard she leans back from the microscope, worried her evidence will blow away on gusts of her breathy guffaws.

“Too many years of sniffing xylene, girl. I got cancer of the personality.”

“Oh God,” she says, taking a deep breath. “My point is, you wouldn’t be picking cotton fibers off your slides if Dr. Scarpetta had done the case, any of the cases. She’s here, you know. She was brought in because of the sick girl, the Paulsson girl. That’s the buzz.”

“You’re fooling me.” Eise can’t believe it.

“If you didn’t always leave before everybody else and weren’t so antisocial, maybe you would be in on a few secrets,” she says.

“Ho Ho Ho and a bottle of rum, girl.” While it is true that Eise is not one to linger in the lab beyond five P.M., he is also the first scientist to arrive in the morning, rarely later than 6:15. “I would think Dr. Big Shot would be the last person called in for any reason,” he says.

“Dr. Big Shot? Where’d that come from?”

“Peanut Gallery.”

“You must not know her. People who do don’t call her that.” Kit places the slide on the microscope’s stage. “Me? I’d call her in a heartbeat. And I wouldn’t wait two weeks or even two minutes. This hair’s dyed black as pitch, just like the other two. Shoot. Forget my doing anything with it. Can’t see the pigment granules and might have some surface anti-frizz-type product on it, too. Bet they’re going to decide on mitochondrial. Suddenly, DNA’s going to send off my three precious hairs to the Almighty Bode Lab. You wait. Strange, strange. Maybe Dr. Scarpetta’s figured out that poor little girl was murdered. Maybe that’s what’s going on.”

“Don’t mount the hairs,” Eise says, and in the old days, DNA was just forensic science. Now DNA is the silver bullet, the platinum record, the superstar, and gets all the money and all the glory. Eise never offers his “Eise Picks” to anyone in DNA.

“Don’t worry, I’m not mounting anything,” Kit says, peering into her microscope. “No line of demarcation, now that’s interesting. A little weird for a dyed hair. Means it didn’t grow out any after it was dyed. Not even a micron.”

She moves the slide around under the objective lens as Eise looks on, somewhat interested. “No root? Fall out or been pulled, broken, buckled, damaged by a curling iron, singed, tapered, or split distal tip? Or cut, squared, or angled? Come on girl, wake me up,” he says.

“Definitely clean as a whistle, no root. Distal tip is cut at an angle. All three hairs are dyed black, no root, and that’s weird. Both ends are cut in all three of them. Not just one hair but all three of them. Not pulled, broken, or pulled out by the root. The hairs didn’t just fall out. They were cut. Now tell me why hair would be cut on both ends?”

“Maybe the person just came from the hairdresser and maybe some of the stray cut hair was on this person’s clothing or still in his hair or had been on the rug or wherever for a while.”

Kit is frowning. “If Dr. Scarpetta’s in the building, I’d like to see her. Just say hi. I hated when she left. In my opinion, it was the second time this damn city lost the War. That damn fool Dr. Marcus. You know what? I’m not feeling too good. I woke up with a headache and my joints hurt.”

“So maybe she’s coming back to Richmond,” Eise supposes. “Maybe that’s really why she’s here. At least when she used to send us samples, she never mislabeled them and we knew exactly where they came from. She didn’t mind discussing cases, would come up here herself instead of treating us like robots at General Motors because we’re not great and a mighty doctor-lawyer-Indian Chief. She didn’t swab the hell out of everything if she could lift it with tape, Post-its, whatever we recommended. I guess you’re right. Peanut Gallery’s dead wrong.”

“What the hell’s a peanut gallery?”

“Don’t know, really.”

“Obscured cortical texture, totally,” Kit says, peering at a magnified dyed black hair that looks as big as a dark winter tree in the circle of light. “Like someone dipped this hair in a pot of black ink. No line of demarcation, no sir, so either recently dyed or was cut off below the grown-out undyed roots.”

She is making notes as she moves the slide around and adjusts the focus and magnification, doing her best to make a dyed hair speak.

It won’t say much. The distinctive characteristics of the pigment in the cuticle have been obscured by dye, like an over-inked fingerprint that blots out ridge detail. Dyed, bleached, and gray hair are pretty worthless in microscopic comparison, and half the human population has dyed, bleached, gray, or permed hair. But these days in court, jurors expect a hair to announce who, what, when, where, why, and how.

Eise hates what the entertainment industry has done to his profession. People he meets say they want to be him, what an exciting profession he has, and it isn’t true, it just isn’t. He doesn’t go to crime scenes or wear a gun. He never has. He doesn’t get a special phone call and put on a special uniform or jumpsuit and rush out in a special all-terrain crime scene vehicle to look for fibers or fingerprints or DNA or Martians. Cops and crime scene technicians do that. Medical examiners and death investigators do that. In the old days when life was simpler and the public left forensic people alone, homicide detectives like Pete Marino drove their beat-up junkers to the scene, gathered the evidence themselves, and not only knew what to collect but what to leave.

Don’t vacuum the whole goddamn parking lot. Don’t stuff the poor woman’s entire bedroom inside fifty-gallon plastic bags and bring all that shit in here. It’s like someone panning for gold and bringing home the entire stream bed instead of carefully sifting through it first. A lot of the nonsense that goes on these days is laziness. But there are other problems, more insidious ones, and Eise keeps thinking that maybe he ought to retire. He has no time for research or just plain fun and is nagged by paperwork that must be perfect, just as his analysis must be perfect. He suffers from eyestrain and insomnia. Rarely is he thanked or given credit when a case is solved and the guilty person gets what he deserves. What kind of world do we live in? It has gotten worse. Yes it has.

“If you do run into Dr. Scarpetta,” Eise remarks, “ask her about Marino. He and I used to pal around when he came down here, used to put away a few beers at the FOP lounge.”

“He’s here,” Kit says. “He came with her. You know, I’m feeling a little weird, that tickle in my throat, and I’m aching. Hope I’m not getting the damn flu.”

“He’s here? Holy cow. I’m gonna call that boy right away. Well, hallelujah! So he’s working on the Sick Girl too.”

Gilly Paulsson now goes by that name, if she is referred to by a name at all. It’s easier not to use a real name, assuming one can remember it. Victims become where they were found or what was done to them. The Suitcase Lady. The Sewer Lady. The Landfill Baby. The Rat Man. The Duct Tape Man. As for the real birth names of these dead people, most of the time Eise hasn’t a clue. He prefers not to have a clue.

“If Scarpetta has any opinions about why Sick Girl has red, white, and blue paint and some other weirdo dust in her mouth, I’m listening,” he says. “Apparently metal painted red, white, and blue. There’s unpainted metal, too, bits of shiny metal. And something else. I don’t know what the something else is.” He manipulates the trace evidence on the slide, obsessively moving it around. “I’ll run SEM/EDX next, see what kind of metal. Anything red, white, and blue at Sick Girl’s house? Guess I’ll be tracking down that boy Marino and buy him a few cool ones. Lord, I could use a few myself.”

“Don’t talk about cool ones right now,” Kit says. “I’m feeling kind of sick. I know we can’t catch things from swabs and tape lifts and all the rest. But sometimes I wonder when they send up all that crap from the morgue.”

“Nope. All those little bacteria are as dead as doornails when they get to us,” Eise says, looking up at her. “You look at ‘em close enough, they all got on teeny-weeny toe tags. You look pale, girl.” He hates to encourage her sudden bout of illness. It’s lonely up here when Kit isn’t around, but she doesn’t feel good. It’s obvious. It’s not right of him to pretend otherwise. “Why don’t you take a break, girl? Did you get a flu shot? They ran out by the time I got around to it.”

“Me too. Couldn’t get one anywhere,” she says, getting up from her chair. “I think I’ll go make some hot tea.”

[“_Toc93039639”]