by Chris Orcutt
“Wow,” I said. “It’s like I went out for Chinese takeout and just came back.”
“Did you spend much time here as a student?” Svetlana asked.
I smiled and looked around fondly at the place. “Yeah, a lot.”
Svetlana set the cooler on an empty countertop. “Should we get started?”
“Yes, let’s.”
I hung our jackets on hooks, taking down two lab coats for us. Once we’d slipped on the coats and some latex gloves, I laid fourteen small glass testing trays on the counter and squirted the three antibody liquids into three different cups on each tray. This took a few minutes. When I finished, I placed a notepad and pencil in front of Svetlana.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” I said. “You’re going to hand me a bag containing an eyedropper, writing down the initials of that sample. I’ll test it, announce the blood type, and you write down the blood type next to the initials. All right?”
“Yes,” she said, “but how does the blood typing work?”
“You really want to know?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I took a deep breath and pointed at each cup on the first tray.
“These cups each contain a different antibody,” I said. “Left to right, the first one is an antibody to Rh factor, the second is ‘A’ antibodies, and the third is ‘B’ antibodies. I’ll be putting a drop of blood into each cup. If the blood clots in the first cup, we’ll know the sample is Rh-positive. If it doesn’t clot, then it’s Rh-negative. Then, with the next two cups, it works like this. If the blood drop reacts only to cup number two, then the blood is type A. If it only reacts to cup number three, then it’s type B. If it reacts to cups two and three…well, you tell me.”
“Type ‘A-B’?” she said.
“Correct,” I said. “And if the drops don’t react with either cups two or three, then the blood is type ‘O.’ Got it?”
Svetlana yawned and nodded.
“Okay,” I said. “First sample.”
From out in the hallway, a familiar baritone voice boomed out: “Who the hell is in my lab?!”
A second later, Steve walked in wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket and carrying a helmet. His hair was now silvery at the temples, but it was as thick as ever. At his side was a blonde woman, maybe 30, also carrying a helmet. Over her shoulder were a purse and a tote bag brimming with blue exam booklets. When Steve saw Svetlana and me, the stern expression on his face vanished. He beamed at me and nodded.
“The prodigal protégé returns,” he said. “Gretchen, I want you to meet a former star student of mine, Dakota Stevens.”
“Former star, my ass, Steve,” I said. “I’m still a star.”
Steve glanced at Gretchen, said something in German, and put his helmet on the floor. Then he turned to me, thumped his chest and extended his arms. I walked over and hugged him. He introduced Gretchen, and I introduced Svetlana. The three of them spoke some German, and then Gretchen, nodding and grinning, excused herself to Steve’s office and began correcting exam booklets.
“Gretchen’s a Ph.D. candidate from Austria,” Steve said, turning and winking at her through the open doorway. “I’m teaching her the ropes.” Without warning he grabbed me by the shoulders so I couldn’t turn around. “Quick! Group zero of the periodic table! Go!”
“The noble gases,” I said. “Helium, neon, argon, krypton, xenon and radon.”
Squinting, he pursed his lips and gave me a nod of approval. “So what are you up to nowadays? Still at the Bureau?”
“Nope,” I said.
I gave him the abridged version of my saga of starting a private detective agency.
“Yeah,” he said when I finished, “you’re like me, Dakota—to really thrive, you need entropy.” He patted me on the back, slipped on a lab coat, and clapped his hands together sharply. “So, what’ve you brought me, young Grasshopper? What insurmountable forensic challenge? What mystery? What—”
“I need to type fourteen different blood samples,” I said.
“Fourteen samples?” Steve said. “Are you investigating a serial killer?”
Without giving away Sally’s identity, I described Dr. Malone and his “Sexual Attraction Study,” and how my investigation of him had led to today’s discovery of blood and photographic evidence. I finished by telling Steve that, while the evidence was circumstantial at best, it was deeply suspicious, warranting further investigation.
“Based on what you’re telling me, Dakota,” Steve said, “I agree it’s suspicious, but…you’re working from a hypothesis based on an assumption.”
“What assumption, Steve?”
“That the test tubes you found contain human blood and not some other liquid that resembles human blood,” he said. “Did you perform any tests to determine whether the samples are indeed human blood?”
“No, I didn’t, Steve,” I said. “The pharmacy was fresh out of Luminol and UV lamps, not to mention RSID readers. Besides, why would this guy keep pig’s blood locked up in a mini-fridge?”
“Hey, there’s no need to be testy,” he said. “I’m not questioning your investigative skills, Dakota. I’m just trying to remind you to follow the process and to not make assumptions.”
I sighed and leaned against a mass spectrometer. My whole body was weary.
“You’re right, Steve,” I said. “Sorry. I was up late last night, and I drank too much.”
“Been there, done that.” He patted me on the back. “C’mon kid, follow me.”
Steve went to a refrigerator across the room. He pulled out a bottle of water, a beaker and a foil package of Alka-Seltzer. Pouring the water in the beaker, he dropped in the Alka-Seltzer tablets and handed me the fizzing concoction. I chugged it down.
“Thanks, Steve.”
“You’re welcome,” he said. “Now…let’s get to it.”
Over at the lab table, I showed him the setup and described my plan.
“Not bad,” he said. “One suggestion, though. Before you type the samples, how about I do a quick RSID strip test assay on all of the samples first, verifying they’re human blood?”
“Good idea, Steve,” I said, gesturing at the cooler. “I have been assuming these are human blood.”
Steve opened a drawer and pulled out an RSID test reader, reader cassettes and a box of test strips.
“Once I get the sample on each strip, it only takes ten minutes,” he said.
“I know. Go ahead.”
While Steve went to work with the samples, Svetlana surveyed everything on the counter and said, “I do not understand. What will this ‘RSID’ test tell us that the blood typing kit will not tell us?”
“The RSID test tests specifically for human Glycophorin A,” I said.
“Oh, that makes it much clearer,” she said.
“Glycophorin A is a protein of the membrane of human red blood cells,” I said. “If the test is positive for Glycophorin A, it means it’s a human red blood cell. Steve is going to test for it, and then, any samples that come up as human blood, we’ll do the typing test on them.”
“Now I understand,” she said. “Thank you.”
I wandered over to Steve’s gym area, removed my lab coat and put on a pair of practice gloves. I tried to work the speed bag, but it had been a long time since I’d used one and I couldn’t find a rhythm, so I switched to the heavy bag. Punching it with rapid combinations as hard as I could, hearing and seeing the bag buckle and the chain jolt, I felt myself being purged of some of my frustrations.
I became so deeply focused on working the bag that I completely forgot where I was. It was only when Steve shouted my name that I came back to reality. I had sweat through my T-shirt.
“If you’re done beating my bag to a pulp, Dakota,” he said, “we’re ready for you to do the typing. Your instinct was right—they’re a
ll human blood.”
“Great.”
I washed my face and hands, dried off, and joined Steve and Svetlana at the lab table. Svetlana handed me the first eyedropper, and I put a drop of blood from it in each of the three cups. After waiting a few seconds, there was no clotting in the first cup (the one that tested for the presence of Rh factor), so I knew the blood sample would be Rh-negative. However, there was a reaction in cups two and three, which meant the sample was reacting to both ‘A’ and ‘B’ antibodies, making it type AB.
“The first sample is A-B negative,” I said.
As I went through the same tedious process for the other thirteen samples, I was reminded of why, after only a year, I’d transitioned out of the FBI Lab into fieldwork. The repetitive, painstaking nature of lab work made my mind wander. Ultimately it left me more exhausted than chasing a suspect on foot—like I’d once done across half of Pittsburgh.
Soon, the results were in: all of the samples were human blood, type AB negative. While Svetlana made sure everything was documented, and I sealed the samples and placed them in a refrigerator, Steve walked Gretchen out to the elevator. She had an appointment across campus. When he came back, he invited Svetlana and me into his office, where he poured coffee for the three of us, and we discussed our findings.
“Tell me about the photos you found,” he said.
“We don’t need to tell you,” I said. “Svetlana, show him.”
She removed her laptop from her purse and opened all of the photos in a photo viewing program.
“Now, these initials,” he said, flipping through the photos. “You’re sure they correspond exactly to the initials that were on the test tubes? In other words, you didn’t make a mistake copying any of the test tube initials, did you?”
“No,” I said. “And I have photos of the test tubes.”
“And do you have any idea who these young women are?” he asked.
“No, not yet.”
Svetlana blew on her coffee and peered over the mug at Steve.
“For the photos with a clear view of the young woman’s face,” she said, “I plan on doing a search based on the image. I have contacts at some internet companies that are developing reverse image search algorithms that take a sample image and scour the web for similar images. I am hopeful we will identify at least a few of these young women this way.”
“Svetlana has a degree in computer science,” I said.
“A gorgeous international chess champion and a computer expert?” Steve stared at her. “Svetlana, my dear, you probably already know this, but you can do way better than Dakota.”
Svetlana gave me a look that was half amusement, half annoyance.
“Svetlana and I aren’t an item, Steve.” I sipped some coffee. “We just met the other day. But can we get back to the facts here?
“We’ve got fourteen sets of photos, both surveillance photos and nude video stills, of fourteen different girls. Then, locked up in close proximity to the photos we found fourteen test tubes of blood labeled with initials that correspond to the fourteen sets of photos. All of the blood is type A-B negative.
“Let’s assume for now,” I continued, “that each test tube of blood is a sample taken from the young woman whose photos bear the same initials. For example, the blood from the ‘T.G.’ test tube was taken from the young woman whose photos are labeled ‘T.G.’ Steve, given these parameters, I’d like your thoughts on what we’re dealing with.”
Steve drank some coffee and put down his mug. Then, crossing his ankles on top of his desk, he laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that two facts stand out here. First, that each group of photos is labeled with the same set of initials as one of the test tubes. Second, that all of the blood samples are A-B negative—the rarest blood type there is.”
“Less than one percent of the population,” I added.
“Precisely,” Steve said. “Now…the fact that A-B negative is so rare makes it what?”
“Valuable,” Svetlana said.
“Correct, Miss Krüsh.”
“So,” I interjected, “let’s continue that line of thought. Suppose Malone knows someone who is willing to pay top dollar for A-B negative blood. Once he identifies people who could serve as blood donors, he’d want to keep tabs on them, right? That would explain the surveillance photos.”
“But not the nude video stills,” Steve said.
“They do not fit within your hypothesis, Dakota,” Svetlana said.
“Svetlana’s right,” Steve said. “Your theory of a person desperate for A-B negative blood doesn’t account for the nude photos.”
“Maybe it’s not logical,” I said, “but we could be dealing with a weirdo—either Malone or our hypothetical A-B negative blood-seeker. Maybe Malone or the ‘client’ just likes having nude photos of his blood donors.”
“Which begs the question,” Steve said, “of how Malone came to possess such photos.”
“All of the stills seem to be from a ceiling-mounted camera, and the backgrounds are sterile, like…a hospital or—”
“—a psychology lab,” Svetlana said, glancing at me.
“Right,” I said.
Steve gazed up at the ceiling for a minute, then put his feet down, sipped some coffee and shook his head.
“There’s not enough data,” he said. “Listen, we’re making two other major assumptions here, okay? One is that the type A-B negative blood in each test tube was taken from the individual whose initials are such-and-such. Right?
“But the second assumption is even slipperier—that each test tube contains blood from a different individual. We don’t know that. Without a DNA workup, we can’t know that. All we know right now is that we have fourteen samples of A-B negative blood. They could be fourteen samples of the same A-B negative blood.”
“Steve—you’re right,” I said. “This is why you are the master.” I swore and pounded the armrest on my chair.
“Easy, Grasshopper,” he said. “This is easily rectified. There’s enough blood left in all of the eyedroppers to run a DNA test on the samples. I can do it tonight.”
“Really, Steve? I can’t tell you how much—”
“No worries, kid.”
“I appreciate it, Steve,” I said. “While you’re doing that, Svetlana and I will look into the photos and the other evidence we found in his apartment.”
“I’ll call you in the morning with my results,” Steve said, reaching for a notepad and pencil. “What’s your cell number?”
“I don’t have one,” I said. “I’m staying at the Charles, though. You can reach me there.”
“Will do.”
He sprang out of his chair, walked over and yanked me to my feet.
“Dakota, this moping around with a hangover doesn’t suit you. Doctor Lenz prescribes the following: go back to your hotel, get some sleep, have a nice meal and start fresh tomorrow.”
“You’re right, sensei,” I said. “I’ll do all of that. But first I have to drop something off.”
18
Juicy
According to the page I’d copied from her planner, Sally had intramural tennis practice again this afternoon. I needed to return Dr. Malone’s apartment key to her keychain wallet before she discovered it missing and got suspicious.
Once I dropped off Svetlana, I started driving over to the tennis center when it occurred to me that I couldn’t just go over there, march onto the court, and open Sally’s knapsack in plain sight of everyone; I needed a reason to open her knapsack. After giving it some thought, I decided that bringing her a present would be an ideal reason.
Stopping at my hotel, I went into the gift shop, bought a boxed pair of silver and turquoise earrings and a card, and charged them to the room. I jotted a quick, flirty message on the card. Then,
in the lobby phone booth I called Svetlana and explained the situation, asking her to call the tennis center in fifteen minutes and request to speak with Sally Standish. She agreed, and I left.
Traffic was backed up on the Harvard Bridge, so I arrived at the tennis center just in time. I was hustling down the walkway outside the courts, the present tucked in my jacket pocket, when, ahead, I heard a gate door clang shut.
Sally was jogging toward me in her pretty yellow tennis dress. She looked worried—that is, until she saw me. Her mouth bloomed into an ecstatic smile.
“Dakota, what are you doing here?” She ran over and bear-hugged me. “I thought you were working all day.”
Her unbridled ardor unleashed a fresh surge of guilt inside me.
“I was.” I hugged her back. “Still am, actually. But I wanted to drop by and say hello. What are you doing right now?”
“Tennis practice,” she said, “but there’s a call for me in the office. Don’t leave until I get back, okay?”
“I won’t. I’ll go in the court area and wait for you.”
“I’m so glad you’re here!” Standing on her tiptoes, she pecked me on the lips, and started jogging toward the main building.
As soon as she disappeared, I walked double-time to the court entrance and went inside. Josh was on the far court, doing drills with some of the girls, so he didn’t notice me.
Spotting Sally’s pink knapsack leaning against the fence, I grabbed it and unzipped it, and pulled out her planner. I put the key back in the keychain wallet, bookmarked the planner with the card I’d bought for her, and slid the planner inside the knapsack. I was about to put the gift box in there when I was startled by a loud woman’s voice.
