their kid’s death with routine tests.”
“Abdominal aortic aneurysms are called a silent killer for a reason. Often there are no warnings or symptoms.” I snap open heavy plastic clasps.
“My grandfather died from a blown aneurysm.” Hunter stares at me, and when he was at the CFC several weeks ago he openly flirted. “Blue collar, no insurance, never went to the doctor. He had a bad headache one minute, was dead the next. I’ve thought about being screened but I’m phobic of radiation.”
“An MRI with contrast dye doesn’t emit radiation.” I settle closer to the anchored yellow tarp with its ominous shape underneath. “You’d be fine unless you have kidney damage.”
“Not that I know of.”
“Talk to your doctor,” Machado kids him. “You know, the one you pay?”
“Gail Shipton was last seen possibly between five-thirty and six last night at the Psi Bar. Is that still the story?” I ask him.
“Right, and we have a preliminary ID. A visual,” Machado says. “The photo that’s all over the news, it looks like her anyway. I realize we need to verify officially but in my mind this is Gail Shipton. She left the bar to talk on her phone around five-thirty, six p.m. Supposedly. That’s what we know.”
“I doubt it was raining when she stepped outside.” I tear off the perforated top from a box of exam gloves, the kind I like, latex-free, with textured fingertips. “She was out there for a while, at least seventeen minutes, based on the duration of the first call with someone who has a blocked number.”
“It wasn’t raining at the time she disappeared.” Machado’s deep-set eyes are curious as if he wonders what I’m getting at with my comments about the weather. “It didn’t start raining until later.”
“Do we know exactly when? What do you mean by ‘later’? I went to sleep around eleven and it wasn’t raining then but it looked like it was going to any minute.”
I notice Barbara Fairbanks’s crew is now in front of Simmons Hall, on Vassar Street, exactly as I expected.
“When I uncover her you’re going to need to hold something up as a barrier,” I say to Rusty and Harold. “We don’t want her on TV.”
“We’ve got plenty of sheets.”
“We’ll be ready if they head this way.”
“The storm started around midnight,” Machado answers my question. “Rain mixed with freezing rain and then just rain. But a monsoon.”
“If we consider the possibility that she was abducted at around six p.m., then whoever’s responsible knew the weather conditions or could guess what they might be by the time he disposed of her body out here.” I find two thermometers and a sterile retractable scalpel. “It would seem bad weather didn’t matter, that this person was comfortable in wet, nasty conditions.”
“When the mood strikes,” Andy Hunter says. “People used to these parts are used to the weather.”
I watch Barbara Fairbanks as she follows the fence, her camera crew behind her. They’ll have to film through chain-link but I’m not going to let them get even that. Marino’s not going to allow it either. He slogs through the mud in a hurry, back in our direction, while Rusty and Harold get sheets ready for a barricade.
“Toss me one,” Marino calls out and Rusty hurls a folded disposable sheet as if it’s a Frisbee.
Marino catches it in one hand. He rips off the cellophane wrapping as he sloshes through mud and puddles toward the TV crew. Shaking open the sheet, he holds it up against the fence, blocking the camera.
“Ah come on, man!” a crew member yells.
“I’m sure you already know this,” I say to Machado, “but Gail Shipton was involved in a lawsuit that’s due to go to trial in less than two weeks.”
I’m tempted to check my phone again but I don’t. It continues to nag at me that Lucy might have some connection to Gail Shipton, a computer engineer with a military-grade smartphone case. The fact that Lucy isn’t answering me is
“Abdominal aortic aneurysms are called a silent killer for a reason. Often there are no warnings or symptoms.” I snap open heavy plastic clasps.
“My grandfather died from a blown aneurysm.” Hunter stares at me, and when he was at the CFC several weeks ago he openly flirted. “Blue collar, no insurance, never went to the doctor. He had a bad headache one minute, was dead the next. I’ve thought about being screened but I’m phobic of radiation.”
“An MRI with contrast dye doesn’t emit radiation.” I settle closer to the anchored yellow tarp with its ominous shape underneath. “You’d be fine unless you have kidney damage.”
“Not that I know of.”
“Talk to your doctor,” Machado kids him. “You know, the one you pay?”
“Gail Shipton was last seen possibly between five-thirty and six last night at the Psi Bar. Is that still the story?” I ask him.
“Right, and we have a preliminary ID. A visual,” Machado says. “The photo that’s all over the news, it looks like her anyway. I realize we need to verify officially but in my mind this is Gail Shipton. She left the bar to talk on her phone around five-thirty, six p.m. Supposedly. That’s what we know.”
“I doubt it was raining when she stepped outside.” I tear off the perforated top from a box of exam gloves, the kind I like, latex-free, with textured fingertips. “She was out there for a while, at least seventeen minutes, based on the duration of the first call with someone who has a blocked number.”
“It wasn’t raining at the time she disappeared.” Machado’s deep-set eyes are curious as if he wonders what I’m getting at with my comments about the weather. “It didn’t start raining until later.”
“Do we know exactly when? What do you mean by ‘later’? I went to sleep around eleven and it wasn’t raining then but it looked like it was going to any minute.”
I notice Barbara Fairbanks’s crew is now in front of Simmons Hall, on Vassar Street, exactly as I expected.
“When I uncover her you’re going to need to hold something up as a barrier,” I say to Rusty and Harold. “We don’t want her on TV.”
“We’ve got plenty of sheets.”
“We’ll be ready if they head this way.”
“The storm started around midnight,” Machado answers my question. “Rain mixed with freezing rain and then just rain. But a monsoon.”
“If we consider the possibility that she was abducted at around six p.m., then whoever’s responsible knew the weather conditions or could guess what they might be by the time he disposed of her body out here.” I find two thermometers and a sterile retractable scalpel. “It would seem bad weather didn’t matter, that this person was comfortable in wet, nasty conditions.”
“When the mood strikes,” Andy Hunter says. “People used to these parts are used to the weather.”
I watch Barbara Fairbanks as she follows the fence, her camera crew behind her. They’ll have to film through chain-link but I’m not going to let them get even that. Marino’s not going to allow it either. He slogs through the mud in a hurry, back in our direction, while Rusty and Harold get sheets ready for a barricade.
“Toss me one,” Marino calls out and Rusty hurls a folded disposable sheet as if it’s a Frisbee.
Marino catches it in one hand. He rips off the cellophane wrapping as he sloshes through mud and puddles toward the TV crew. Shaking open the sheet, he holds it up against the fence, blocking the camera.
“Ah come on, man!” a crew member yells.
“I’m sure you already know this,” I say to Machado, “but Gail Shipton was involved in a lawsuit that’s due to go to trial in less than two weeks.”
I’m tempted to check my phone again but I don’t. It continues to nag at me that Lucy might have some connection to Gail Shipton, a computer engineer with a military-grade smartphone case. The fact that Lucy isn’t answering me is
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