Needled to Death

by Annelise Ryan

  “His mother can request the autopsy report, can she not?”

  Bob gives me a grudging shrug. “Yes, she can.”

  “Then I’ll have her ask for one immediately. She’ll share the information with me, so you don’t have to tell me now. But if you don’t, I’ll just come back and bug you some more.”

  Bob’s lips twitch again. “You are a very persistent woman,” he says.

  “That’s just one of my many redeeming qualities,” I say, and before Bob can respond, I bombard him with questions. “I’m curious to know if you were able to lift fingerprints from the syringe you found in Toby’s arm. I’d also like to know if you were able to analyze the heroin, to trace its origin, and with that, the seller. Also, were there any signs of a struggle? Did you find anyone who witnessed Toby’s final moments, or who might’ve been with him prior to those final moments?”

  Bob leans back in his chair, fingers laced together, hands behind his head. He narrows his eyes at me, and it’s all I can do not to look away. But I’m determined to hold my ground with him.

  After a good thirty seconds or more of the stare-down, he says, “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

  I don’t give him an answer. I just smile.

  “Fine,” he says with a sigh of resignation. He brings his arms down, resting them on the table, fingers still laced together. “I’ll take another look at things.”

  “There’s one more thing,” I say, and Bob rolls his eyes at this. “Actually, two more things,” I add with a grin. “I have the boy’s laptop. Did you guys look at it at all?”

  “No,” Bob says, looking abashed. “There didn’t seem to be any need to do that. Why? Did you find something on it?”

  “It’s password protected. His mother and I made a few attempts, but we weren’t successful. And after several failed attempts, the computer prompts us for a fingerprint identification. I was wondering if it would be possible to create Toby’s fingerprints from what you have on file?”

  Bob arches one brow, looking intrigued. “That’s an interesting idea,” he says. “Give me the laptop and I’ll see what I can do.”

  I shake my head and smile at him. “No way,” I say. “The only way I’m handing over his laptop is if you let me be in on the examination of it and the investigation of this case.”

  “I can’t do that,” Richmond says with mild exasperation.

  “Too bad, so sad,” I say in a singsong voice.

  “But I can arrest you for obstruction or some such,” he grumbles.

  “Go ahead,” I say with a shrug.

  During my childhood years I spent enough time getting hauled into police stations and threatened with juvie that I’m not fazed by his threat. I reach over and retrieve the drawing, sliding it back inside my briefcase. Then I stand, preparing to leave the room, wondering if Bob will make good on his threat.

  “Hold on,” he says. “You said you had two things. The laptop is one; what’s the other?”

  It’s the perfect opening. It’s now or never, I tell myself. And I take the plunge.

  “It has nothing to do with the case. I was wondering if you would have dinner with me sometime?” My heart is pounding so hard I fear it will beat its way out of my chest.

  Judging from the stunned look on Bob’s face, this isn’t what he was expecting. “I . . . um . . . it isn’t . . .” He is blushing to the roots of his hair, and his stammering attempts at an answer jangle my nerves.

  “For Pete’s sake,” I say, mildly irritated and a lot nervous.

  “Here’s the deal. I’m a single woman who’s approaching the downhill slide to forty, and I’ve never been married. I don’t date much, and I’ve learned to be happy on my own. But I find you attractive. There’s something about you that intrigues me, and I’d like to explore it some more. Maybe it will go somewhere, maybe it won’t. But life is too short not to try. All I’m asking for is a dinner. I’ll treat, so worst-case scenario you get a free meal out of the deal.”

  Bob cocks his head to one side, arches his brows, and smiles. “I haven’t dated much, either,” he says. “And I admit, I find your straightforward approach to this refreshing. I’m not very good at the games people play.”

  “I’m very good at them,” I say with a wink and a smile. “But I promise not to play any games with you. What do you say? Can we go somewhere for dinner?”

  “Sure.”

  “Tonight?” I wouldn’t blame Bob if he’s surprised by my brazenness, because I’m rather stunned myself.

  “I can do that,” Bob says without hesitation.

  “Do you have a favorite restaurant here in town?”

  “I do. Pesto Change-o.”

  “Excellent choice. Should we meet there, or do you want me to pick you up?”

  “We can meet there. I’m on call tonight, so I need to have my own wheels.”

  “Fair enough. How does six o’clock sound?”

  “I will see you then.”

  I give him a nod and a smile, and then I leave the room. I walk down the hall and out to the lobby area with my shoulders straight and my head held high. With a little finger wave to Heidi, I exit the building, walk over to where my car is parked, and step onto the grassy area in front of it. Then I bend over and promptly puke up my lunch.

  Chapter Nine

  I pray there aren’t any cameras focused on the parking lot, even though I know the odds of that being the case are woefully small. I can only hope that Detective Richmond won’t ever view the footage and see me barfing in front of my car. After wiping my mouth with a tissue I find in my jacket pocket, I climb into my car and head for home, detouring long enough to hit the drive-through at the local Mickey D’s to get a soda so I can wash the taste of barf from my mouth.

  It’s only two thirty in the afternoon, so I have plenty of time to prepare for my dinner date. As I’m queueing my way through the drive-through line, I reach up to adjust my rearview mirror and leave a smudge on the glass. This gives me a brainstorm of an idea.

  As soon as I’m home, I let Roscoe out into the backyard. He meanders around, sniffing various areas, and finally lifts his leg. Once he’s back inside, I log on to my personal laptop and do some research. Then I rummage around my house and gather supplies: a compact containing facial powder, another containing four shades of eye shadow, two makeup brushes—one large and one small—a desktop tape dispenser, and a roll of packing tape. I also grab an ordinary lead pencil, a small paring knife, and a box of gloves and a scalpel I lifted from the hospital sometime in the past. One never knows when one might need latex gloves and a scalpel, right? Once I have everything gathered, I place a call to Sharon Cochran, hoping I won’t wake her.

  She answers on the second ring and sounds chipper enough to ease my mind. When I say that I want to come by again, she hesitates, clearly reluctant. Once I explain why, she relents.

  It is now after three thirty, and I hurry over there. Sharon must have been watching for me, because she opens the front door before I have a chance to knock. She is dressed in a robe, and her hair is messy from sleep.

  “Hello again,” she says.

  “Hi. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, you timed it perfectly, in fact. I’d just gotten out of bed when you called.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “Thanks for letting me do this.”

  “Do you really think it will work?”

  I shrug. “I’m not sure, but I figure we have nothing to lose by trying.” She waves a hand toward the stairs, and I head up them with her on my heels. Inside Toby’s bedroom, I look around and eye the gaming console. I point to it. “That’s a good place to start, I think.”

  Sharon watches me as I walk over to the dresser and start removing items from my bag. I put on some gloves, open the facial powder compact, and run the larger makeup brush over its surface. Then I pick up one of the game cassettes. Holding the brush just above the dark colored label on the game cassette, I twirl it between my fingers.

>   Small bits of the powder drop onto the surface of the cassette, heavier than I want. I blow gently across the surface and then examine it, hoping to find a fingerprint. But there is nothing.

  I scan the other game cassettes and dismiss them for now. They all have dark, colorful labels on them, and I realize I’m likely to get the same results. I move on and examine the controller next. It, like the console, is light beige in color. I survey the eye shadows, the darkest of which is a sable brown shade, and dismiss them. Instead, I take out the pencil and the paring knife.

  Sharon is standing off to one side, watching me, and when I take the knife out, she takes an involuntary step back, looking wary. I smile at her in what I hope is a reassuring manner and then walk over to Toby’s desk. I grab a blank piece of copy paper, lay it out flat on the desktop, and then put the paring knife to the lead in the pencil. It takes me a few tries to figure out the right angle and amount of pressure, but eventually I create a tiny pile of fine lead scrapings on the paper. I go back to the dresser, disconnect the controller from the console, and carry it over to the desk using as little contact as I can. Then I take out the smaller makeup brush, which has soft sable bristles on it. I splay the bristles by pushing the brush against my gloved hand and then dip them into the lead shavings. Holding the brush over the controller, I use the same twirling motion I used with the compact brush. Once I’ve managed to get a fine layer of the dark dust on the surface, I gently brush it off.

  To my delight, I see four distinct areas where the lead dust has stuck to the surface in patterns resembling fingerprints: two on the left and two on the right. There is enough detail visible that I can discern a line running through both of the prints on the right.

  “Did Toby have a scar of some sort on one of his thumbs?” I ask Sharon.

  “Yes, he did,” she says, a hint of excitement in her voice. “His right thumb. He sliced it quite badly once trying to remove the partially opened top on a tin can. Had to have four stitches in it.”

  I feel an empathetic twinge in my own thumb for a second, having done something similar once myself when I was younger, though my injury hadn’t been as bad as Toby’s. My hands are shaking with nervous excitement as I set the brush down and take out my roll of packing tape. I pull out a short length of it and try to rip it on the serrated edge of the dispenser, but it’s too short a piece. Seeing a pair of scissors in the pencil holder on Toby’s desk, I use them to cut my piece, taking care not to touch the center of the rectangle I end up with. Then I place the cut piece of tape over the smallest of the prints on the right side of the controller, trying hard to get the tape down without wrinkling it or smearing the lead dust. I’m only partially successful, and I curse silently to myself. I lift it anyway, and then stick it down on a piece of plain copy paper.

  “Wow,” Sharon says from over my shoulder, seeing what I’ve done. “That’s amazing.”

  “I’m afraid it might not be clear enough,” I say, rolling my shoulders. “I’ll try to do better with the second one.”

  My second attempt does go better, and when I have placed my tape on the piece of paper, there are clearly visible arches and whorls visible in the print. I suspect Toby used a finger on his right hand to supply a print for his computer, most likely the index finger. The scanner is located on the right side just below the keyboard, and given the angle that would be required to use it, it would have been awkward to use his thumb. Despite this assumption, I go ahead and retrieve the left-hand prints as well, figuring the practice can’t hurt. Judging from the size of the prints, and considering the way a gamer holds a controller, I feel certain they are thumbprints. Hoping to get an index or middle finger, I turn the controller over and repeat the whole process on the bottom side.

  Once again, I’m able to obtain prints, though only the right one looks clear enough and full enough to be of use. Based on its position on the controller, I surmise that it’s the index finger. On a whim, I decide to back the tape lift of this print with another piece of tape, creating a clear, see-through print. This takes some finagling on my part and some assistance from Sharon with the tape roll and cutting, but eventually we manage.

  With that done, I look around the room and see a water bottle on the bedside table. I’m not sure if the plastic surface will work well for harboring a print, so I’m pleasantly surprised when I see one emerge. Unfortunately, my attempts to transfer it to the tape make it come out smeared and unclear.

  Next, I try the remote control for the TV. The back of it, which is where his fingers would have touched, assuming he used his thumb to push the buttons, is black. The dark lead dust won’t show up, and the face powder and eye shadows reveal only smears.

  I stand in the middle of the room, looking around, searching for other options. My eyes settle on the closet door, which is painted white. Carefully, I fold the paper with the lead dust on it and carry it over to the door. After setting the paper on the floor, I dip my brush in and start dusting the edge of the door. To my delight, I see four clear prints emerge close to one another in a spot where Toby must have grabbed the edge of the door. Since the closet door handle is on the left side and the door opens swinging to the right, I determine these must be prints from his right hand. I lift all of them at once with the tape, using a long piece, and then place it on a new piece of copy paper.

  Satisfied, I turn to Sharon. “I think I’ve got what I came for. If these don’t work, I don’t know what will.”

  “You didn’t bring the laptop with you?” Sharon asks.

  “No, sorry. I left it at home.” I don’t tell her that I left it behind because I was afraid she might ask for it back.

  Sharon looks crestfallen.

  “I’ll let you know if it works,” I tell her. “I’ll try it out as soon as I get back to the house.”

  “Okay.” Her expression is both hopeful and fearful. I imagine she’s excited over the possibility of accessing the contents of the laptop, but also nervous about what we’ll find on it.

  I thank her profusely and take my leave, anxious to get back to the house. By the time I get there, it’s already close to five o’clock, and I don’t have much time before my dinner date with Bob. My logical brain is telling me to put the fingerprints aside and get ready for dinner, but I’m far too excited to be logical. Roscoe watches me with patient curiosity, no doubt wondering when I will shift my attention to him.

  I take Toby’s laptop out of my briefcase and set it on the kitchen island. I open it and try a fingerprint at the first password prompt, pressing one of the paper-backed tape prints over the sensor, thinking that perhaps there is no actual password, just the fingerprint. It doesn’t work, and I’m not sure if it’s because my logic is faulty or my fingerprint is. I go ahead and type in passwords until the computer tells me to use a fingerprint, and then I try the same print again. It still doesn’t work. I try again, repositioning it slightly, but no luck. Next, I try prints of other fingers, having started with the right index as the most logical choice. When those don’t work, I try a right thumbprint, even turning it sideways when I realize that position would be the most comfortable. Nothing.

  Frustrated, I think about the scanner and what it might be looking for. Is it heat sensitive? Does it require more of a 3-D image? Is the coloring off?

  I’m about to give up when I see the one clear print I made with tape on both sides. I look at it a moment, envisioning it as a finger, and even wrap it around my own index finger. But when I do that I realize that the ridges of my finger are likely to be mixed in with those of Toby’s. I grab a glove from my copped supply and pull it on. Then I wrap the clear print around the end of my index finger, positioning it as close as possible to where my own print would be. Holding the edges of it with my left hand, I place my finger with the tape on it over the scanner and press down. I keep it there a second, and when nothing happens, I roll my finger slightly from one side to the other.

  The computer desktop springs to life, making me gasp. I stare at it f
or a moment, and then clap my hands together and yell, “Yippee!” like a three-year-old who’s just been offered a cookie. For a moment I can’t think of what to do next, but then realize I don’t want to have to go through the fingerprint debacle again. I was lucky to get it to work this time, but there is no guarantee it will work again. I spend the next few minutes figuring out how to change the password to something of my choosing and disabling the fingerprint scanner.

  When that’s done, I scan the task bar icons and spy one for an email program. I launch it and watch as the program opens, but then I hear my front door open, so I shut the program down and close the computer.

  “Hi, Hildy.” It’s P.J., and Roscoe immediately abandons his spot at my feet and hurries over to her, tail wagging with enthusiasm. P.J. bends down and kisses him on top of his head, her dark red hair blending perfectly with Roscoe’s fur.

  “Hello, P.J.”

  “Sorry I didn’t come walk Roscoe right after school. My stupid mom made me go shopping with her.” She rolls her eyes and Roscoe closes his in heavenly bliss as P.J. absentmindedly scratches him beneath his chin.

  “No problem.”

  I see her attention is riveted on the laptop sitting in front of me. “Did you get a new computer?” she asks.

  “No, it belongs to someone else. I’m just borrowing it.”

  P.J. eyes me with suspicion. “Why?”

  “Something I’m working on.” I glance at my watch and before she has time to ask another question, I say, “Listen, if you want to walk Roscoe now, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I need to be somewhere in half an hour and I’ll probably be gone for a couple of hours.”

  “Where are you going?” P.J. has very little understanding of the social niceties most people ascribe to. That, along with her high intelligence and insatiable curiosity, makes for some awkward moments at times.

  “I’m meeting someone for dinner,” I say, not wanting to elaborate. “And I need to hurry so I’m not late.”

  “Where are you going to eat?”