“They usually say not to tell the police, don’t they?”
“Yes, but they won’t know you did.”
After a few seconds spent in silence, Grace Smythe, wearing a worried expression, came back with a chilled bottle of water in her hand and gave it to Alexa absently and unopened. “It’s Lucille Burch. The bottle blonde with the sharp nose and whiny voice. The reporter, or whatever she calls herself.”
“What does she want?” Casey asked.
“She told me she wants to get your reaction to something.”
“Gary?”
“No. She says that she’s been told that the Danielson woman is out of the hospital. She’s trying to confirm the story before she puts it on the air.”
Casey gasped.
Alexa knew who Sibby Danielson was, but not that she had been released from the hospital she’d been committed to after murdering Casey’s parents twenty-six years before.
“Don’t talk to her,” Alexa advised. “Grace, tell her Casey has no comment.”
“No comment always looks worse than anything people say,” Grace insisted.
“I know Lucille Burch,” Casey said. “She’ll never give up.”
“She’s likely just looking to get her facts in line and spice up a story by getting you to tell her something she doesn’t yet know is true,” Alexa said. “She probably doesn’t know about Gary’s disappearance yet, or she wants to get confirmation if she has caught wind of it. You shouldn’t talk to the press until the time is right, and I don’t think it is.”
“I’d think you’d want people calling in tips,” Grace told Alexa.
“We need good tips, but we don’t have the manpower to run down hundreds. So far we’re lucky not to have to deal with the complications the media would provide. When the time is right, we’ll fill them in and ask for their help if we think it’s in Gary’s best interest. I’ve been here before. Trust me. With the hurricane heading this way, and nothing from you to fuel chasing after Sibby rumors or looking into a tip about Gary, she’ll probably put it on a back burner. When and if we decide to announce that Gary has been abducted, we’ll get maximum exposure. Let’s give it a few hours before we make that call. If this is a kidnapping, the perps probably will be watching the news, and the media will make any coming and going unobserved very difficult.”
“You could say she doesn’t concern you,” Grace told Casey. “You could say if she’s cured, it’s cool, or something like that.”
Casey’s eyes went from Alexa to Grace and back. “Tell Burch I said this is the first I’ve heard about it. Tell her I won’t involve myself in speculation.”
Alexa nodded. “Grace, tell her Casey has no knowledge about Ms. Danielson nor any comment at this time.”
Grace left the room, headed for the kitchen.
“I didn’t know that woman could ever get out,” Casey murmured. “How could Sibhon Danielson be let out and me not know about it?”
“If she was insane when she committed the offense, she could be released as long as she was no longer a danger to herself or others. They don’t set specific sentences for those adjudicated insane.”
Alexa figured the anniversary could explain why the media was snooping around after information on a twenty-six-year-old case. The date had drawn media interest, and with a few phone calls a researcher could easily discover whether or not the perpetrator was still incarcerated. Alexa wondered how long it would be before some cop clued them in on Gary’s disappearance. She was amazed it hadn’t happened yet. That could only be due to the threat of the storm and the fact that most people in the area, including the police, had more pressing things to be concerned with at the moment. It appeared that the hurricane might actually be beneficial to the investigation.
She knew that she had to find out where Sibby Danielson was. It seemed unlikely, but if the murderer was really out in the world, she might be somehow involved-especially if the person, or persons, who took Gary might have been after his wife. Casey was the lone witness to a twenty-six-year-old double homicide. It was remotely possible that, in a psychotic mind, Casey West might fall under the heading of unfinished business.
26
A very tired Michael Manseur sat at a desk in the office of the evidence labs just around the corner from headquarters. CSI Chief Sergeant Mickey Wayne Cooley put a piece of paper in front of his guest, along with a cup of strong coffee. The head of Homicide merely nodded once in appreciation.
“The glass shards are from a sealed-beam headlight manufactured for older vehicles-which makes sense, given the height of the bumper strike on the Volvo and the green paint sample,” Cooley said. “Used to be a fairly common stock lens that fit hundreds of vehicles.”
“Great,” Manseur replied.
“The transferred paint in the sample isn’t as common. There are two layers showing two paint jobs. The outer layer is more recent and was sold by auto-paint suppliers. But the undermost layer is a factory color from an early-sixties GMC truck.”
“A truck,” Manseur said.
“It wasn’t used on just any trucks. You’re looking for one of these in a sun-faded goose-shit green, Michael.” Cooley set a photocopy of an old advertisement for the vehicle in front of Manseur. “Panel truck-forerunner to the commercial van.”
“That’s great. Won’t be many still registered.”
“Not a single one in that color is registered in the state of Louisiana. We’re querying adjacent states now. The scratch on the Volvo’s inside driver’s door was made by a pipe that’s three-quarter inches in diameter that was cut off clean. No thread mark in the impression. Pipe is no more than about sixteen to eighteen inches long, based on angle of the strike and the distance that the door opens.”
“Great,” Manseur grumbled before carefully sipping his hot coffee. “Pipe.”
“According to trace, it’s a pipe with high lead content. What’s commonly referred to as a ‘lead pipe,’ as in Colonel Plum did it in the conservatory with a lead pipe.”
“So that’s rare?”
“Lead is toxic. Lead pipes haven’t been commercially available since the early sixties, and you only find them in old structures or scrap yards.”
“Lucky thing for us there’s no old buildings in New Orleans.”
“True, it’s around. If it helps, there was trace water with a high salt content transferred along with the blood, so the pipe’s been immersed in water recently and there are other blood types. One human.”
“One human?”
“O negative only on the human side. The other is animal blood. Also found a hair that looked like rodent hair, but not rat.”
“That leaves, what, gerbils, hamsters, squirrels, and muskrats?”
“It’s closer related to South American tapirs than muskrats.”
“Tapirs?”
“Nutria cousin the size of a pig. There’s one out at the zoo. The hair might have been there before the attack.”
“I doubt Gary West had any dealings with swimming rodents.”
“Amount of human blood was negligible and there were two blows.”
“That’s what Keen said,” Manseur said to himself.
“Keen?” Cooley asked.
“FBI Special Agent Keen,” Manseur said.
“Not Alexa Keen?” Cooley asked.
“You know her?”
“I know of her. Tech I work with at the FBI lab told me about her. He said she reads crime scenes better than he can. Said she has a gift for thinking twisted, reading people, and interpreting scenes accurately. I’ve sort of
