Read Online Signature Kill by David Levien - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Levien
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Grand Marnier on the desk.
“What’s that for?” the receptionist asked.
“That’s for you,” Behr said.
“Thanks!” She smiled. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Frank Behr …” he said, and leaned in for some small talk. The receptionist was a long way from a forensic pathologist he had history with, but he had to start somewhere.
Next stop was the Indianapolis–Marion County Forensic Services Agency—otherwise known as the place that did DNA testing. It shared a building down on South Alabama with the jail. He was there to drop the hairbrush, which he produced along with his license and the release form when he got to the buttoned-down-looking young clerk.
“I need you guys to run DNA on these hairs against the Northwestway Park victim. I’ve got clearance from Lieutenant Breslau, IMPD, and the family,” he told the young man.
“All right,” the clerk said, and took the information from Behr, which he attached to the bag that held the hairbrush. “Just so you know, DNA can only be recovered from hairs with the bulb still attached. There might be some here, but it’d be better if you plucked the hairs.”
Thanks, CSI
, Behr almost said. Instead he opted for: “That’s not an option. How long will it take?”
“Things are kind of backed up,” the clerk said. “It’s going to be a couple of weeks at least.”
“Anything you can do to help it through the system would bemuch appreciated,” Behr said. “I know Lieutenant Breslau feels the same way.”
Truth was, he didn’t know how Breslau felt, but it wasn’t the first time a little bullshit had been spread around this particular building, and it wouldn’t be the last.
“We’re on it,” the clerk said to Behr’s departing back.
19
The day has been bright yet cold, the sun promising but failing to warm the air. He sits outside Cinnamon’s house in his car. He’s spent a good part of the afternoon there when he should’ve been at work, but the project has taken him over now. He’s tracked her enough over the past few weeks to know her routine: She takes a walk in the morning and comes back from the White Hen Pantry with a big coffee and a fresh pack of cigarettes. She smokes one along the way home. In the afternoon it’s down to the Prime Time Package store and a walk back with a brown paper bag that looks about the size of a quart bottle of beer. She doesn’t appear to have a car. He can’t be sure if she lives alone or if others are in the house, though he hasn’t seen anyone. He doesn’t know what else she does during the day. He supposes she goes out occasionally. He can’t sit there all day long though. He has to appear at his office at some point. He considers knocking, or going in the back door, but he develops a slightly different idea. He doesn’t know from where it has come, only that it arrives fully blown and seems like it will work. He feels his heart surge with the joy of creation when he thinks of it. Her front door swings open and she emerges, zipping her tight leather jacket, her breath a cloud around her, and it has begun.
She walks up the block and he turns on his ignition and drives past her. He keeps the car at a normal speed, perhaps even slower than the limit. He has time. He drives to Prime Time Package and parks in the lot along the far side of the building. He’s circled the store many times and learned there are no cameras back there. Dusk has usuallyfallen by the time she reaches the store, and today is no exception. The blazing orange orb of the sun drops behind the trees, and within moments the day goes from brilliant to bruised. He parks, but leaves the car unlocked and enters the store.
Cases of beer are stacked all along the entrance, and since the brand doesn’t matter, he doesn’t bother going any deeper into the store. He picks up a case of Stroh’s in cans and puts it down at the register, then gathers two twelve-packs of Labatt Blue in bottles. The clerk, a Pakistani,
“What’s that for?” the receptionist asked.
“That’s for you,” Behr said.
“Thanks!” She smiled. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Frank Behr …” he said, and leaned in for some small talk. The receptionist was a long way from a forensic pathologist he had history with, but he had to start somewhere.
Next stop was the Indianapolis–Marion County Forensic Services Agency—otherwise known as the place that did DNA testing. It shared a building down on South Alabama with the jail. He was there to drop the hairbrush, which he produced along with his license and the release form when he got to the buttoned-down-looking young clerk.
“I need you guys to run DNA on these hairs against the Northwestway Park victim. I’ve got clearance from Lieutenant Breslau, IMPD, and the family,” he told the young man.
“All right,” the clerk said, and took the information from Behr, which he attached to the bag that held the hairbrush. “Just so you know, DNA can only be recovered from hairs with the bulb still attached. There might be some here, but it’d be better if you plucked the hairs.”
Thanks, CSI
, Behr almost said. Instead he opted for: “That’s not an option. How long will it take?”
“Things are kind of backed up,” the clerk said. “It’s going to be a couple of weeks at least.”
“Anything you can do to help it through the system would bemuch appreciated,” Behr said. “I know Lieutenant Breslau feels the same way.”
Truth was, he didn’t know how Breslau felt, but it wasn’t the first time a little bullshit had been spread around this particular building, and it wouldn’t be the last.
“We’re on it,” the clerk said to Behr’s departing back.
19
The day has been bright yet cold, the sun promising but failing to warm the air. He sits outside Cinnamon’s house in his car. He’s spent a good part of the afternoon there when he should’ve been at work, but the project has taken him over now. He’s tracked her enough over the past few weeks to know her routine: She takes a walk in the morning and comes back from the White Hen Pantry with a big coffee and a fresh pack of cigarettes. She smokes one along the way home. In the afternoon it’s down to the Prime Time Package store and a walk back with a brown paper bag that looks about the size of a quart bottle of beer. She doesn’t appear to have a car. He can’t be sure if she lives alone or if others are in the house, though he hasn’t seen anyone. He doesn’t know what else she does during the day. He supposes she goes out occasionally. He can’t sit there all day long though. He has to appear at his office at some point. He considers knocking, or going in the back door, but he develops a slightly different idea. He doesn’t know from where it has come, only that it arrives fully blown and seems like it will work. He feels his heart surge with the joy of creation when he thinks of it. Her front door swings open and she emerges, zipping her tight leather jacket, her breath a cloud around her, and it has begun.
She walks up the block and he turns on his ignition and drives past her. He keeps the car at a normal speed, perhaps even slower than the limit. He has time. He drives to Prime Time Package and parks in the lot along the far side of the building. He’s circled the store many times and learned there are no cameras back there. Dusk has usuallyfallen by the time she reaches the store, and today is no exception. The blazing orange orb of the sun drops behind the trees, and within moments the day goes from brilliant to bruised. He parks, but leaves the car unlocked and enters the store.
Cases of beer are stacked all along the entrance, and since the brand doesn’t matter, he doesn’t bother going any deeper into the store. He picks up a case of Stroh’s in cans and puts it down at the register, then gathers two twelve-packs of Labatt Blue in bottles. The clerk, a Pakistani,
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