Robert Walker - Absolute Instinct

“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.”

“The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Will you arrange for an exhumation today?”

“The earliest would be tomorrow morning,” said Dr. Krueshach. “But the order must come from the chief of police recommended by the principal detective on the case. Other than that, you'd have to go through your federal channels.”

“Then that is what I'll do.” Sharpe pulled out his cellular phone and dialed Eriq Santiva to wake up and get a court order. He was in mid-sentence, having awakened Eriq, when Dr. Krueshach waved Sharpe down, protesting.

“All right! All right, I'll sign off on an exhumation.”

“Then do it,” he said to Krueshach. Turning to Brannan, he stated, “Detective, are we agreed?”

“All right, all right if Herman's going to sign off on it. We don't need to involve a lot of people. I'll make the necessary phone calls.”

Krueshach had gone to his file cabinet and pulled out a blank document. “Here's the exhumation order. You'll need to sign alongside my signature.”

Sharpe took the form and signed it, handed it back and thanked him. “I'll see you at the exhumation.”

Dr. Herman Krueshach nodded but said nothing. A man of few words, Sharpe thought, or a man with a guilty conscience. Jessica would call him incompetent to lose so much in the way of evidence.

Brannan said he'd awakened the mortuary and cemetery people who would meet them at the burial site on the out skirts of Millbrook. Together Brannan and Sharpe exited Dr. Krueshach's office.

As they climbed into Brannan's Oldsmobile, the Millbrook detective softly excused Dr. Herman Krueshach with something about incompatible software systems, horrible budget cuts, little assistance, and no incentives.

Sharpe didn't want to hear it.

Milwaukee, Wisconsin Same night

A shadow moved across the page she sat reading. Looking up, Jessica found Reynolds staring down at her in a kind of silent examination. “I'm sorry to interrupt you, but I was hoping we'd have come to some conclusions about what next.”

“What next?” He seemed awkward, his white shirt open, the linen contrasting sharply with his black chest. “Where do we go from here.”

“Enough with the arcane science lesson, huh?” she replied. All the wine was gone, but she tipped the bottle anyway, studying it as if to have some focal point. “I think to bed is where we go.”