detailing the many ways people can die, and all the scientific ways we have of figuring it out. It’s intriguing stuff and I’ve learned a lot, but there’s only so much of it I can take. So the choice of being cooped up in the library or spending time with Hurley is a no-brainer.
“I think I’ll hang here for now,” I tell him. “I have that seminar coming up in a few days. I don’t want to OD.”
“No problem. I’ll call you if anything comes up.”
I’m about to hang up when I remember something. “Oh, wait. I forgot to tell you something we learned from Catherine that might help. She confirmed that Jack ordered a pizza from Pesto Change-o the night before his death.”
“Hmm,” Izzy says. In my mind, I can see his eyebrows drawing together the way they do when he’s puzzling out things. “What time did they eat?”
“We didn’t pin that down, but it shouldn’t be difficult to find out when the pizza was delivered. Catherine said she left Jack’s place around ten that night, after they watched an after-dinner movie. So if we can believe her statement, my guess would be that they ate somewhere around seven or eight.”
“Based on the condition of the food we found in Jack’s stomach, he couldn’t have died much more than an hour after he ate—two at the outside.”
“Are you saying he was lying dead inside that house for twelve hours or more before the fire started?”
“No. If the food had been in his stomach that long, it would have been more fermented. Plus I have the results of the potassium level in his vitreous fluid, and that indicates his time of death was close to the time of the fire.”
“Then how is it he still had food in his stomach from dinner the night before?”
“I don’t think he did. The more likely scenario is that there was pizza left over and he heated it up and ate it not long before he was killed.”
I slap myself on the forehead. “Of course,” I say, feeling stupid. I look over at Hurley, who is watching me curiously and obviously listening in. I quickly replay the conversation in my mind, trying to discern if he can figure out my lapse based on my side of the conversation alone. If he can, I’ll either have to admit to being dumber than a box of rocks, or admit that the idea of leftovers never occurred to me because whenever I order a pizza, I always eat the whole thing.
I thank Izzy for his insight, hang up, and then fill Hurley in on the highlights of our discussion, leaving out the part about how I’m a big fat pig when it comes to pizza.
I then watch over Hurley’s shoulder as he does a computer search for Jack’s nephew, Brian Denver, but I’m less focused on the computer than I am on the fresh, clean smell coming off Hurley’s shirt. A man who not only does laundry but does it well is a very sexy thing. I find myself distracted. My mind keeps conjuring up mini porn flicks featuring me, Hurley, and a washing machine on the spin cycle.
A search of the DMV database offers up the apartment address where we know Brian is no longer living, and the make and model of his car, along with the tag numbers. There is also a picture of him—the one from his driver’s license—showing a young man with longish black hair and a pimply face. A search on CCAP, the Consolidated Court Automation Programs, aka “the state circuit court site,” and NCIC, the National Crime Information Center, turns up the same address and a prior conviction two months ago for cocaine possession. As we’re reading the details of Brian’s drug case, Junior Feller walks in.
“Hey, Hurley,” he says. “Do you still have an ATL out for Allen’s nephew?”
Hurley nods and then says to me, “An ATL is an ‘attempt to locate.’ It’s basically the same as a BOLO.”
I nod my understanding and Junior says, “Well, one of the county guys said he thinks the kid might be hanging with a group of squatters in an old abandoned farmhouse out on County Road P. He offered to meet
“I think I’ll hang here for now,” I tell him. “I have that seminar coming up in a few days. I don’t want to OD.”
“No problem. I’ll call you if anything comes up.”
I’m about to hang up when I remember something. “Oh, wait. I forgot to tell you something we learned from Catherine that might help. She confirmed that Jack ordered a pizza from Pesto Change-o the night before his death.”
“Hmm,” Izzy says. In my mind, I can see his eyebrows drawing together the way they do when he’s puzzling out things. “What time did they eat?”
“We didn’t pin that down, but it shouldn’t be difficult to find out when the pizza was delivered. Catherine said she left Jack’s place around ten that night, after they watched an after-dinner movie. So if we can believe her statement, my guess would be that they ate somewhere around seven or eight.”
“Based on the condition of the food we found in Jack’s stomach, he couldn’t have died much more than an hour after he ate—two at the outside.”
“Are you saying he was lying dead inside that house for twelve hours or more before the fire started?”
“No. If the food had been in his stomach that long, it would have been more fermented. Plus I have the results of the potassium level in his vitreous fluid, and that indicates his time of death was close to the time of the fire.”
“Then how is it he still had food in his stomach from dinner the night before?”
“I don’t think he did. The more likely scenario is that there was pizza left over and he heated it up and ate it not long before he was killed.”
I slap myself on the forehead. “Of course,” I say, feeling stupid. I look over at Hurley, who is watching me curiously and obviously listening in. I quickly replay the conversation in my mind, trying to discern if he can figure out my lapse based on my side of the conversation alone. If he can, I’ll either have to admit to being dumber than a box of rocks, or admit that the idea of leftovers never occurred to me because whenever I order a pizza, I always eat the whole thing.
I thank Izzy for his insight, hang up, and then fill Hurley in on the highlights of our discussion, leaving out the part about how I’m a big fat pig when it comes to pizza.
I then watch over Hurley’s shoulder as he does a computer search for Jack’s nephew, Brian Denver, but I’m less focused on the computer than I am on the fresh, clean smell coming off Hurley’s shirt. A man who not only does laundry but does it well is a very sexy thing. I find myself distracted. My mind keeps conjuring up mini porn flicks featuring me, Hurley, and a washing machine on the spin cycle.
A search of the DMV database offers up the apartment address where we know Brian is no longer living, and the make and model of his car, along with the tag numbers. There is also a picture of him—the one from his driver’s license—showing a young man with longish black hair and a pimply face. A search on CCAP, the Consolidated Court Automation Programs, aka “the state circuit court site,” and NCIC, the National Crime Information Center, turns up the same address and a prior conviction two months ago for cocaine possession. As we’re reading the details of Brian’s drug case, Junior Feller walks in.
“Hey, Hurley,” he says. “Do you still have an ATL out for Allen’s nephew?”
Hurley nods and then says to me, “An ATL is an ‘attempt to locate.’ It’s basically the same as a BOLO.”
I nod my understanding and Junior says, “Well, one of the county guys said he thinks the kid might be hanging with a group of squatters in an old abandoned farmhouse out on County Road P. He offered to meet
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