I venture, “but I don’t think the government uses it much. I mean why would they care about what I eat or what TV shows I watch?”
“Because, while our free society is just an illusion, it’s an important illusion. It’s what keeps us happy and content. It keeps us from rising up against the government. It keeps us placid. But the truth is, our government is far from a democracy. A few key people have all the power and pull all the strings. The rest of them are merely for show.”
“Come on,” I argue. “Don’t you think that’s a bit farfetched?”
“You can believe that if you want, but I know the truth. They’re out there. Hell, do you have any idea how many man-made satellites are now in orbit around the earth? More than eight thousand.
“Like we’re gonna believe that!” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “And even if it is true, we only need a handful of well-placed satellites to handle all the communications and legitimate research needs we have in the world. Know what all those other satellites up there are for?”
I have no idea but I’m beginning to hope one of them is aimed at Arnie. And that it has a death ray of some sort, though I’ll settle for stun mode.
“To watch us. That’s what they’re for. They can remote control a satellite right now and aim it at your house. They have special cameras that can see right through your roof and walls, watch you in your bedroom, watch you in your
My face flushes hot as I think about some super-duper eye-in-the-sky watching me in my bathroom. The very idea gives me the heebie-jeebies.
Arnie sucks in a deep breath and looks around the room with a startled expression on his face, as if surprised to find himself here. “Sorry,” he says. “I sometimes get a little emotional about this stuff.”
The man is a master of understatement.
“So, anyway—he makes a broad sweep with his hand—“this is where I work.”
“It’s…um…very nice. Are you happy here?” I can hear how dumb it sounds even as I say it, but I’m still a bit rattled by Arnie’s rant and it’s all I can think of at the moment.
“Yeah, I love it,” Arnie says. “Izzy is great to work with. He’s got a great mind. And I’m often on my own here. I work better that way.”
That isn’t too hard to believe, I think.
“My primary function is to review, examine, process, and interpret the evidence we collect, everything from fibers and dust particles to bloodstained clothing.”
“So, walk me through a case from start to finish,” I say, glad to have him finally focusing on the topic I want to discuss. “Tell me what evidence was collected and what you did or intend to do with it. For instance, that case that came in this morning, the woman who was shot to death. What have you done with the evidence related to her case?”
I purposely don’t mention Karen’s name, striving for a tone of reasonable curiosity peppered with indifference. I don’t know if Arnie knows of my connection to the case, but if he doesn’t, I want to get as much out of him as I can before he finds out. Hurley told me to stay away from Karen’s autopsy, but he didn’t say anything about learning what the evidence might reveal. Besides, if I’m going to be investigating cases, I need to know all this stuff.
Arnie leans back against the countertop and wags a finger at me. “See, now that’s where you’ll go wrong every time. Lesson number one: Why do you think she was shot to death?”
I blink at him in confusion. “I was there at the scene. I saw her.”
“What did you see?”
“A woman with a bullet hole in her chest and lots of blood all around.”
“How do you know it was a bullet hole?”
I think about that. “Because the cops said it was.”
“Don’t believe what you hear. Only believe what you know to be true based on your own observations and research. Are you absolutely certain the hole in her chest couldn’t have been made by something else?”
“No,” I admit.
“For the sake of argument, let’s assume it
“Well, she was dead. And I do know dead,” I assure him. It’s amazing the things I can take pride in.
“But how do you know she was shot while she was still alive? How do you know she wasn’t killed by some other means and then shot to cover up the real method?”
I think Arnie is getting a bit farfetched now, but I’m starting to get into it. Besides, he has a point. The clues have to be carefully and scientifically evaluated. I’m beginning to see how jumping to conclusions can be dangerous.
“Well, there was a lot of blood,” I tell him. “If she was already dead when she was shot, her heart wouldn’t have been pumping and there wouldn’t have been so much blood. Plus, there were some sprays of blood, from arterial pressure. If she’d been dead already, she wouldn’t have had any arterial pressure.”
Arnie gives me a look of surprised pleasure. “Very good,” he says. “That’s the type of observational skills that will serve you well around here.”
I beam at him, feeling like a character in an Agatha Christie novel.
“Now, let’s look at the other evidence we have on that case.” He turns toward the countertop and picks up a clipboard.
“We have lots of trace evidence,” he says, scanning what appears to be a checklist on the clipboard. “We have the bullet that killed her—it’s from a .357 Magnum and we can match it to a specific gun if we find one. We also have some trace evidence Izzy found on the body that doesn’t appear to have come from the location where the victim was found: two blond hairs, each one about an inch or so in length, and three wool fibers in a teal blue color, most likely from a carpet.”
I feel my skin grow cold. David’s hair is blond and the carpet in our living room is teal-colored wool.
“Then there’s this,” Arnie says, showing me a picture. It’s the back of a shoulder, the white skin marred by three, oval-shaped bruises. In my mind I replay the scene where David leapt from the couch and grabbed Karen by her shoulders, shaking her. Somehow I know his fingers will fit those bruises perfectly.
I must look as shaken as I feel because Arnie is staring at me kind of funny and asks, “Are you all right?”
I nod.
“You weren’t there during the autopsy this morning, were you?”
I shake my head but offer no explanation.
“Why not?”
There is a long silence while I stare at the walls and Arnie stares at me. Then I have a brainstorm. “I’m sorta kinda too close to the case,” I tell him. “I know the victim.” I hope this will be explanation enough. At the hospital, it was always understood that no one would work on anyone they were related to if it could be avoided. I feel certain the same principles apply here.
“Know her how?” Arnie persists.
I let out a perturbed sigh, realizing that Arnie won’t give up until he knows it all. “I think I might be a suspect,” I admit.
“A suspect?” I expect Arnie to throw me out of his lab immediately. Instead he says, “Wait, let me guess. Your almost ex was dipping his wick in the victim.”
“Yeah,” I say, surprised and impressed by Arnie’s ability to ferret out the truth. Later I’d learn the dink had known the whole story all along and had, in fact, assisted Izzy on the autopsy in my absence.
“So did you do it?” Arnie asks.
“No! Of course not.”
“Bet you would have liked to though, huh?”
I start to utter another protest but quickly realize Arnie will see right through it. “The thought might have crossed my mind a time or two,” I admit sheepishly.
