Unnatural Exposure Page 8

  “The other fingers aren’t going to work,” he said, staring, as if in a trance. “They’re too curled for me to see. But thumbs look pretty darn good. Let’s capture this.” Clicking into a menu, he saved the image on the computer’s hard disk. “I’m going to want to work on this for a while.”

  That was his cue for me to leave, and I pushed back my chair.

  “If I get something, I’ll run it through AFIS right away,” he said of the Automated Fingerprint Identification System, capable of comparing unknown latent prints against a databank of millions.

  “That would be great,” I said. “And I’ll start with HALT.”

  He gave me a curious look, because the Homicide Assessment and Lead Tracking System was a Virginia database maintained by the state police in conjunction with the FBI. It was the place to start if we suspected the case was local.

  “Even though we have reason to suspect the other cases are not from here,” I explained to him, “I think we should search everything we can. Including Virginia databases.”

  Vander was still making adjustments, staring at the screen.

  “As long as I don’t have to fill out the forms,” he replied.

  In the hallway were more boxes and white cartons marked EVIDENCE lining either side and stacked to the ceiling. Scientists walked past, preoccupied and in a hurry, paperwork and samples in hand that might send someone to court for murder. We greeted each other without slowing down as I headed to the fibers and trace evidence lab, which was big and quiet. More scientists in white coats were bent over microscopes and working at their desks, black counters haphazardly arranged with mysterious bundles wrapped in brown paper.

  Aaron Koss was standing in front of an ultraviolet lamp that was glowing purple-red as he examined a slide through a magnifying lens to see what the reflective long wavelengths might tell him.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Same to you.” Koss grinned.

  Dark and attractive, he seemed too young to be an expert in microscopic fibers, residues, paints and explosives. This morning, he was in faded jeans and running shoes.

  “No court for you,” I said, for one could usually tell by the way people were dressed.

  “Nope. Lucky me,” he said. “Bet you’re curious about your fibers.”

  “I was in the neighborhood,” I said. “Thought I’d drop by.”

  I was notorious for making evidence rounds, and in the main, the scientists endured my intensity patiently, and in the end were grateful. I knew I pressured them when caseloads were already overwhelming. But when people were being murdered and dismembered, evidence needed to be examined now.

  “Well, you’ve granted me a reprieve from working on our pipe-bomber,” he said with another smile.

  “No luck with that,” I assumed.

  “They had another one last night. I-195 North near Laburnum, right under the nose of Special Operations. You know, where Third Precinct used to be, if you can believe that?”

  “Let’s hope the person sticks with just blowing up traffic signs,” I said.

  “Let’s hope.” He stepped back from the UV lamp and got very serious. “Here’s what I’ve got so far from what you’ve turned in to me. Fibers from fabric remnants embedded in bone. Hair. And trace that was adhering to blood.”

  “Her hair?” I asked, perplexed, for I had not receipted the long, grayish hairs to Koss. That was not his specialty.

  “What I saw under the scope don’t look human to me,” he replied. “Maybe two different types of animal. I’ve sent them on to Roanoke.”

  The state had only one hair expert, and he worked out of the western district forensic labs.

  “What about the trace?” I asked.

  “My guess is it’s going to be debris from the landfill. But I want to look under the electron microscope. What I’ve got under UV now is fibers,” he went on. “I should say they’re fragments, really, that I gave an ultrasonic bath in distilled water to remove blood. You want to take a look?”

  He gave me room to peer through the lens, and I smelled Obsession cologne. I could not help but smile, for I remembered being his age and still having the energy to preen. There were three mounted fragments fluorescing like neon lights. The fabric was white or off-white, one of them spangled with what looked like iridescent flecks of gold.

  “What in the world is it?” I glanced up at him.

  “Under the stereoscope, it looks synthetic,” he replied. “The diameters regular, consistent like they would be if they were extruded through spinnerettes, versus being natural and irregular. Like cotton, let’s say.”

  “And the fluorescing flecks?” I was still looking.

  “That’s the interesting part,” he said. “Though I’ve got to do further tests, at a glance it looks like paint.”

  I paused for a moment to imagine this. “What kind?” I asked.

  “It’s not flat and fine like automotive. This is gritty, more granular. Seems to be a pale, eggshell color. I’m thinking it’s structural.”

  “Are these the only fragments and fibers you’ve looked at?”

  “I’m just getting started.” He moved to another countertop and pulled out a stool. “I’ve looked at all of them under UV, and I’d say that about fifty percent of them have this paint-type substance soaked into the material. And although I can’t definitively say what the fabric is, I do know that all of the samples you submitted are the same type, and probably from the same source.”

  He placed a slide in the stage of a polarizing microscope, which, like Ray-Ban sunglasses, reduced glare, splitting light in different waves with different refractive index values to give us yet another clue as to the identity of the material.

  “Now,” he said, adjusting the focus as he stared into the lens without blinking. “This is the biggest fragment recovered, about the size of a dime. There are two sides to it.”

  He moved out of the way and I looked at fibers reminiscent of blond hairs with speckles of pink and green along the shaft.

  “Very consistent with polyester,” Koss explained. “Speckles are delusterants used in manufacturing so the material isn’t shiny. I also think there’s some rayon mixed in, and based on all this would have decided what you’ve got here is a very common fabric that could be used in almost anything. Anything from blouses to bedspreads. But there’s one big problem.”

  He opened a bottle of liquid solvent used for temporary mountings, and with tweezers, removed the cover slide and carefully turned the fragment over. Dripping xylene, he covered the slide again and motioned for me to bend close.

  “What do you see?” he asked, and he was proud of himself.

  “Something grayish and solid. Not the same material as the other side.” I looked at him in surprise. “This fabric has a backing on it?”

  “Some kind of thermoplastic. Probably polyethylene terephthalate.”

  “Which is used in what?” I wanted to know.

  “Primarily soft drink bottles, film. Blister packs used in packing.”

  I stared at him, baffled, for I did not see how those products could have anything to do with this case.

  “What else?” I asked.

  He thought. “Strapping materials. And some of it, like bottles, can be recycled and used for carpet fibers, fiberfill, plastic lumber. Just about anything.”

  “But not fabric for clothing.”

  He shook his head, and said with certainty, “No way. The fabric in question is a rather common, crude polyester blend lined with a plastic-type material. Definitely not like any clothing I’ve ever heard of. Plus, it appears to be saturated with paint.”

  “Thank you, Aaron,” I said. “This changes everything.”

  When I got back to my office, I was surprised and annoyed to find Percy Ring sitting in a chair across from my desk, flipping through a notebook.

  “I had to be in Richmond for an interview at Channel Twelve,” he innocently said, “so I thought I might as well come by to see you. They want
to talk to you, too.” He smiled.

  I did not answer him, but my silence was loud as I sat in my chair.

  “I didn’t think you would do the interview. And that’s what I told them,” he went on in his easy, affable way.

  “And so tell me, what exactly did you say this time?” My tone was not nice.

  “Excuse me?” His smile faded and his eyes got hard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re the investigator. Figure it out.” My eyes were just as hard as his.

  He shrugged. “I gave the usual. Just the basic information about the case and its similarities to the other ones.”

  “Investigator Ring, let me make this very clear yet one more time,” I said with no attempt to hide my disdain for him. “This case is not necessarily like the other ones, and we should not be discussing it with the media.”

  “Well, now, it appears you and I have a different perspective, Dr. Scarpetta.”

  Handsome in a dark suit and paisley suspenders and tie, he looked remarkably credible. I could not help but recall what Wesley had said about Ring’s ambitions and connections, and the idea that this egotistical idiot would one day run the state police or be elected to Congress was one I could not stand.

  “I think the public has a right to know if there’s a psycho in their midst,” he was saying.

  “And that’s what you said on TV.” My irritation flared hotter. “That there’s a psycho in our midst.”

  “I don’t remember my exact words. The real reason I stopped by is I’m wondering when I’m going to get a copy of the autopsy report.”

  “Still pending.”

  “I need it as soon as I can get it.” He looked me in the eye. “The Commonwealth’s Attorney wants to know what’s going on.”

  I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. He would not be talking to a C.A. unless there was a suspect.

  “What are you saying?” I asked.

  “I’m looking hard at Keith Pleasants.”

  I was incredulous.

  “There are a lot of circumstantial things,” he went on, “not the least of which is how he just so happened to be the one operating the Cat when the torso was found. You know, he usually doesn’t operate earth-moving equipment, and then just happens to be in the driver’s seat at that exact moment?”

  “I should think that makes him more a victim than a suspect. If he’s the killer,” I continued, “one might expect that he wouldn’t have wanted to be within a hundred miles of the landfill when the body was found.”

  “Psychopaths like to be right there,” he said as if he knew. “They fantasize about what it would be like to be there when the victim is discovered. They get off on it, like that ambulance driver who murdered women, then dumped them in the area he covered. When it was time to go on duty, he’d call 911 so he was the one who ended up responding.”

  In addition to his degree in psychology, he no doubt had attended a lecture on profiling, too. He knew it all.

  “Keith lives with his mother, who I think he really resents,” he went on, smoothing his tie. “She had him late in life, is in her sixties. He takes care of her.”

  “Then his mother is still alive and accounted for,” I said.

  “Right. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t take out his aggressions on some other poor old woman. Plus—and you won’t believe this—in high school, he worked at the meat counter of a grocery store. He was a butcher’s assistant.”

  I did not tell him that I did not think a meat saw had been used in this case, but let him talk.

  “He’s never been very social, which again fits the profile.” He continued spinning his fantastic web. “And it’s rumored among the other guys who work at the landfill that he’s homosexual.”

  “Based on what?”

  “On the fact he doesn’t date women or even seem interested in them when the other guys make remarks, jokes. You know how it is with a bunch of rough guys.”

  “Describe the house he lives in.” I thought of the photographs sent to me through e-mail.

  “Two-story frame, three bedrooms, kitchen, living room. Middle class on its way to being poor. Like maybe in an earlier day when his old man was around, they had it pretty nice.”

  “What happened to the father?”

  “Ran off before Keith was born.”

  “Brothers, sisters?” I asked.

  “Grown, have been for a long time. I guess he was a surprise. I suspect Mr. Pleasants isn’t the father, explaining why he was already gone before Keith was even around.”

  “And what is this suspicion based on?” I asked with an edge.

  “My gut.”

  “I see.”

  “Where they live is remote, about ten miles from the landfill, in farmland,” he said. “Got a pretty good-size yard, a garage that’s detached from the house.” He crossed his legs, pausing, as if what he had to add next was important. “There are a lot of tools, and a big workbench. Keith says he’s a handyman and uses the garage when things need fixing around the house. I did see a hacksaw hanging up on a pegboard, and a machete he says he uses for cutting back kudzu and weeds.”

  Slipping out of his jacket, he carefully draped it over his lap as he continued the tour of Keith Pleasants’ life.

  “You certainly had access to a lot of places without a warrant,” I cut him off.

  “He was cooperative,” he replied, nonplussed. “Let’s talk about what’s in this guy’s head.” He tapped his own. “First, he’s smart, real smart, books, magazines, newspapers all over the place. Get this. He’s been videotaping news accounts of this case, clipping articles.”

  “Probably most of the people working at the landfill are,” I reminded him.

  But Ring was not interested in one word I said.

  “He reads all kinds of crime stuff. Thrillers. Silence of the Lambs, Red Dragon. Tom Clancy, Ann Rule . . .”

  I interrupted again because I could not listen to him a moment longer. “You’ve just described a typical American reading list. I can’t tell you how to conduct your investigation, but let me try to persuade you to follow the evidence . . .”

  “I am,” he interrupted right back. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “That’s exactly what you’re not doing. You don’t even know what the evidence is. You haven’t received a single report from my office or the labs. You haven’t received a profile from the FBI. Have you even talked to Marino or Grigg?”

  “We keep missing each other.” He got up and put his jacket back on. “I need those reports.” It sounded like an order. “The C.A. will be calling you. By the way, how’s Lucy?”

  I did not want him to even know my niece’s name, and it was evident by the surprised, angry look in my eyes.

  “I wasn’t aware the two of you were acquainted,” I coolly replied.

  “I sat in on one of her classes, I don’t know, a couple months back. She was talking about CAIN.”

  I grabbed a stack of death certificates from the in-basket, and began initialing them.

  “Afterwards she took us over to HRT for a robotics demo,” he said from the doorway. “She seeing anyone?”

  I had nothing to say.

  “I mean, I know she lives with another agent. A woman. But they’re just roommates, right?”

  His meaning was plain, and I froze, looking up as he walked off, whistling. Furious, I collected an armload of paperwork and was getting up from my desk when Rose walked in.

  “He can park his shoes under my bed anytime he wants,” she said in Ring’s wake.

  “Please!” I couldn’t stand it. “I thought you were an intelligent woman, Rose.”

  “I think you need some hot tea,” she said.

  “Maybe so.” I sighed.

  “But we have another matter first,” she said in her businesslike way. “Do you know someone named Keith Pleasants?”

  “What about him?” For an instant, my mind locked.

  “He’s in the lobby,” she said. �
��Very upset, refuses to leave until he sees you. I started to call security, but thought I should check . . .” The look on my face stopped her cold.

  “Oh my God,” I exclaimed in dismay. “Did he and Ring see each other?”

  “I have no idea,” she said, and now she was very perplexed. “Is something wrong?”

  “Everything.” I sighed, dropping the paperwork back on my desk.

  “Then you do or don’t want me to call security?”

  “Don’t.” I walked briskly past her.

  My heels were sharp and directed as I followed the hallway to the front, and around a corner into a lobby that had never been homey no matter how hard I had tried. No amount of tasteful furniture or prints on walls could disguise the terrible truths that brought people to these doors. Like Keith Pleasants, they sat woodenly on a blue upholstered couch that was supposed to be unprovocative and soothing. In shock, they stared at nothing or wept.

  I pushed open the door as he sprung to his feet, eyes bloodshot. I could not quite tell if he were in a rage or a panic as he almost lunged at me. For an instant, I thought he was going to grab me or start swinging. But he awkwardly dropped his hands by his sides and glared at me, his face darkening as his outrage boiled over.

  “You got no right to be saying things like that about me!” he exclaimed with clenched fists. “You don’t know me! Don’t know anything about me!”

  “Easy, Keith,” I said, calmly, but with authority.

  Motioning for him to sit back down, I pulled up a chair so I could face him. He was breathing hard, trembling, eyes wounded and filled with furious tears.

  “You met me one time.” He shot a finger at me. “One lousy time and then say things.” His voice was quavering. “I’m about to lose my job.” He covered his mouth with a fist, averting his eyes as he fought for control.

  “In the first place,” I said, “I have not said a word about you. Not to anyone.”

  He glanced at me.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” My eyes were steady on him, and I spoke with quiet confidence that made him waver. “I wish you’d explain it to me.”

  He was studying me with uncertainty, lies he had been led to believe about me wavering in his eyes.