Defensive Wounds by Lisa Black Page A

lab that she found it hard to believe he even had a home to go to. She knew of no evidence to suggest he ever left the lab, save for court appearances, mandatory meetings, and lunch. Today proved no exception.
    â€œDo you suppose this room has ever been cleaned?” he demanded of Theresa as he covered the cracked Formica of an ancient table with paper towels. “Since construction, I mean?”
    The lunchroom’s decor marched in step with that of the rest of the building. The walls were a dirtied cream color, and the linoleum had never been stylish even when new. Amenities consisted of two noisy machines that dispensed cans of pop only when in the proper mood, a microwave, and a set of largely empty cabinets grouped around a stained sink. Light on atmosphere, but functional.
    â€œThe floor is mopped regularly. Otherwise people are supposed to clean up after themselves,” Theresa replied.
    â€œAnd therein lies the rub. Such an expectation is naïve at best and, in a building crawling with diseases and carcinogens, fatal at worst.”
    â€œI’ve been here ten years,” she said. “I haven’t developed any loathsome disease yet.”
    â€œThat you know of.” He flicked his scrawny ponytail over one heavy shoulder and unwrapped a sandwich at least four inches thick, containing turkey and salami and tomatoes and who knew what else, keeping the plastic wrap around the bread and its contents. This wasn’t lunch, of course, not at 10:00 A.M. Merely a midmorning snack. “What do you want?”
    â€œI wanted to know if the vaginal swab I sent you showed any sort of lubricant or spermicide. You know, stuff that would be on a condom.”
    â€œNo little swimmers for you to dissect?”
    â€œNone.”
    â€œJust as well.” Oliver took a huge bite, then barely paused to chew before adding, “If you do catch the guy, the city will throw him a parade anyway.”
    â€œBe that as it may, I still want to dot my i’s.”
    â€œYour little FTIR couldn’t tell you?” Oliver felt his mass spectrometer to be the vastly superior instrument. “Oh, that’s right, it can’t do anything with organic compounds, can it?”
    â€œI wouldn’t say not anything … ” Theresa couldn’t help protesting, but Oliver decided that he would rather give his sandwich his full attention than spar with her. She waited patiently through another two bites and resolved to send him the globules she’d found sticking to Marie’s skirt fibers.
    Then he seemed to notice her presence anew and said, “None.”
    â€œNo such compounds found in her?” Theresa clarified.
    He snorted, which apparently caused a piece of turkey to skirt the epiglottis. A cough turned into a choke, and his face turned from its usual color of rising dough to a more alarming puce. Theresa thought she might have to attempt a Heimlich maneuver and sincerely hoped not, since that would place her too close to Oliver’s less-than-hygienic flesh. But then he hacked, swallowed, and sucked in air, sparing them both an unwanted intimacy.
    She waited until his breathing and hue returned to normal to ask after his condition, which he ignored and said, “Nothing man-made inside her womanly chamber. A temporary situation, I’m sure. She excelled in making the butterflies in every male’s gonads twirl up a little hurricane.”
    â€œBut not you, huh?”
    â€œA stupid bimbo like that? I should think not.”
    â€œThat’s a rather strong statement.” Oliver didn’t usually call anyone stupid, only allowed his attitude and phrasing to make it clear he felt that to be the case.
    â€œDo I make weak ones? I liked testifying in front of her. She at least put some effort into her job, despite the fact that the woman couldn’t even pronounce ‘dimethyloxybutarate.’ And she thought she’d trip me up in that last DUI case?