Page 14 of Sharp Force
“Let’s hope it does the trick,” I reply, keeping up my scan for our furry squatter.
“A nice pungent cheese on a buttery cracker. How can Pinky resist?” Fabian asks, and it’s an unpleasant thought considering where we’re having this conversation.
“Well, I hope our clever little mouse likes garlic and chives. Certainly, he isn’t tricked by peanut butter, birdseed or chocolate, which is surprising,” I reply.
“Some things aren’t from here.” Fabian gives me a knowing look. “Maybe Pinky’s a spirit mouse sent to us for a reason.”
“We’ll take all the help we can get.” I glance at the wall clock, the time slipping by. “I hope tonight will be quiet, but considering the weather report, we can expect cases.”
“Nothing much so far. But that will change soon enough.” Fabian begins spraying my workstation with metal polish, wiping down stainless steel with a towel. “Snow and ice guarantees carwrecks, people falling or dying of exposure and from faulty heaters. Plus, the expected domestic homicides, overdoses, suicides.”
“I’m sorry this is how you’re spending your holiday,” I tell him while feeling guilty about tomorrow’s trip to the UK and France.
It’s been a long time since Benton and I have managed to get away longer than a night or two. We never fail to have ambivalence about taking time off. Both of us are hardwired to be fixers, and there’s always something broken. Fabian’s no better. He grew up in the business, his father a legendary Louisiana coroner.
“My favorite time to be here,” Fabian is saying. “It’s when all the worst things happen, explaining why my dad was hardly ever home on Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s Day, you name it. That’s when people killed themselves and each other. As soon as I was old enough, I’d go with him to the scenes.”
He walks over to a countertop, picking up a large manila evidence envelope and a ballpoint pen.
“Which is one of the reasons you’re such a good death investigator.” I take the envelope from him, scrawling my initials under his.
“I know it sounds sick, but there was nothing I liked better than shadowing my dad. The nastier the case the better,” Fabian adds. “Although I’ll never see Baton Rouge the same way other people do. The landmarks on my map are places where people died, often horribly.”
“We don’t see anything the same way other people do, Fabian.”
I’m looking at Rowdy O’Leary’s clothing and other belongings arranged on tables.
“Once you know it, you can’t unknow it. And I don’t want to go through the world with blinders on,” Fabian says. “You and I both know that’s contrary to survival.”
“We’ll leave these things in here for now to continue air-drying,” I decide. “Maybe tomorrow hang them in the evidence room.”
“Then what?” He collects my bag of dirty laundry from the countertop.
“Then we hold on to them until I’m sure we have no further need,” I explain.
“Anything that might make us think someone killed him? Like a bullet or two in him?” Fabian asks.
“No bullets.”
“The state police keep bugging me about the case. And Maggie Cutbush has texted several times wanting to know about the autopsy.”
“Ignore her, please.” I’m looking at my phone.
“She’s itching for it to be natural causes. Or maybe an accidental drowning,” Fabian says.
“This isn’tLet’s Make a Deal.” I send Reba O’Leary a text, letting her know I’m headed her way.
“I sprayed everything again a little while ago, the money still damp, but nothing smells bad.” Fabian indicates the evidence envelope tucked under my arm. “The paperwork is inside, so you can receipt the stuff to the family, everything accounted for and by the book.”
“Thank you for that and for being on call. I know it’s a lot to ask even if you supposedly enjoy it,” I say to him. “Wish Faye a happy holiday for me.”
“I’m right here!” She emerges from the anteroom at the far end of the autopsy suite. “I’ve been placing traps while looking for Pinky.”
The firearms examiner is funky in her tie-dye scrubs, goth jewelry, body piercings and many tattoos. When here after hours, shewears a Beretta pistol in a belly band holster. Fabian’s .40 caliber Glock is on his hip for all to see.
“Do we know anything further about the two spent cartridge cases in Rowdy O’Leary’s revolver?” I ask Faye. “The big question is when did he fire his gun last?”
“I’m not sure we’ll ever know that, Doctor Scarpetta,” she says.
