Stephen White - Cold Case

"Russ. Call me Russ. What floor? Top floor," replied Claven.

"We're on the top floor. Follow me. We shouldn't dawdle." He strode across a stunning old tribal carpet that was bigger than my office and up a ten-foot-wide staircase that was lined with banisters and handrails of exquisitely turned wrought iron. He waited for us at the landing and, with his arms parted, pirouetted to face a pair of heavy paneled doors. He said, "Voila.

Oh, wait, do either of you need to use the John?"

Lauren replied, "I do."

"That door, there." Russ pointed to the opposite side of the landing.

"Alan, you're sure your bladder is up to it? Kimber doesn't like anyone to leave until the initial part of the meeting is over. It could be a while. He runs these things like he's Werner Erhard and we're all at an old-time est meeting." Lauren disappeared into the bathroom. Russ asked me if I climbed rocks. I told him I didn't but that I had friends who did, mostly in Eldorado Canyon.

"Oh maaan. Envy, envy. You should try it, you really should. You'll fall in love, I promise you. I'm going this summer for sure. First week in August, I'm climbing in Eldorado Springs. A long time dream of mine. I'll tell you, if it wasn't for climbing rocks and windsurfing I don't know how I'd stay sane." I told him I liked to ride bikes.

He nodded and said, "That's okay, too," but his voice conveyed the same kind of disdain that snow boarders routinely express for skiers. Lauren returned to the landing. Claven's last words as he placed his left hand on one of the ornate doorknobs were, "Don't worry about being late. They'll probably blame me. It's one of my primary roles in the organization. Designated screw up." He snapped his fingers and added, "Oh, and if anyone asks, tell them I checked your ID."

A second set of doors, these of some kind of metal, awaited us inside. Claven mouthed a profanity, added, "I knew it. They've started," and punched a code into a keypad mounted on the wall of the small foyer. Moments later the metal slabs slid open in the same silent, fluid motion as elevator doors.

The doors closed behind us just as the lights in the room were dimming to black.

My retinal image of the scene in front of me was of nothing but silhouettes.

The room was large, maybe thirty by forty, and appeared to have been set up as a small theater with perhaps two dozen seats. I tried to visualize the backs of the heads I had seen and decided that more than half the chairs were occupied.

Claven separated my hand from Lauren's and led her to our right. I grabbed her other hand and followed them to seats near the back of the room. The chairs were big, leather, and comfortable. Mine rocked gently as I sat down. A deep, unaccented voice cracked the silence in the room.

"Nice of you to join us, Dr. Claven. You've gathered our final guests?"

"Yes, Kimber. All present and accounted for."

A spotlight clicked on and washed an uneven circle at the front of the room. At the bottom of the circle a man sat on the edge of a small stage, gripping a cordless microphone as though it were a cherished cigar. He was staring at the wall to our right. I was surprised to note he was no older than I was. His blond hair was thick, like his body.

"Good day, all. My name is Kimber Lister. To those of you who are visiting my home for the first time, please permit me to offer you a warm welcome to my dwelling and a gracious introduction to… Locard."

It was silent.

Kimber Lister's eyes never strayed toward the small audience as he addressed us from the diminutive stage. His voice was a resonating baritone that caused the sub woofer in the room's sound system to rumble. The rich timbre of the sound was an incongruous counterpoint to the body of the man who was speaking; Kimber was soft and round and appeared almost childlike and angelic, despite his size.

"As we have three visitors with us today, I will briefly survey our procedure.

The Locard Acceptance Committee has already reviewed the case we will be discussing this afternoon. After contemplation and deliberation, the committee has reached a decision to permit the entire group to hear the details of the case and to render a decision as to whether or not to offer our expertise and make our services available to assist the local authorities in accomplishing a final determination of the issues that remain unresolved in the matters that will be before us today."

Russ Claven leaned my way and said, "He always talks like this when he's in front of groups. The man was born in the wrong century." Lister continued to focus his attention on the wall.

"The purpose of today's meeting of the complete membership-in consort with our invited professional guests-is threefold. First, we will use this opportunity to familiarize ourselves with the specifics of the case. That is… to review what is known, and to make an initial determination of the breadth and quality of the evidence that was developed during earlier phases of the investigation-those conducted by local authorities contemporary to, and subsequent to, the crime. Second, we will make a final determination as to whether or not to commit our resources to provide assistance toward further analysis. Finally, should we decide to proceed, we will endeavor to develop and implement a strategy that will permit us to take the investigation to a more fulfilling level. To further those objectives, we will use presentation, discussion, question and answer, argument, and deduction.

Through the process that ensues, remaining investigatory tasks will be identified and fertile forensic pathways marked. Locard members and visiting experts alike will then use these guidelines to delineate tasks so that appropriate individuals might accept responsibility for making additional analyses and inquiries that are in line with their areas of expertise. As the developing evidence dictates, of course."

One of the effects of Lister's profundity was that I found myself attending vigorously to his words. His manner of speaking was so obtuse that it required additional concentration. He paused as my eyes began to adjust to the darkness.

I tried to scan the room to find A. J. Simes. Based on my memory of her hairstyle I settled on two likely candidates who were sitting near the front of the room.

Before he resumed his soliloquy, Lister lifted his feet from the floor and turned so that he was in profile to his audience. His feet and buttocks now rested on the stage; his knees were in the air. He still hadn't looked our way.

Behind him, a large movie screen descended silently from a slit in the ceiling at the back of the narrow stage. Lister said, "We'll begin with a short film presentation."

Russ Claven leaned over again and whispered in my ear. His breath was fetid.

"We always begin with a short film presentation. Mr. Lister would much rather be Ken Burns than Sherlock Holmes."

The first image on the screen was a close-up of the left hand of a woman. Her fingers were long and thin. Only a solitary ornament-a delicate ring of silver and amethyst-adorned the hand. The ring graced the pinkie. The fingernails on the hand were manicured but not painted, the cuticles having been trimmed with some care. From the lack of wrinkles on the skin I guessed that I was looking at the hand of a young woman.

Lauren, sitting beside me, reached over and squeezed the wrist on my left arm.

The gesture was a warning, a caution. The gesture said, Get ready, here it comes.

The camera pulled back slowly, revealing the woman's wrist and bare arm. A half-inch curved scar caused a quarter moon of silver to shine smoothly two inches below her elbow. The arm was trim, the biceps firm.

The theater was funereally quiet. I kept waiting for blood to darken the screen.

I was sure there was about to be blood.