Absolute Instinct jc-11

by Robert W. Walker

  Giles pushed the entire mop, handle and all, into the fire chiefs hands. “Take it. I'm moving out anyway. Won't need it.”

  “Weird is what you are, kid. Who cleans up a dump like this while moving out?” He started away, in his huge boots, white biohazard suit, holding his visor in his right hand like the helmet of a knight, and the mop head flowing over his enormous gloved left hand as a scepter. If all of this incident hadn't so terrified Giles, he thought it would be laughable.

  “Just my own concoction of cleaning fluids,” Giles said to yet another passing fireman.

  “Some concoction, son.”

  “My cleaning cocktail, I call it.”

  This fireman also carried his helmet in his gloved hands, perspiration dripping from his face. “Enough kick in it to knock over a horse,” the stranger replied.

  Giles closed his door on the retreating army. He took a whiff. It didn't seem so bad to him. Maybe the fire chief was right. Maybe he had blown out his olfactory senses.

  The other side of the door remained noisy as more men filed out and the first brave souls of those who lived in the building began to trickle back. Giles pictured Mrs. Parsons as she'd looked going down those stairs. He'd never known the woman to move so fast. The image made him smirk and shake his head.

  UPS would be here soon.

  He still had as yet to clean out his bathroom medicine cabinet. As he did so, he breathed a sigh of relief. Things could have gone badly, but it seemed fate remained his friend.

  Later the same morning in Milwaukee

  Exhausted but so over tired he could not readily sleep, still pumped up from the excitement of discovery at the cemetery, Richard Sharpe telephoned from the privacy of his room at the best motel in Millbrook, the Minnesota Motorlodge. He stood staring out at the flat terrain overlooking a calm stretch of water the shape of an hourglass here in the land of ten thousand lakes, wondering what the locals had named the hourglass lake, or if they were in the habit of renaming their lakes like they did their cemeteries. What a spin they had put on the potter's field.

  No answer at Jessica's end. Where the hell was she? Already out, at the crime lab in Milwaukee, he assumed. Still she should have her phone with her, and if so, on vibrate in her pocket.

  Richard continued to stare out at the calming water, his thoughts going back to the lone meadowlark on the branch overlooking Louisa Childe's remains. How ironic, given her predilection for feeding birds. The exhumation and “theft” from the body concluded, he had an insistent urge to contact Jessica, to let her know of his progress, but mostly just to hear her voice.

  The phone rang a fourth and a fifth time. The thing must be out of Jess's ear shot, ringing incessantly somewhere. Perhaps she was in the shower or otherwise indisposed. He flashed on the notion of seeing her in the shower via her cam-phone.

  Finally the ringing ended and she was on, sounding a little winded as if she had just finished climbing stairs. Clearing her throat, getting her bearings. Another noise he could not place, an incessant knocking on a door, and then a sound like a grunting animal.

  “Richard, it's you again!”

  “Surprise, yes. Just got into my room here,” he replied. “Why is your cam off? I want to see you.”

  “Ahhh… food is… room service just arrived.”

  “That's a good thing normally.”

  “And I'm running late. Lots to do at the lab. Lots to process, and I want to go over the evidence gathered and the body once again.”

  “I'm going to sack out for a few hours, catch up, but I wanted to see you again before doing so. A funny thing…”

  Something crashed to the floor at Jessica's end like silverware hitting one another.

  “Please! Keep it down,” he heard Jessica say.

  “Busy place you have there,” he commented. “Want me to call back?”

  “No, no, dear. Just my breakfast, room service. I must have laid back down. Fell asleep after your last call… showered… almost missed your call.”

  “Great to hear you, love. Strangest thing happened on my way to an exhumation today.”

  “Can you hold that thought a moment, darling?” she said. “Didn't eat much last night,” she lied, “and-and I am so famished.”

  “Switch on your camera, so I can see what you're having.”

  Jessica feared him finding Darwin in her room at this early hour-despite her innocence, she told herself-but then she knew that her thoughts hadn't been entirely guilt free, and that this was making her sound erratic. Finally, she said, “Oh… ahhh… appears Darwin is here, too. He's brought over autopsy files on the Millbrook and Portland cases for me.”

  “Then it does sound as if you are busy there. I'll just bugger off then and get some much-needed sleep.”

  “No, no, Richard, hold on just a moment.”

  Her camera came on. She panned around the room, showing the breakfast cart and cutting quickly to the table where folders lay stacked neatly. It panned to Agent Darwin Reynolds who smiled at Richard and lifted a tentative hand.

  “Say hello to Agent Reynolds, dear. He wants to personally thank you for doing what you can from there.”

  The two men exchanged pleasantries.

  She had just moments before shushed Darwin after he had barreled past her to exchange their dinner dishes for breakfast, resulting in a lot of clanking noise. He had taken the hint. Darwin now grimaced and, like a bad actor, woodenly said to Richard via the cam-phone, “I brought Dr. Coran the latest toxin and serology reports over from Dr. Sands. He says basically there was nothing whatsoever in the woman's system. The bastard didn't even give her the benefit of a sedative.”

  Jessica returned the camera focus to herself and smiling, said, “Why don't you get that well-earned sleep, Richard. I'll call you later before we fly out to Portland.”

  “To Portland? Both of you?”

  “To talk to the governor… bring him up to date on what we have, our suspicions, all of it.”

  “No way they're going to have DNA tests completed by then. Last I heard the earliest is forty-eight hours even on a rush job.”

  “I'm aware of that, sweetheart. But we've got to go with what we have. Try to stall the governor until these DNA tests in Minnesota are done.”

  “Right… sure. Agreed.”

  “So, what were you saying about the exhumation?”

  “Ahhh… just a strange Jungian serendipitous thing having to do with a… a bird. Seems silly now. Nothing really.”

  “This Dr. Krueshach, he did put your request at the head of the line didn't he?”

  “In Millbrook, Minnesota, dear, even if you are at the head of the line, let me tell you, life moves slow here. I built as big a fire under their asses as I thought prudent without pissing them off. On second thought, I guess I did piss Krueshach off, but he's now moving as fast as he can, I assure you.”

  “Then you did find enough tissue under her nails to have tests performed?”

  On hearing her question, Darwin inched closer in an attempt to hear the answer. Richard saw a cup in one hand, a pastry in another.

  “Affirmative, and I'm assured that a DNA fingerprint for Guide's murderer will come of it.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Call it intuition, instinct, whatever. I sense the killer reasoned wrong, thinking his DNA was under only her left-hand nails.”

  “You sound fairly certain of it.”

  “You see, he didn't bother with the hand clutching the charcoal drawing. I see it this way: She tears at him with the one hand, and he grabs both her wrists, one hand clutching the drawing. He forces her to her knees and brings down the hammer. She was struck twice with it according to Krueshach. Once while standing, once while on the ground.”

  “I see… on her knees, bending to his will.”

  “Yes, he sees the drawing and draws the conclusion from it, that her scratching him had been done with the free hand, but-”

  “-but somewhere in the struggle, she's exchanged
the drawing from left to right, the actual hand she attacked with.”

  “Precisely… perhaps. All hinges on these tests.”

  “We don't have the luxury of time, Richard, so have them run a test for blood type in the interim. It's quick and easy. If the blood type foils to match Robert Towne's at least we'll have that to add to our arsenal of items that don't add up!”

  “Good thinking.”

  “Meantime, Reynolds and I will fly up to Portland, meet you there. We'll need time to locate Towne's DNA fingerprint.”

  “Are you certain he has one on file in Portland?”

  “Reynolds assures me he does. Nowadays, Portland, like a lot of cities, does a DNA fingerprint for anyone arrested on a class-A felony.”

  Just then Reynolds knocked over a lamp on the table. “Zeus, what was that?” asked Richard.

  “Sorry, Darwin's like a bull in a china shop.”

  “Big man, I could see that much. And handsome.”

  “I hadn't noticed.” she said, waving the silverware in her hand to cover the lie. Off camera, she gritted her teeth and glared at Darwin. He mouthed, Sorry.

  “Darwin is leaving now. We are both late for Dr. Sands, who has been extremely cooperative, Richard. A delight to work with.”

  She felt an unreasonable guilt over the lie of omission already, the failure to tell Richard that Darwin had in fact spent the entire night in her hotel room, regardless of its having been in a perfectly innocent fashion. “He's had his coffee and roll now and is out the door.”

  She panned the camera on a willing subject now as the Milwaukee agent, coffee cup in hand, waved good-bye while disappearing through the door, closing it behind him.

  “The privilege of your company,” began Richard, “I should think, is uppermost on that young fellow's mind. Wants to learn from you, doesn't he?”

  “He wants to use me, if that's what you mean. It was a set-up from the get-go. Darwin didn't want us here to solve the Olsen woman's case but to prove his theory about the connection between Louisa Childe and Sarah Towne, and that this guy Towne is innocent. He's had a hard-on for it long before I got here.”

  “And he wants your backing.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And he's won it?”

  “Up to a point, but I'm not entirely convinced that Towne could not have killed his wife in copycat fashion, thinking authorities would be looking for the Minnesota murderer instead of him.” “But you're getting on a plane with this kid tomorrow for Portland and-”

  “Today sometime, not tomorrow, because I am convinced Oregon needs to slow this down and give a hard look at the inconsistencies. Why not wait for the DNA test now that we have one in the offing?”

  “Yes, of course. To be rational. But perhaps people in Oregon are not being particularly rational at this point.”

  “Towne certainly has managed to engender hatred and blood-lust. Interesting that he refused any appeal.”

  “You're a softy, Jessica.”

  “Me? What about you, my sweet Richard of Millbrook?”

  “Keep me apprised when you get to Portland, what goes down as you Yanks say.”

  “Reynolds says he can get a chopper or a jet assigned to us from the local FBI pool.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  She tried to gauge the amount of sarcasm in his voice. He wouldn't ordinarily use such an American expression if he wasn't being sarcastic. “That's the plan, after I have one final look at Joyce Olsen's body. I pretty much left the initial autopsy to Dr. Sands. He's quite capable, and I want to be in Portland as early as possible, before official offices close down. Still, questions linger that I hope Olsen's body can answer.”

  “I'm sure she'll sit right up and speak volumes to you, Jess. If anyone can get the dead to talk, it's you.”

  “Oh, I much prefer the way the Dead Can Dance ensemble talks. And by the way, Richard, I'm so proud of you.”

  “Oh? And where is that coming from?”

  “The way you created DNA evidence where there was none before. You're some magician. Millbrook won't soon forget you.”

  “Gary Cooper come to rescue the foolish from the more foolish?”

  “Sleight-of-hand artist, that's what you are.” “I am more the trick cyclist, but let's not count our black doves before their curtain call. Thus far, all I've got are some additional nails and scrapings being analyzed at the local lab, which by the way has limited capability.”

  “So now we go to Portland, take our trick cycling show on the road.”

  “You can get their attention and stall them, Jess. I know you can.”

  “I'll do my best.”

  “That's quite the best. You lured me across an ocean.”

  “Right, I did indeed.”

  “Thief of my heart.”

  She laughed lightly. “As if you had nothing to do with a like theft.”

  Richard laughed his full, rich laugh. The sound filled her with warmth.

  “You're leaving Millbrook a bit more on their toes than before your visit. Taught the yokels something about investigating, Agent Sharpe.”

  “Good chaps actually, but much of the evidence was bungled from the gate. I dread to think if they had a child abduction here. It'd be the JonBenet Ramsey case all over again.”

  “I love you, Richard, and I'll hopefully see you in Portland tomorrow with the DNA fingerprint?”

  'Tomorrow midnight perhaps, and that's a big maybe. Operative words being maybe perhaps, understood? I've built a fire under authorities here, but I can't rebuild their lab overnight. You know very well how long it takes to get DNA tests accomplished.”

  “It can be done if they work day and night.”

  “They don't have our Quantico facilities, resources or manpower, Jess.”

  “Then they should farm it out to a private lab in Minneapolis.”

  “Not sure there's time. And I'm working with one proud, stubborn German here.”“Herman Krueshach, yes. Has he learned anything from all this?”

  “Proud man like him? 'Fraid he's been-”

  “Embarrassed? Shit, Richard, a man's life is at stake and he's worried about saving face?”

  “And saving his ass along with his job.”

  “Damned small-town M.E.s are all alike.”

  “Bottom line is, we don't get instant DNA fingerprints. I'm not even sure we'll discover any DNA other than the victim's own in the sample.”

  “Go for the blood type in the meantime.”

  “I'll see to it before I nod off. You are now sounding far too hopeful, my sweet. Perhaps I can be there in time with some extenuating new actual DNA evidence, but as you warned me earlier, careful of flying too near the sun, my lady Icarus.”

  “All right. I'll watch my wings don't get singed, but we can't afford even forty-eight hours, Richard, that's-”

  “The space between eyelashes, I know.”

  “-cutting things awfully close.”

  “As shy as the horse to the saddle, I know,” he lamented. “Still, if I were to leave here any earlier, it would be empty-handed.”

  She allowed his complaint time to settle. “I understand.”

  “In meantime, you can play it up with the governor that we do have some new evidence being examined here. Perhaps that will cut some teeth.”

  “Ice,” she corrected. “Cut some ice.”

  “Very little ice, I fear.”

  She smiled at him and waved to the camera lens. “All right, dear one, hurry as you can to Portland with the goods.”

  “You know, Jess, it could turn out to be Towne's DNA we have here in Minnesota.”

  “Let the evidence fall where it may, but there's no record of Towne's ever being in northern Minnesota.”

  “When last did you meet a serial killer who kept flight records?”

  “There was a guy who kept meticulous travel records for the IRS even as he murdered people all along his route, writing off mileage, food and lodging. He'd created a self-employment situation, a sole
proprietorship-subcontracting out to medical supply companies as an independent contractor.”

  “Christ… in a sense he wrote off murder to his business.”

  “In the best tradition of the IRS, even after Matisak was long in prison, they sent him a bill for back taxes.”

  “Ahhh, yes, that awful Matisak again.”

  “Yes, Mad Matthew Matisak.”

  “Who also had his murder weapon, that spigot he jammed into his victims's jugular vein to 'tap' into his supply patented with your U.S. Government Patent Office, correct?”

  “That was Matisak all right, but he had help, a money-man, a lawyer-entrepreneur in the lucrative medical supply field. Lowenthal was only one of many Matisak dupes.”

  “Well, then, I shall find you in Portland.”

  “With the fingerprint, yes. And I love you as well, dear one.”

  When Jessica closed her television phone, she turned to see Darwin peeking in to see if she were off the phone yet. He had used a coat hanger to keep the door from latching. “Reynolds. Damn it, Darwin, are you deliberately trying to make trouble for me?”

  Darwin Reynolds had stood out in the hall, awaiting Jessica, assuming she'd want a ride to the crime lab. He patiently now awaited her last-minute primping, as he stared out over his growing metropolis. The midweek traffic jammed West Allis Boulevard for downtown Milwaukee, the skyscrapers of the business district standing sentinel to the influx of the Wednesday morning rush hour. He turned now, gritted his teeth and shrugged apologetically. “I'm sorry, Dr. Coran about earlier, if I caused you any embarrassment or a moment's awkwardness with your husband.”

  She called back as she tied back her hair. “Richard is not my husband, not yet anyway.”

  “Sorry again,” he said almost as if to himself, grimacing. “I'm just naturally clumsy.” He went to the tray and grabbed a doughnut and poured himself another cup of steaming coffee. “I really wouldn't-wouldn't-want anyone to get the wrong impression, and most certainly not your man or my wife, trust me.”

  “Really? Well, it may be too late for that.” She wasn't about to let him off the mat.