“COVID-19 knocked Charleston on its ass. Now this. Could be the death blow for my budget. No pun intended.” Despite the joke, stress was evident in Herrin’s tone.
“I didn’t think capno was contagious.”
“It’s not. But suddenly, we’re the epi-freaking-center of a major outbreak. Look, I have to run. What do you need?”
“I’ll keep it short. I’m in Montreal. The LSJML was able to pull DNA from the woman and child found in the container in Saint-Anicet in 2006.”
“You’re still thinking your Quebec vics are linked to the kids found here?”
“I’m thinking it’s a possibility.”
“Uh-huh.” So skeptical it had both hands on its hips
“During my analysis, I separated out bones to be submitted for DNA testing. I’m wondering if you’ve done that.”
“Sweet Mother of God! The whole friggin’ world has DNA on the brain. The media’s got folks so scared of capno they’re spitting in vials.”
That piqued my curiosity. “There’s a test for it?”
“These yokels think there’s a gene makes some folks immune, others susceptible.”
A voice spoke in the background. The line went thick, probably Herrin covering the phone with a hand.
“Sorry about that.”
“The container cases?” I said, steering the conversation back on track.
“This isn’t my first parlor game, doc. The state lab worked its magic.”
“They got DNA?”
“They did.”
“On both girls?”
“Yep. Surprised you haven’t heard from Vislosky. My office forwarded the report to her last Thursday.”
“Could you please forward it to me? And to a microbiologist named Lizzie Griesser?”
“Sure. Send me her contact info.”
“I will.”
“Probably should have done it earlier. Things are batshit here.”
“Thanks.”
Three beeps told me Herrin had moved on.
I sat a moment, tamping my anger back down to earth. I’d talked to Vislosky on Wednesday. She knew how invested I was in these container cases. She’d gotten DNA info the next day and hadn’t bothered to tell me?
Deep calming breath. Another. Then I entered another number.
“Vislosky.” Familiar hubbub suggested she was in the squad room.
“Tempe here.”
“I do have caller ID.”