Lethal Measures

by Leonard Goldberg

  Paul reached over and gently rubbed the back of her neck.

  “You must promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I promise.”

  “I don’t think I could stand it if I lost you,” Paul said softly.

  “I plan to be around for a while,” Joanna said and hugged him. But she was still thinking about the device that had caused the aTF. agents to

  scatter and wondering how close she might have been to it. Monday, March 15, 2=10 p.m.

  Joanna and Lori McKay were at the rear of the forensics laboratory, standing in front of a giant map of the blast scene. A solid red circle indicated the explosion center. It was surrounded by twenty-eight numbered squares. Each square represented a body part.

  Lori carefully studied the distance between the explosion center and the square most distant from it. Forty feet. The blast had torn off a man’s arm and blown a piece of it forty feet away. She wondered if the man had felt anything at the instant he was being atomized.

  “Well, so far we can say there were at least two victims, since we found two different shoes that probably had two different feet in them. But I’d guess there were three, maybe four blast victims in that house.”

  “Based on what?” Joanna asked.

  “A very preliminary scan of the body parts and where each was found.”

  Joanna nodded, agreeing with Lori’s assessment. Her gaze went back to the explosion center. She envisioned the victims gathered around the kitchen table, where the bomb lay. Then the sudden detonation that blew everyone to smithereens. Now Joanna envisioned body parts flying through the air before they landed in a distribution pattern that could be predicted. It was all based on something called blast force, which Joanna had spent the morning reading about.

  From a forensic viewpoint, all bombs explode upward and outward, sending a giant, powerful wave of pressure. If the victims were huddled around the bomb, as Joanna and Lori assumed, the direction the blast force carried an individual’s body parts would have depended on

  where he was standing at the time of detonation. Joanna stepped away from the map.

  “My guess is that there were four victims in that house. Now we have to prove it.”

  “DNA typing of the tissue parts would help here,” Lori suggested.

  “It would tell us beyond any doubt what part belonged to whom.”

  “It sure would,” Joanna agreed.

  “But it’s going to take weeks to get those results back. In the meantime, it would be a good idea to have every blood specimen typed for all twenty-three antigens. That will serve as a double check in case there are any gray areas with the DNA typing.”

  Lori reached for a legal pad and pencil and began scribbling notes.

  “How do you want to examine the individual pieces? Shall you and I study them together?”

  “No,” Joanna said at once.

  “We’ll study them apart. You’ll be in one room, I in another. Write down everything you uncover, even the smallest, most seemingly insignificant finding. If you have to guess, guess. If you have to assume, assume. But make the most of everything you see. Then we’ll compare notes.”

  Lori smiled thinly.

  “I have the feeling you’re going to see a lot more than I do.”

  “You’re probably right,” Joanna said.

  “But you just might see something I missed. And that something could turn out to be something very important.”

  That’ll be the day, Lori thought, wondering if she’d ever measure up to Joanna Blalock. Joanna was so quick and sharp, and she had the ability to make so much from so little. She could detect the smallest clue that somehow always turned out to be crucial. And at crime scenes Joanna’s talents really sparkled. She seemed to have a sixth sense for reconstructing events. That was why they called her in on the toughest cases. Lori sighed, wishing she had half of Joanna’s expertise and reputation.

  “Is there anything in particular we should concentrate on?”

  “We’re searching for distinguishing features,” Joanna told her.

  “Look for pieces of clothing or belts or buckles that the terrorists may have been wearing. Check the skin for color, scars and tattoos. Search for pieces of metal that could have been rings or pieces of a watch.”

  Lori looked up from her legal pad.

  “What would the metal tell us?”

  “If it’s part of a ring, maybe it has something inscribed on it,” Joanna said.

  “Remember James Robert Butler?” Lori nodded, recalling the skeletal remains found in a washed-away grave in the Santa Monica Mountains. The skeleton had had a wedding band on its ring finger with the letters JR. inscribed on the inner surface. It was a major clue in helping them uncover the man’s identity.

  “Something could be on the back of a watch, too, right?”

  “You never know.”

  Lori hurriedly jotted down another note. She tapped her pencil against the table, thinking.

  “Is there anything special we should get set up for?”

  “Let’s see how the preliminary studies go,” Joanna told her.

  “We’ll do the gross examination of the tissues and then study the microscopic slides. After that, we’ll have a better idea of what direction to take.”

  “What in the world would microscopic slides of the tissue tell us that we don’t already know?” Lori asked.

  “I mean, it’s just going to show blast injury to a given tissue.”

  “And a lot more if we’re lucky.”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  “Let’s say one of the tissue specimens is a piece of liver,” Joanna said, thinking aloud.

  “And on microscopic examination we discovered it was infested with the liver fluke Schistosoma haematobium. What would you make of that?”

  Lori hesitated.

  “Well, I know that fluke is found throughout Africa. But the skin on our specimens doesn’t appear to be Negroid.”

  “Schistosoma haematobium also occurs in North African countries, like Egypt and Algeria,” Joanna explained.

  “And it’s endemic in Iraq, Iran, Syria and Yemen.”

  “You think we’re dealing with Middle Eastern terrorists?”

  Joanna shrugged.

  “They’re as good candidates as anyone. Maybe even better.”

  The women walked over to a large blackboard that listed the two forensic projects currently in progress. Number one was the West Hollywood bomb explosion. Number two was the dismembered hand discovered in a secluded canyon in northern Los Angeles County. Under the latter were the subsections (A) MRI and (B) Boxing Commission.

  “Let’s spend a little time on the hand,” Joanna said, checking her

  watch. Lori groaned under her breath.

  “I feel like I’m in the Laboratory of Bits and Pieces.”

  “You are.”

  Joanna studied the blackboard at length, then picked up a piece of chalk and added another subsection: (C) DNA typing.

  “How will the DNA typing on the hand help us?” Lori asked.

  “In California, it’s mandatory that boxers have their blood tested for HIV and their urine for drugs before a bout. Maybe those specimens are still frozen away somewhere. And if they are, we can compare the DNA of the specimens with that of the hand.”

  “But it’s serum, not whole blood, that’s frozen,” Lori argued.

  “You can’t do DNA typing on serum or urine.”

  “You can if there are some white blood cells left in the specimens.”

  Lori grumbled to herself, thinking she should have thought of that. In urine and serum samples white blood cells were occasionally present; all you had to do was spin the specimen down to obtain them.

  Joanna continued to concentrate on the blackboard, sensing she’d forgotten something. Something about the calluses on the hand. They were already being analyzed to determine what substances were ground into them. If cement or concrete was present, it would suggest the victim worke
d at a construction site.

  If the calluses were the result of landscaping, they might contain compost or some other fertilizer. But it wasn’t the chemical analysis of the calluses she was overlooking. What the hell was it? It was right on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t come up with it. She reached for the chalk and wrote in another subsection: (D) with a big question mark after it.

  Lori’s gaze went from the blackboard to the charm bracelet on Joanna’s wrist.

  “That’s a beautiful bracelet,” she commented.

  “It was a gift,” Joanna said as a picture of Paul du Maurier flashed into her mind. His Air Canada jet was somewhere over the Midwest by now, no more than a few hours from Montreal. She peeked down at the bracelet. A trinket, Paul had called it. It was eighteen-carat gold with small diamonds around the edges.

  Joanna brought her attention back to the blackboard.

  “Did the MRI of the hand show anything?”

  “Yeah, but nobody knows what to make of it.” Lori walked over to a stack of X rays and began putting them up on a viewbox.

  “There is something in the soft tissue that shouldn’t be there.”

  Joanna carefully studied the films. In the soft tissue of the palm were splinter like objects.

  “Are they metallic?”

  Lori shrugged.

  “The radiologists aren’t sure, but they don’t think so. The fragments weren’t radio-opaque on routine X ray.”

  Joanna saw a triangular-shaped fragment near the base of the thumb. It was the largest piece, over four millimeters in width. She drew a circle around it with a red crayon.

  “I’d like you to dissect out this fragment and have it analyzed.

  Let’s find out what it is.”

  Lori took out a small notepad and jotted down the instructions.

  “By the way, I’m having trouble with the Boxing Commission. They claim the records are confidential.”

  “What kind of nonsense is that?” Joanna asked, irritated.

  “They say their records contain medical reports and information on drug use and things of that sort. We apparently need some kind of special permission to open those files.”

  “Did you tell them this was a criminal investigation?”

  “I’m not certain I used those exact words.”

  “Well, call them back and use those exact words, and tell them you represent the coroner’s office. If they still refuse to cooperate, tell them we’ll obtain a court order and confiscate all of their files. And if necessary, we’ll have the court issue a subpoena for the entire Boxing Commission so they can help us sort through the records.”

  “Can we really do that?”

  “In a New York minute.”

  There was a knock at the door. The women turned and watched Jake Sinclair enter the laboratory. He was carrying two plastic containers under his arms.

  “More body parts,” Jake said and placed the containers on a countertop.

  Joanna asked, “What are they?”

  “Number twenty-nine is a piece of skull with hair on one side and brain stuck on the other.”

  “What color is the hair?” Joanna asked.

  “Black,” Jake reported.

  “Kinky?”

  Jake shook his head.

  “Straight with medium thickness. It could be American or Mediterranean.”

  “Or Mexican,” Joanna suggested.

  “What did his scalp look like?”

  “Dark tan.” “Any thinning?”

  “Nope. It was full. No graying.”

  “Good luster?”

  “Oh, yeah. He was young,” Jake said.

  “And his hair smelled kind of sweet.”

  Joanna smiled to herself. Jake had an incredible sense of smell. He was able to detect and discern odors that most people didn’t even notice.

  “We’ll analyze it and check it against samples from Mexican and Middle Eastern barbershops.”

  Lori listened, mouth agape, Joanna and Jake Sinclair had gotten so much from so little. They seemed to feed off each other, as if each knew what the other was thinking. So far they had deduced that one of the terrorists was young, probably under thirty-five, dark-complected and most likely of Latin or Mediterranean descent. And analysis of the hair tonic might narrow down the man’s nationality even more.

  “What’s in the second container?” Joanna asked.

  “We’re not sure,” Jake said, removing the lid.

  “It looks like a piece of plastic foot.”

  “Like an insert?”

  “No. It’s more than that.”

  Joanna put on a pair of latex gloves and lifted the object from the container.

  It was cream colored and appeared to be the heel and plantar surface of a foot.

  The material was either plastic or ceramic.

  “Strange,” Joanna said, perplexed.

  “Maybe it’s part of a mannequin.”

  “What the hell would they be doing with a mannequin?”

  Joanna shrugged, then examined both sides of the heel with a magnifying glass.

  “There’s some blood and tissue stuck to the inner surface. And that indicates somebody was wearing it.”

  “Maybe it’s some kind of insert,” Jake guessed.

  Joanna studied the width and texture of the heel.

  “It’s too thick for that.”

  “Could it be a piece of a plastic shoe?” Lori asked.

  “Now that’s a possibility,” Joanna said and gave Lori a big nod.

  “Nice thinking.”

  “How can we check that out?” Lori wondered.

  “Maybe the bio engineers can help us.” Joanna placed the plastic heel back in the container and handed it to Lori.

  “First, let’s examine it carefully for fingerprints and remove the

  blood and tissue for study. Then I’d like you to take it down to the Bioengineering Department and see if they can identify the material and tell us where it came from.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Lori said.

  “Then I’ll see if I can get things sorted out with the Boxing Commission.”

  Jake watched the young pathologist sling a knapsack over her shoulder and bounce out of the laboratory. She had her auburn hair in a ponytail, which made her seem even younger than she was. He thought she looked like a college coed. He turned to Joanna.

  “You got problems with the Boxing Commission?”

  “They’re being a little obstinate.” Joanna told him about the dismembered hand and the findings that made her believe it belonged to a boxer.

  “The size of his metacarpal bones suggests he weighed between a hundred and ten and a hundred and twenty.”

  “He might weigh less than that,” Jake said at once.

  “Why?”

  “Because some boxers have really big hands, much bigger than you’d expect,” he explained.

  “Hell, I once knew a welterweight whose hands were larger than mine.

  He told me they started growing that way when he was a teenager.”

  Joanna thought about mechanisms that might account for boxers having large hands. She knew that bones in males continued to grow until the age of eighteen.

  Maybe the repeated trauma to the hands of boxers in their adolescence stimulated bone growth. She made a mental note to check with the representative of the Boxing Commission about the size of boxers’ hands.

  “So you could be dealing with a featherweight here,” Jake told her.

  “Are you a boxing fan?”

  “A long time ago,” he said and sat down wearily. He lit an unfiltered Greek cigarette, inhaling deeply.

  “I thought you were going to quit.”

  “One of these days.”

  Joanna studied Jake briefly. He was so damn good-looking, with his high cheekbones and gray-blue eyes. And his swept-back brown hair now had more gray in it, and that made him even better looking. But the lines in his face seemed deeper and he looked very tired.

 
“I had an early wake-up call from Dan Hurley,” Jake said.

  “They had some trouble at the bomb site.” “I saw it on television this morning,” Joanna said, nodding.

  “What was all the commotion about?”

  “A pipe in the ground started hissing natural gas. Apparently the pipe was bent shut by the explosion, and it became unplugged with somebody started moving rubble around.”

  “Don’t tell me they forgot to cut off the gas lines.”

  “Oh, they were closed off all right,” Jake said.

  “But there was still a fair amount of gas trapped in a feeder pipe.”

  Joanna shivered.

  “Was it dangerous to the people working at the site?”

  “It could have blown sky high.” Jake remembered the day before, when he was about to light a cigarette at the bomb site and Hurley had stopped him. He wondered if natural gas had been leaking then and what would have happened if he’d lit that cigarette.

  “Have the federal people got any insight into who was responsible for the bomb?”

  Joanna asked.

  “They’ve got nothing,” Jake said.

  “According to their informants, it wasn’t any of the known terrorist or paramilitary groups. They think it was one of those phantom cells that consist of five or six people, none of whom anyone has ever heard of or knows about.”

  “This gets worse by the minute.”

  “Tell me about it!” Jake pushed himself up from his seat and crushed out his cigarette.

  “I’ve got to go.” He turned to leave, then glanced at Joanna. A half smile came across his face.

  “You look happy.”

  “That’s because I am.”

  “It suits you,” Jake said, his voice husky.

  “You look great.”

  “Thanks,” Joanna said, feeling herself blush. She quickly turned back to the blackboard and wondered for the hundredth time if she would ever

  get Jake Sinclair completely out of her system. Wednesday, March 17, 8=40 p.m.

  Artificial light streamed in through stained-glass windows, giving the hospital chapel a reverence that neither Eva nor Rudy felt. They were sitting in the front row, staring straight ahead at the empty pulpit.

  “What are we waiting for?” Rudy asked.

  “For eight forty-five,” Eva said.