show of horrors—and perhaps with his good looks, too. The adjective “distinguished” seemed made for him. When Liz re-entered the overheated room, he was removing a suit jacket that had to have been hand-tailored, revealing a shirt ornamented with cuff links. Draping the jacket over a chair and turning back to the assembly in one smooth motion, he enlightened the crowd: “Bite marks, like fingerprints, are very individual markers that help us identify, with a fine degree of certainty, the animal or person who made the marks.” He went on to display slides of distinctive teeth-filled jaws and some grisly bite marks that had been made by those teeth.
The library director turned in her chair and surveyed the room with concern. Probably, she had expected the good doctor to focus on assault with blunt instruments and other less blood-curdling acts of bodily harm. She needn’t have worried. Only two ladies left the room in apparent distress. The others hung in for the whole horrific presentation, paying rapt attention. Dr. Kinnaird only succeeded in drawing a collective groan from them when he spoke of the likelihood that a victim might urinate under stress or in the throes of dying.
It was difficult to get Kinnaird’s attention after his talk, since his audience looked ready to make his book,
The forensics man only became free when it was Pamela Nesnarf’s turn to speak. The blowsy blonde looked more like a hooker than a private eye. And that, Liz heard her say, was the secret of her success.
“You’ve heard of the equal playing field. Well, that’s how I like my turf,” she said. “I figure, the cheating husband is gonna be pretty good at hiding who he really is—a suburban spouse with kids. So when I track him down with his lady friend in a bar or wherever, I don’t want to look like what I am, either. If he looks at me, he
In the library’s lobby, Liz turned her attention from Nesnarf’s talk, which could be easily heard, thanks to loudspeakers in the assembly room, and focused her attention on Dr. Kinnaird.
“I wonder if you could help me?” she said. “I’ve been covering the missing persons case in Newton. Have you read about it?”
“Indeed, I have. I commend your editors on having you consult me.”
Liz smiled. “We always seek the top experts,” she said.
The doctor’s ice-blue eyes flashed. “Of course, I’m handcuffed, so to speak, by not having visited the scene of the crime. All I have seen is your paper’s front-page photo. That’s very little, indeed, to work with.”
“Does it tell you anything at all?”
“It tells me the missing woman was trying her darnedest to outdo Martha Stewart. A custard dish for every sprinkle and flake of coconut. She hardly seems like the kind of person to leave such a bloody mess.”
“What about the blood? Does it give you any hints as to what must have happened?”
“Blood stains always have much to tell a knowledgeable forensics man. But when they’re only seen in a photo, let’s just say their communication would be rather more like a timid whisper than a definite shout. I would need considerably more to go on before I could hope to make any useful comment.”
“If I were able to supply you with more photos of the scene, do you think it’s possible you could draw any further conclusions?”
“It’s hard to say if there would be anything I’d be willing to state for the record. But I’d be willing to take a look at your pictures, on the condition that you don’t quote me unless I okay it.”
“Agreed! I’ll be going back to the newsroom this afternoon. I should be able to get copies of the photos then. What’s your schedule like? Could I show them to you by around 4:00 p.m.?”
“I’m afraid that won’t work for me. I’m scheduled to testify in Cambridge this afternoon.” Although his accent was American without any regional edge, Kinnaird pronounced “scheduled” in the British manner—“sheduled”— adding to the pompous impression his choice of words had already given. “It’s impossible to predict how late that will run,” he went on, and then surprised Liz by adding, “and I’m playing at the Green Briar after that.”
Liz knew the Green Briar was an Irish pub in Brighton, a working-class Boston neighborhood located on the Newton line. But it seemed strange for a distinguished forensics expert to admit he “played” there at night.
Reading the expression on her face he said, “The banjo. I play the Irish tenor banjo.”
“I didn’t know such a thing existed. What makes it different than the ‘Oh, Susannah!’ kind? Are you in a band?”
“So many questions! I don’t have time to explain it now. Look, if you’re interested, why don’t you meet me at the Green Briar at around seven tonight? You can bring the photos and I’ll take a look at them.”
Liz thought quickly. If she couldn’t get information from Kinnaird before the six o’clock deadline for first edition, she might still have a chance of getting something into a later printing.
“You’re on!” she said. “See you at seven.”
Taking a seat on a bench in the lobby, Liz gave some attention to the last half of Nesnarf’s talk. It seemed to be based on the private eye’s specialty, rounding up straying spouses. The sobering statistics she delivered about unfaithful mates seemed to upset this mostly female audience more than did Kinnaird’s bite marks presentation. Despite this, Nesnarf managed to make the mystery mavens laugh, as she enlivened her talk with anecdotes about men whose foolish infidelity to clever wives landed them in hilarious fixes.
“Sometimes I wonder why these wives hire me,” Nesnarf said. “Forget the old evidence of lipstick on the collar. I had a case in which an errant husband came home from a rendezvous with custard on his cravat. Yes, a cravat! That’s how uncool this dude was. The problem was, he was one of those extreme vegans who won’t eat any animal products. And his wife was a food sciences professor at the culinary institute. A quick analysis in her lab proved this guy truly had egg on his cravat, if not his face.”
The mention of cooking ingredients made Liz recall the bloody scene in Ellen’s kitchen, captured in DeZona’s photo. She found a pay phone and called the
“Photo. DeZona here.”
“Rene! I’m glad you answered. It’s Liz. How long are you on tonight?”
“Another few hours unless they send me out on assignment.”
“Listen, could you do me a favor?”
“Depends on what it is and on what The Powers That Be need me to do.”
“Could you print the rest of your pictures from the Johansson kitchen?”
“I only took two shots before the police kicked me out, but I have some I took outside and in the living room with you and the kid, too.”
“Print as many as you can, please. I need them to show to a forensics guy tonight. And could you enlarge any sections that show blood or other forensic evidence?”
“Yeah, sure. You know Dick has already been interviewing the medical examiner. What’s his name? Barney Williams. I know because I took a head-shot for the paper.”
“Were you with Dick all day?”
“Part of the time. Look, where are you calling from?”
“Worcester.”
“Well, why don’t you let me get on with this? We can talk when you get to the newsroom.”
“Okay. One more thing, Rene.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve got a film Ellen Johansson took when she was out of town, I think. Could you print it on the sly for me?”
“I’ll try,” DeZona said, hanging up.
Liz made her way to the reference desk.
“I have a Boston Public Library card,” she said. “Would I be able to use that card to take out books here?”
“I’m afraid not,” the librarian said. “We’re in a different network. And you’d have to be a resident of greater Worcester in order to apply for a library card here. You can certainly use our books within the building, however.”
“That won’t work for me. I really need to look at some books for an article I’m writing for the
