Gregg Hurwitz - The Crime Writer

"It would be the opposite, actually. If there's liver damage, it would make you more sensitive to sevoflurane. But you're stacking an awful lot of assumptions here. Even your memory loss, to begin with you can't know what caused it. The tumor? The surgery? The anesthesia?"

I mused on this a moment. But there were too many moving parts to get a handle on now. "How's it administered? Sevoflurane?"

Lloyd shifted on the sofa, swirled his drink around. "Face mask."

"I figured. So maybe I woke up because it was imperfectly administered. Maybe at my house the killer wore an oxygen mask and let the gas loose in my bedroom, near my face, while I slept." I snapped my fingers, leaning forward. "Remember, there were signs of a struggle in Kasey Broach's bedroom."

"Kaden and Delveckio told you that, too?"

"Broach would've woken up when the killer pressed the mask over her face, but he figured he was strong enough to hold her down until the gas took effect. She's a petite woman, looks what? a buck ten?"

"A hundred and thirteen pounds," Lloyd said quietly.

"Right. But I doubt he'd want to take his chances waking me up by pressing a mask over my face. So he released the gas into the air while I was sleeping."

"Do you have any proof you can hang this theory on?"

"Not a scrap. Maybe this points to someone with medical expertise. Is it hard to get? Sevoflurane?"

"It's controlled, but not like an opiate."

"Can you tell from Kasey Broach's blood level how long she was kept unconscious?"

"Nearly impossible to determine."

"Can you tell when my DNA got on her body? Or the plastic drop cloth?"

"There's no way to put an age on DNA. Only that it was there during analysis." Lloyd held up his hands, thin fingers spread. "Let's hold on a minute. Slow down. You're not working off facts "

"How else did my DNA get on Kasey Broach's body?"

"For the record, we didn't get you on DNA. This isn't a TV show we need at least forty-eight hours to DNA type. We did a traditional ABO. You're AB negative, which puts you with less than one percent of the population."

"They SWAT-raided me off that?"

He rooted in his knapsack and came out with a report, which he tossed at me irritably. "The hair follicle. I matched the cuticle and medulla with a known sample we had for you."

"How about these?" I pointed at four samples farther down the page. "These don't match."

"That's because one's mine and two are from Ted McGraw, who helped me examine the body." He studied my expression and shook his head. "A simple contamination during processing, happens all the time. Don't go putting poor Ted in the conservatory with the candlestick."

"How about the fourth hair?"

"Unidentified. No match in the databases. We're holding it, but it's probably nothing. Frankly, I'm surprised we didn't pick up more strays, the way the wind was blowing."

"So one hair for me, one for Mr. Mystery. But my door gets the battering ram."

"Between your hair, the blood-type match, and the similarities to Bertrand's body, Kaden and Delveckio were ready to make a move on you. At this stage you're the only link between the victims." Lloyd's gaze was steady. Not judgmental, not accusatory. Just steady. "The blood DNA comes back tomorrow. I wouldn't hold your breath that it'll exonerate you."

"It could be someone inside. Kaden and Delveckio said the killer posed the body like Genevieve's, in ways that weren't released to the press. And a cop or detective might want me to go down for Genevieve's killing."

Lloyd looked at me as if I were paranoid, which I was. "So badly that they'd murder an innocent girl? Come on, Drew. Crime-scene photos leak." He leaned over and snatched the paper back from me. "Unlike criminalist reports. Plus, given the trial, there were a lot of lawyers and reporters poking around the Bertrand case files. The specifics were hardly kept as state secrets. Kaden and Delveckio were probably just trying to rattle you."

The crime-scene photos I'd stolen reinforced Lloyd's point. Kaden had grown touchy when I'd pushed for more information on what they'd gotten off the body. Ah, here it is: None of your fucking business.

I led him a bit with my next question. "What about the other key piece of evidence?"

"The rope? It's an all-cotton brand used for bondage. Probably bought at an erotic specialty store."

"Why tie rope around the ankles but tape the wrists?"

"Easier to transport a body. Easier to throw it out a vehicle. No limbs flapping around."

"No, I mean, why use different restraints on the same body?"

"You ever bind someone's wrists with rope?"

"No. Have you?"

He guffawed I'd forgotten about his great, unruly laugh. "No. But it's difficult. You can squirm your hands free easier than you can your feet."

"So why not use electrical tape on both the wrists and ankles?"

"I don't have an answer for you, Drew. But we're looking into it. This and more." He set down his glass and yawned. I could only imagine his exhaustion working long days, caring for his wife every spare waking hour. He walked me to the door. "It goes without saying that you can't mention to anyone and I mean anyone that I saw you today."

"I won't. And don't worry you didn't tell me anything that hasn't already been disclosed to me." I felt like a heel. This was a guy who, when asked to confirm an autopsy detail for me, would fax me a two-page essay. Now he'd stepped away from work and left his dying wife to help me, and I'd manipulated him, then lied about it. Not the first time I'd lied in pursuit of something I wanted, but I told myself I wouldn't let it come back to bite him in the ass. We shook hands, and I said, "I'm very appreciative that you took the time to talk with me. I know you're on overload."

He nodded, pausing in the doorway while I walked up the gravel drive. He didn't seem eager to head back down that hall. I got to the gate and turned around, and there he was, still silhouetted against the faint light from the kitchen.

"Leave it alone, Drew," he called after me. "This isn't one of your books."

I raised a hand and slipped through onto the street.

The hell it isn't.

I stared again at my latest chapter, now pockmarked with Preston's notes.

Someone was out to get me. Someone had broken in to my house, drugged me while I slept, stolen my blood, and dripped it onto a corpse. Creeped out (1). I rose from bed and moved room to room, inspecting the doors and windows. All secure. Then I checked the garage, the closets, behind sofas and under beds. I was alone in the house.

I'd covered over the shattered panes in the front door with acrylic packing tape (2). Though guarded by shards and tape, the apertures may have been big enough for someone to reach through to the dead bolt a few feet below. Before returning upstairs, I layered over the windows yet again, figuring that if I left my bedroom door open, I'd be able to hear the tape being peeled back by an intruder.

Not 1: Use something here that is not a cliche.

Note 2: Why not hammer a piece of wood across the holes. We're talking about your life-let's not be fastidious about the architecture.

Note 3: I went to one of those meager, inopulent feasts just last week. it pisses me off that they call them feasts, y'know?

I lay atop my sheets, sweating despite the January chill, images and conversation snippets crowding my mind. The crime-scene photos, spread across the interrogation table like an opulent feast (3). Kaden and Delveckio freezing me out of the investigation. We don't have anything we can disclose at this point in time (4). Cal's offering me only a denunciation and my own image (5).

Note 4: Point in time? why must these guys talk like Dragnet? Their self-important language is embarrassing, since the narrator seems not to notice it.