Scott Sigler - Nocturnal - A Novel

But it looked the same as her current sample.

She held them side by side: exactly the same.

She put the new one under the microscope. Just as she had done with the first sample, she started at low magnification to see the entire shape. The hair had a tapered end, as would be expected from animal fur. Ends of human hair were almost always cut , something that could easily be seen under a microscope, while most animal fur tapered to a point because the strands of fur wore down on their own.

At higher magnification, things got weird.

Hair or fur has three parts: the cortex , the cuticle and the medulla . Comparing it to a pencil, the cortex is the wood, the medulla is the lead and the thin coat of yellow paint is the cuticle.

The cuticle is a layer of cells that covers the shaft, like scales on a snake. The pattern of scales differs from species to species. Crownlike scales, called coronal , are common among rodents. Triangular spinous scales indicate cat hairs.

The sample Robin examined had imbricate , or flattened , scales.

Dog fur had imbricate scales, but those scales were thick sheets that wrapped all the way around. The scales on the sample from the blanket, however, were thinner, finer and tighter than would be found in dog fur.

This type of imbricate scales were found on human hair.

She checked a third strand, a fourth, then a fifth. All had fine scales, all had tapered ends.

Maybe the attacker had hair that grew very slowly. Maybe he rarely, if ever, had to get it cut. Maybe the strands were from a man with a receding hairline, his follicular growth slowed to a near standstill. Guys who were balding didn’t like trimming what little hair they had left.

Possible, but then there were the bite marks, the parallel gouges on Oscar Woody’s bones. Those had to be from an animal. A big animal. Sure, a handler and a big animal working together could account for the damage, and the handler’s hair could have been in the wound, but with that level of contact so would some fur from the animal.

The STR results from the saliva would soon be finished. If that came back as human, it would correlate with what she saw in these hairs. She could confirm the hair as human, however, by finding samples that still had follicles attached to the root end, then running the tests on those follicular cells.

Human or animal, soon she would know for certain.

Pookie’s Pimpin’ Gear

We need your help, Alex,” Pookie said. “Can you think of anyone who would want to get back at you for anything?”

Pookie waited for an answer. He and Bryan sat in chairs, while Alex Panos and his mother, Susan, sat on the couch across from them. A coffee table with a vase of fresh flowers separated the pairs. A pack of cigarettes and a box of Kleenex lay on the table in front of Susan, but she had yet to light up and seemed to favor the already well-used wad of tissue clutched in her hand.

Alex wore jeans, black combat boots and a brand-new crimson-and-gold Boston College Eagles jacket. He glared at the cops in his living room, his lip all but curled into a snarl. Susan Panos watched her son, her hands nervously working the wad of tissue now so ravaged and wet with tears that little shreds of it broke off to drift down lightly to the brown carpet below.

“Alex, honey,” she said, “can you answer the man?”

Alex looked at his mother with the same expression of bored disdain he’d affixed on the cops.

She dabbed her eyes. “Please?”

Alex leaned back into the couch, his mouth making a little psh sound. He crossed his arms over his chest.

The kid was a real prize, the kind that Pookie wished he could just shake some sense into. Alex was big enough that most people stayed out of his way, giving him an overly inflated sense of badassery. He was also young enough to think he was bulletproof.

They sat in Susan’s two-bedroom apartment on Union Street, just east of Hyde. It was a nice, sixth-floor place in a somewhat upscale ten-story building. Susan either had one very good job or two decent ones. Mr. Panos, if there had ever been one, wasn’t around. He’d probably been a big guy — Susan was a skinny five-four, while sixteen-year-old Alex was just under six feet and thickly muscled. He was bigger than Bryan. Give the kid another three or four months and he’d be bigger than Pookie.

Pookie and Bryan had first gone to Jay Parlar’s place. Jay wasn’t there. His father didn’t know where he was. His father didn’t want to talk to the cops. Quite the wonderful family scene, really. Issac Moses was next on the list, but for now, Pookie and Bryan had to deal with an uncooperative, arrogant Alex Panos. Alex didn’t seem all that put out by his gang-mate’s death.

“Try to understand,” Pookie said. “This was a particularly brutal murder. You don’t usually see this kind of thing unless there’s motivation. Personal motivation. Have you guys had run-ins with other gangs? Latin Cobras? Anyone like that?”

“I got nothin’ to say,” Alex said. “I’m a minor and I haven’t done anything, so I can tell you both to go and fuck yourselves. What do you think of that?”

Bryan leaned forward. “What do I think? I think your buddy is dead.”

Alex shrugged, looked away. “So Oscar wasn’t tough enough. Not my problem.”

Pookie saw anger in the boy’s eyes. Oscar’s death clearly was Alex’s problem. Alex probably thought he was going to find the killers himself.

“You don’t get it,” Bryan said. “Oscar’s arm was ripped off his body. They cut his belly open, pulled out his intestines.”

Susan covered her mouth with the tissue. “Oh my God.”

“Then they stuffed his guts back in,” Bryan said. “They broke his jaw, knocked out his teeth. They tore out his right eye.”

Susan cried into her disintegrating Kleenex and started rocking back and forth. Alex tried — and failed — to look indifferent.

“There’s more,” Bryan said.

Pookie cleared his throat. “Uh, Bryan, maybe we should—”

“They pissed on him,” Bryan said. “You hear me, Alex? They pissed all over your supposed friend. This wasn’t a random act. Someone hated him. Tell us who hated him, maybe we can find his killer.”

Alex stood, stared down with angry eyes. “Are you guys arresting me?”

Pookie shook his head.

“Well, if you’re not arresting me, I’m leaving.”

“You should stay here,” Pookie said. “Whoever killed Oscar could be after all of you. You could be in danger.”

Alex let out that psh sound again. “I can take care of myself.”

Susan reached over and pulled lightly on the crimson sleeve of Alex’s jacket. “Honey, maybe you should listen to—”

“Fuck off , Mom.” Alex snapped his arm away. “You like these pigs so much? Why don’t you just blow ’em already? I’m gone.”

Alex walked to the door and slammed it shut behind him.

Susan kept crying, kept rocking. Her shaking hand reached for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table.

Pookie automatically found the lighter in his pocket, pulled it out and offered her the flame. He didn’t smoke, but he’d made a lighter part of his standard pimpin’ gear long ago — dress nice, talk nice, buy drinks and the ladies loved you. Amazing how a little act of kindness like lighting a cigarette could break the ice, show a woman that you were interested. If you didn’t mind kissing an ashtray, lighters got you laid.

She took a drag, then set the tissue on the table. Pookie and Bryan waited, quietly. Susan composed herself quickly; quickly enough that Pookie could tell crying over Alex was a regular occurrence.