by Neal, Toby
“Yes, that’s correct. COD is gunshot wound to the head. What’s interesting is the caliber of the weapon. I noticed this at the scene—there was no exit wound.” Fukushima held up a small lead bullet for them to see. “It’s a twenty-two caliber. Small, easily concealed handgun with enough velocity to penetrate the skull at close range. The bullet ricochets around inside and destroys the brain tissue.” She indicated the mound of gray, pulpy brain matter on the scale. “I had to use an instrument to clean out her skull cavity.”
Marcella suppressed a shudder at the sight of the steel utensil resembling an ice cream scooper resting on the edge of the table.
“Do you think that caliber shot was intentional? This was a woman whose brain was everything. Could be part of the MO.” Rogers was still mouth breathing.
“That’s for you to determine,” Fukushima said, dropping gore-covered instruments into a tray in the sink. “I also found some trace on her.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Grass blades caught in her shoes consistent with walking along the canal. Her stomach contents are here.” The doctor held up a screw-top plastic container that swished with a thin brown liquid filled with bits of pale, threadlike particles. “Top Ramen. Dinner of the busy single scientist.”
Marcella really noticed Fukushima’s soft round face for the first time, crow’s feet just beginning to show around fine brown eyes magnified by goggles. The doctor gestured to a stack of her own Cup Noodles next to the sink. The thought of eating in this room made Marcella’s stomach lurch, and suddenly the Vicks wasn’t doing enough.
“Anything else, Doc?”
“Yes. She had some hairs on her body indicating she was up close to someone.” Fukushima held up a small plastic evidence bag. The hairs looked black and short. “Good guess is that whoever these hairs belong to had something to do with her death. Did you collect DNA and hair samples from the interns?”
“DNA and fingerprint. Not hair,” Rogers said. Hair wasn’t required by protocol, but Marcella pushed herself away from the table in irritation that she hadn’t thought to collect that in the initial pass with the interns.
“Let’s hope there’s some viable DNA on these hairs; that would make things easier.”
“Unfortunately, the hairs all look naturally shed. There are three of them, and I didn’t see any root bulbs. You’re out of luck there.” Fukushima continued to tidy her autopsy area, covering the body with a green paper drape. “The transcription service will have my report available for download tomorrow or the next day.”
“Anything under her fingernails, anything other than the grass?”
“No. And we were lucky to have any of that after at least twenty-four hours in the Ala Wai,” Fukushima said, dropping the brain scooper into the pot with a clang. “Only way I got the grass was that it was caught in her shoe. What that informs us is that she walked there and was probably shot by the canal. In other words, the canal is most likely the crime scene.”
Marcella keyed the last of her notes into her phone. “Unfortunately, the canal is a big area.”
“Well, the grass in her shoe was a blue fescue. Perhaps that will help narrow things down.”
“Hope so,” Rogers said. “Thanks, Doc.”
Marcella dialed the County of Honolulu park service to ask about grass plantings as they hit the double doors to the exit.
Chapter 5
Marcella looked down at the notes on her phone as they pulled out of the parking lot, Rogers behind the wheel of the SUV. “Had us down for a meeting with the UH brass at ten a.m. to talk about Pettigrew’s work, but finding the crime scene takes precedence.”
“Let’s get whoever’s available at the Bureau and those HPD detectives out to help.”
Marcella worked the phone as Rogers pulled up at the first of a series of mini parks that ran along the canal. He looked out at the lawn, shook his head. “Like looking for a fescue in a haystack.”
“Not that bad. County says only three of the parklets still have that blue fescue. They’re trying to gradually replace it with some more drought-tolerant strains. This is one of them.”
Marcella opened the door, stepped out. Snapped on a pair of latex gloves, took her kit out from behind the seat. Rogers came around with his just as her phone rang. She pulled it out of the pocket of the light jacket, looked at it. PAPA GIO shone up at her as the Italian National Anthem burbled.
“Papa? What’s up? I’m working.”
“Can’t a papa phone his girl? You have lunch with your mama. Now I want you to meet me for coffee. Only fair.”
Another black SUV pulled up, disgorging their office’s special agent in charge, Ben Waxman. Marcella turned away, the phone to her ear, as Rogers headed over to brief their boss.
“I’m so busy, Papa. Maybe later. I’ll call you.”
“Only fair!” he bellowed. She pictured his handsome square face purpling. He really needed to watch his blood pressure, and his ongoing competition with Mama for Marcella’s attention was wearing her out. The six months since her parents had moved to Waikiki had begun to feel like years.
“I’ll call you if I can make it for coffee. Maybe this afternoon. I’ll call you,” she said firmly, and punched Off, slipping the phone into her jacket pocket and pasting on a smile for Waxman and his sidekick, Special Agent Gundersohn—both of whom she was surprised to see outside the office.
SAC Waxman was the latest branch chief sent over from Washington. Six months in Hawaii hadn’t served to unbend him, though she fancied his tie was knotted just a hair looser than normal and he’d stopped coloring his hair. He’d had a recent short buzz cut, Marcella assumed to get rid of the dye, and his scalp shone pink through the silver stubble. Gundersohn, also a veteran agent, had the thick neck and cauliflower ears of a boxer matched with the slow-moving thoroughness of a Swedish farmer. Marcella hadn’t been able to charm either of them, which she chalked up to Waxman’s apparent asexuality and Gundersohn’s lack of imagination.
“Good morning. This is one of three plots of a blue fescue associated with the trace on Pettigrew’s shoes,” Marcella said.
“Your partner briefed us.” Waxman addressed the Ala Wai Canal. No eye contact, frosty. Marcella mentally shrugged and turned away—she tried not to let him get to her.
“Thought we’d start with the landing area, work our way back,” Rogers said. “We can pace off a grid.”
They did so, fanning out to peruse the remains of a worn wooden deck, a relic from a time when boats had tied up there. Most of the wide, calm canal was bordered in concrete or decorative stone—this brief section might have caught something, but even with the spray bottles of luminol, they found nothing.
Marcella let the GPS guide them to the next pocket of blue fescue, and that’s where Gundersohn, moving slowly, lit up some blood trace near the edge of the concrete lip. They moved in, took samples, photographed the area. Marcella put her hands on her hips, swiveled to take in the surrounding park, a narrow strip of grass, trees, and bench between the canal and a busy street.
A beige Forerunner pulled up to the curb. Detectives Kamuela and Ching got out, carrying their kits.
“Just missed the action, Detectives,” she said. “Looks like we found the primary scene. Blood trace on the coping. Pending verification, looks like she went in here.”
“Kind of expected somewhere along the canal to be the scene,” Ching said. Kamuela wasn’t looking at her, eyes on the cluster of agents around the spot on the cement working their cameras and chemistry kits.
“Why did she come down there, still wearing her ID badge? It must have been an urgent call from someone.” Kamuela’s straight black brows had drawn together over mirrored Oakleys as he swiveled to take in the whole area.
“And where’s her car? She couldn’t have walked this far.” Marcella continued the thought. She pointed to the park bench facing the canal. “Maybe she was in the lab, eating her lonely Top Ramen dinner, and gets a call to meet someone down here. Someone w
ho wants to meet in public. Someone who wants her out of the lab so the research can be stolen.”
“But why kill her? It’s like killing the goose that laid the golden egg.” Kamuela turned to look at the bench. The idea of a phone call reminded Marcella of something.
“We still haven’t located the woman’s phone or purse, and we still need to search her home.” All items on the ever-lengthening list of to-dos for the investigation. She frowned, looking at the bench, and approached, ran the light over it slowly. No blood, but the magnifying lens attached to the light gleamed on a long, iron-gray hair caught in a splintery board.
Marcella lifted the hair carefully, slid it into a small evidence bag. “She must have sat here, talked to whoever called her.”
Kamuela and Ching continued the slow perusal of the bench.
Rogers walked over. “Gundersohn thinks she was shot and fell backward into the water.” They glanced back at the wide, calm surface of the canal. “Small vestiges of GSR on the coping. Seems plausible.”
“At some point she sat here.” Marcella held up the little bag with its coiled hair. “I wish I could find some other trace on the bench, because she was probably talking to someone.”
“Well, we still have to verify all this, but it’s looking strong that this is the primary site.”
Waxman approached. “These detectives the liaison with HPD?”
“Yes, sir,” Rogers said. “Meet Detectives Ching and Kamuela. Detectives, this is Special Agent in Charge Waxman.”
“Thanks for your help, Detectives.” Handshakes all round.
“Agent Scott found a hair that looks a lot like Pettigrew’s caught in the bench here.” Rogers, always trying to give her a boost with Waxman. “Looks like Pettigrew sat on the bench. We’re thinking she was called to meet someone here. Did anyone tell the detectives about the COD?”
“No,” Ching said, and Marcella filled them in on the visit to the morgue that morning.
“We still have a lot to do, and Matt and I have to meet with the University of Hawaii senior faculty to find out more about the project and closure of the lab,” she finished.
“Good thing we’re all here. Detectives, why don’t you go to Pettigrew’s apartment, see what you can find there. We’re especially interested in her phone, datebook, contacts. Anything that could tell us who might have called her to meet here,” Waxman said.
“Sir, are you sure we can’t put off the meeting with the university people until after the search? Seems like more of a priority,” Marcella said. She was curious about the brilliant scientist and eager to explore Pettigrew’s home herself, gather first impressions. “We should keep the primary role here.”
“No. You and Rogers need to go to that meeting. The university has been calling because the lab is shut down. They want to get back to work on the project, and our regional director is on the Board of Regents, so he’s assured them we’ll give them every professional courtesy and keep things moving,” Waxman said.
“Local politics.” Kamuela smirked. “Nice to know we aren’t the only ones who have to deal with that.”
“I’ll be coming to Pettigrew’s with you,” Gundersohn rumbled. “You got scene collection kits? We can go to the residence now.”
Marcella smirked back at Kamuela as Gundersohn headed toward the beige police SUV to ride with the HPD detectives. “Guaranteed to be a thorough search now,” she said, surrendering her evidence kit to Waxman.
“Gundersohn finds things others miss,” the SAC said. He never forgot or forgave careless mistakes, and she’d made a few in her time.
Marcella set her jaw and strode toward the Acura. She found her eyes wandering down Kamuela’s tall, burly physique as she followed the detective—he was definitely well put together, and eyeing him helped her deal with the irritation she was feeling between rivalry over the case and Waxman’s subtle put-downs. Kamuela headed to the Forerunner and got behind the wheel of the police vehicle as she climbed into the Acura.
“I know you don’t want to miss anything, but with Gundersohn on the job with them, the Bureau’s represented.” Rogers got in and fired up the engine, echoing her thoughts as he often did.
“You’re right. I don’t like to miss anything.” Marcella stared out the window as they pulled away from the canal.
Marcella and Rogers sat in front of a blond wood desk with the Hawaiian flag and university flag draped in limp folds on either side. The university president looked them over with sharp brown eyes from behind the desk. She was an imposing Hawaiian woman, with a pile of thick silver hair speared by chopsticks adding to her height. The graceful folds of a formal, subtly patterned muumuu with an oval scoop neck and velvet trim created a frame for her face.
“What’s the progress on your investigation?” Dr. Kaiulani Moniz had a deep voice with a vibrating timbre and was known for her kumu hula background. Marcella could well imagine that voice calling ancient chants in a firelit darkness filled with drums and dancers.
“I’m sorry. We can’t comment on an open murder investigation,” Marcella said. “We’re just getting started.”
“The work the Pettigrew lab is doing is of utmost importance. To the university, to the students working there, and to the world that’s waiting for the results.”
“We know it’s important work, and we also know it’s even more important to bring the person who killed Dr. Pettigrew to justice. We’re still processing the lab for evidence.”
“When do you anticipate being able to release the lab premises back to Dr. Truman and his team?”
“We don’t think she was killed in the lab, so that should speed things up. We’re working as fast as we can, but there are a lot of computers to check—we have our IT specialists working on it. We’re looking for anyone who wanted that research enough to kill and steal for it. Do you have any ideas about that?”
“I was briefed by Dr. Pettigrew just a few days ago on the status of the project and her plans for it.” Dr. Moniz looked down at a folder in front of her. “AgroCon had given a grant for her project, and so had a conglomerate affiliated with Chevron, so they are interested parties. But she had plans for BioGreen other than selling it to the highest bidder.”
Rogers sat forward, exchanging a glance with Marcella. “What other plans? I thought researchers published and the world read the journal articles.”
“That’s what happens with most research. But the BioGreen project was—is—a project that’s not only theoretical, it’s already applied. That algae stock was ready to go, and the Pettigrew lab stood to net our school some much-needed revenue.” Dr. Moniz looked down at the folder. “I have offers for the rights to BioGreen here from three major companies. But that’s not what Dr. Pettigrew wanted to do. She came to me to argue for something else.”
A long moment stretched out, and Marcella realized Dr. Moniz was waiting for the “And what did she want to do with the research?” that finally came from Rogers.
“Trudy Pettigrew wanted to give away BioGreen. She didn’t just publish research articles that could be read by anyone—she wanted to create a biofuel lab, produce algae stock to give away to developing nations. Give it away to anyone who wanted it. She wanted to feed and fuel the world.” Dr. Moniz was a showman as well as an administrator, and her ringing voice delivered words that echoed through the room.
Marcella sat back in the hard plastic chair. “Huh. Wow.” It was beginning to seem more and more tragic that Dr. Pettigrew now lay on a table in the morgue. “We’re going to need information on who made offers on BioGreen. Oh, and a list of who knew the research was completed and people who knew she wanted to give the formula away. Anything else you think might be relevant.”
“I anticipated that.” Dr. Moniz closed the manila folder, handed it to Marcella. “Dr. Pettigrew’s death is more than just a loss to us—it’s a loss to the whole world.”
Marcella narrowed her eyes at the older woman. “Are you telling us you were going to approve her giving it away?
Let her do the biofuel farm?”
Dr. Moniz shrugged, and sadness gleamed in the depths of her rich brown eyes. “I hadn’t decided. If we did give the formula away, I had a nomination for the Nobel Prize already prepared.”
That was big and spoke to the impact of the research. Marcella stood. “A Nobel beats cash any day for a university.”
“Maybe, maybe not. Please just make every effort to move things along and recover the research.” The older woman turned away to her computer, dismissing them with a nod.
Chapter 6
Papa Gio’s favorite coffee shop was more of a greasy spoon, a corner diner called Rosie’s several blocks off Kalakaua Avenue. It could have been any linoleum-floored, vinyl-boothed food joint, its only concession to Hawaii a plastic napkin holder shaped like a pineapple on each Formica table. Maybe that’s why her father liked it. Marcella blew on the tarry surface of black coffee in a thick china mug, eyeing her father over the rim.
“What’s up, Papa? You know I’m coming to dinner on Sunday.”
Egidio Scatalina brushed an imaginary crumb off his immaculately pressed sleeve. “Nothing up. But I want to see my daughter, see what she doing.”
“Working. It’s what I do, Papa.” Her eyes strayed out the window to the curb where Rogers sat in the Acura, working his phone and the laptop that folded out from under the glove box.
“I know what you do, Marcella.” He rolled the syllables of her name the way they were meant to be spoken. “I worried about your mother.”
“What do you mean? Mama’s fine. I saw her yesterday. She’s having so much fun with that culinary school, she can hardly stand it.”
“That’s what I thinking is bad thing. That culinary school.” He looked down at his inky coffee, stirred it with a clinking sound. He still liked to add too much sugar, as if it were an espresso in the Old Country. His full mouth was set in something very like a pout. Egidio Scatalina was not in favor of women’s liberation.
