it, and all that stuff about us evolving from killer apes that damn near wiped out all other species comparable?”
“I do indeed.”
“Let's get a cup of coffee. Kick this over, huh?”
“Perhaps after I've concluded my business in Millbrook. You can get me back to the airport. I saw a little coffee shop there.”
Brannan nodded affirmatively. “Sure… sure thing. What was the name of her book again?”
Sharpe didn't miss a beat. “Neuronet Map to Murder- Brain Maps and the Evil Inherent in a Beastial Lifeform. Kind of a reverse Origin of Species or Ascent of the Killer Ape.”
“Oh, yeah… right. Weird title but it made sense, all of it. And where'd she come up with all that scientific evidence?”
“U.K. mostly, over several trips. We were first to develop DNA fingerprinting, you know, and now we're ahead of you Yanks on brain mapping. Jessica is pioneering it here and linking it to hereditary issues.”
“An amazing woman.”
“And agent. An agent for good, you might say. Listen, do you think we can open up the M.E.'s office here?”
“You mean like now?” He glanced at the clock which read 2 A.M.
“A man's life is at stake and the sand is emptying on his life each hour.”
“Reynolds sure has a crusade going on.”
“Yes, and it is now the FBI's crusade as well. Can you get the M.E.'s office open for me?”
“I'll call Krueshach. He's the only one who might authorize it at this hour.”
Sharpe followed Dan Brannan into the building where they traveled through a maze of corridors to locate the M.E.'s office. As they did so, Sharpe complimented Millbrook on its resources. Brannan replied, “Still, it's never enough to wage the war we're in, is it, Sharpe? You wouldn't know it to look down our quiet, well-manicured streets lined with red maples and chestnuts that this town harbors a hotbed of lunatic drug dealers, pimps and prostitutes, but we do. We get the spillover population of crap from the Twin Cities.” Brannan had called and gotten the M.E. out of bed to meet them here.
“Right-o… I'm sure.”
“You can bank on it.” Brannan banged open the interior lab door and announced himself with his enormous bulk alone until he shouted at the local M.E., “Like I warned you, Herman, we've come to have a look at a two- year-old sandwich and Louisa Childe's frozen fingertips.”
“The fingertips were returned to the body, buried with it, Dan. You know we scraped them for anything useful but found nothing. Since we didn't need the actual fingertips, I saw to it they got back to Miss Childe, to take to eternity with her.”
“And you found nothing under her other nails?” asked Sharpe.
“We didn't bother with it. She was lying there stiff with her right hand clutched around one of the sketches. You remember, Dan, and the super said she was left-handed, so I assumed if she had had a chance to scratch her assailant, it would be with her empty left hand.”
“I see,” said Sharpe, trying to follow the man's logic and finding it questionable at best. Perhaps rationalizing away anything that might cast doubt on the Millbrook police.
Sharpe knew that Jessica would explode if she heard that last line about not bothering to scrape the nails of one hand belonging to the victim of a brutal mutilation murder. “Well, then, I guess I've come a long way to see a two-year-old sandwich.”
Brannan smiled at this. Herman Krueshach said, “ 'Fraid I have to disappoint you there, too. Remember, Dan, it was sent over for orthodontia forensics for that partial bite mark we had, and some idiot there forgot to put it away, and a night watchman discovered it… and I'm afraid the man ate it.”
“This before any tests were run?”
“Well, we did get a plaster cast of the bite mark.” “But no DNA tests? So you really don't have any DNA on file for this guy?” Sharpe fought to contain himself, fought back what he wanted to shout. Calm, Richard… stay calm, old man, he silently warned himself.
“ 'Fraid not, but we know his distinctive bite marks. We have the cast taken from the sandwich bite mark.”
“Like fingerprints… without a suspect to match the bite to… fairly useless,” Brannan said.
“The marks could be compared to Robert Towne's bite. Were they used when you sent them to authorities in Oregon?” Sharpe's tone grew in intensity with each word, and from the look on the M.E.'s face, Sharpe read a disturbing truth. “You never sent the impressions to Oregon, did you?”
“They never asked for dental impressions,” replied Krueshach. “Tell him, Brannan. It wasn't our case or jurisdiction.”
“But Reynolds must have asked you do so.”
“Reynolds is not the Oregon State Prosecutor's Office or the defense team up there.” Krueshach now merely shrugged as if he'd won a point in a handball match.
Brannan, ever the skeptic, added, “Not likely those little marks'd convince a jury of his innocence.”
“But it might help the governor to decide. Still,” continued Sharpe, pacing now, “we really hoped for a DNA sample to be absolutely conclusive, but you failed to take nail scrapings on the right hand.”
“ 'Fraid so.” Krueshach obviously knew to say as little as possible on the subject.
“I want it done,” said Sharpe, “and I want it done immediately.”
“What? What can be done? What do you want us to do?” asked the befuddled M.E.
“Take scrapings from the right hand.”
“It's been two years, Sharpe,” Brannan uselessly reminded him.
“Look, it makes no sense for the killer to've cut off the fingertips of her left hand if there was no DNA evidence to be found there. You said the man was meticulous about leaving no clues, that he seemed up on what we do nowadays with electron microscopes and scientific investigation, and yet he slices off only the woman's left fingertips which carried no DNA from him, so why? Why?”
“I don't follow you, Sharpe,” said Krueshach.
Brannan said, “Why did the killer cut off her damned fingers to begin with if… yeah, Herman, think about it. He wanted the nails off and incinerated along with everything else he threw down that garbage shoot. He had to've been scratched by her. He wanted the nails off.”
Krueshach's only reaction to Brannan's sudden excited state was another shrug. Is the man suffering Tourette's syndrome or a bad case of palsy? Sharpe angrily wondered. Finally, the M.E. said, “But there was nothing under the nails.”
“So… so he got confused as to which hand she used. That's what Agent Sharpe is driving at.”
“He disfigured the wrong hand,” said Sharpe. “Like the rest of you, he was thrown off by the sketch she clutched.”
“Do you think she knew what she was doing?” asked Brannan.
“I don't know… I don't know how clever she was. But if she did scratch off some cells and blood, we've got the DNA then. But fuck, it's inside her coffin with her.” Sharpe heaved a sigh and raised on his heels, rocking a bit. “Look, the two of you, I understand she had no relatives, so there's no one to stand in the way of an exhumation.”
“That's rather extreme,” Krueshach argued.
“It's the last hope of a man on death row, and it may be Louisa's last hope of resting in peace. If you don't arrange it, Brannan, Dr. Krueshach, then I'll arrange it through our field office here and take the case entirely out of your hands.”
“You know what, Sharpe? You do that. You just fucking do that,” Brannan shouted.
“Where are the sketches?” “My desk. I've looked at them every damn day since the murder. That is, all but one.”
“All but one?”
“The one she was clutching in her fist the day I walked into that room and found her with her back splayed open like a melon. Louisa took that sketch into death with her, and I believed she wanted to take it to the grave with her, and I saw no reason why not. I put it in her hand just before they lowered her.”
