her dental information entered into the Missing Person database?” I asked.
Dr. Hopewell nodded. “Once we have the X rays, Mr. Craft will see to that as well.”
With Detective Caldwell leading the way, we started down the hallway toward the lobby. It depressed me to think that the receptionist in the outer office would be in charge of distribution. It occurred to me that Detective Caldwell and I would both probably end up waiting for that e-mail for a very long time, probably about as long as…well, as long as Detective Caldwell had waited for Connie Whitman’s call to let her know the M.E. had returned to her office. I had an idea that Ms. Whitman’s receptionist’s passive-aggressive behavior wouldn’t be limited to her gatekeeping responsibilities. I also doubted she would favor one law enforcement entity over any other.
Detective Caldwell must have arrived at the same conclusion. She didn’t say a word to me until after we had stopped off at Connie’s desk and given her our e-mail information. Once we were outside, however, it was a different story.
While we had been involved with the autopsy, the coming storm had blown over the Cascades and was making its presence known. Clear skies had been replaced by lowering clouds. It was cold as hell and spitting a combination of snow and sleet. None of that did anything to cool Detective Lucinda Caldwell’s temper.
“So,” she said, turning on me, “I suppose since you work for the attorney general, you think you’re some kind of big deal?”
I had already figured out that when genes were being passed out, Detective Caldwell had missed out entirely on having a sense of humor. In our kind of work, however, that can leave you at a distinct disadvantage.
“I’m no kind of big deal,” I replied earnestly. “I actually work for S.H.I.T.”
I deliberately didn’t spell it out, and Detective Caldwell’s resulting confusion was a delight to see. She hadn’t been paying attention before and she was clearly unfamiliar with the bureaucratic faux pas that had resulted from calling our unit the Special Homicide Investigation Team. And the way she rose to the bait was gratifying. It wasn’t easy to keep a straight face, but I managed.
“I’ll have you know,” she said, “I won’t be spoken to that way. I want the name of your immediate supervisor.”
That was almost too good. Hilarious, even. “That would be Harry I. Ball,” I said in all seriousness. “Would you like his number?”
She flushed with anger. “Go to hell,” she said, and stalked away.
I hurried after her. “That’s Harry Ignatius Ball,” I told her. “He’s the commander of the attorney general’s Special Homicide Investigation Team’s second unit. We’re based in Bellevue, and we’re investigating a series of homicides that are similar to this one, deaths that may or may not be related.”
Detective Caldwell may not have had a sense of humor, but shewas listening. It finally dawned on her that there might be something more to what I was saying—that I wasn’t just giving her a hard time, although I have to confess that I had enjoyed that part of our conversation immensely.
She stopped and turned back to face me. “What homicides?” she demanded.
Detective Caldwell had me there. This was a simple question that I didn’t much want to answer. I felt like a politician who thinks he can get away with saying something in one part of the country without having it go over like a pregnant pole-vaulter everywhere else. The cases in question had come from several different jurisdictions, and Ross Connors had been trying to keep our involvement under the media radar. I understood that. By keeping us out of it, we left the locals to take most of the media heat. Come to think of it, a little heat would have been welcome right about then.
“How about we go by your office and discuss it.”
“You’re not going anywhere near my office,” she returned.
My Mercedes was parked
Dr. Hopewell nodded. “Once we have the X rays, Mr. Craft will see to that as well.”
With Detective Caldwell leading the way, we started down the hallway toward the lobby. It depressed me to think that the receptionist in the outer office would be in charge of distribution. It occurred to me that Detective Caldwell and I would both probably end up waiting for that e-mail for a very long time, probably about as long as…well, as long as Detective Caldwell had waited for Connie Whitman’s call to let her know the M.E. had returned to her office. I had an idea that Ms. Whitman’s receptionist’s passive-aggressive behavior wouldn’t be limited to her gatekeeping responsibilities. I also doubted she would favor one law enforcement entity over any other.
Detective Caldwell must have arrived at the same conclusion. She didn’t say a word to me until after we had stopped off at Connie’s desk and given her our e-mail information. Once we were outside, however, it was a different story.
While we had been involved with the autopsy, the coming storm had blown over the Cascades and was making its presence known. Clear skies had been replaced by lowering clouds. It was cold as hell and spitting a combination of snow and sleet. None of that did anything to cool Detective Lucinda Caldwell’s temper.
“So,” she said, turning on me, “I suppose since you work for the attorney general, you think you’re some kind of big deal?”
I had already figured out that when genes were being passed out, Detective Caldwell had missed out entirely on having a sense of humor. In our kind of work, however, that can leave you at a distinct disadvantage.
“I’m no kind of big deal,” I replied earnestly. “I actually work for S.H.I.T.”
I deliberately didn’t spell it out, and Detective Caldwell’s resulting confusion was a delight to see. She hadn’t been paying attention before and she was clearly unfamiliar with the bureaucratic faux pas that had resulted from calling our unit the Special Homicide Investigation Team. And the way she rose to the bait was gratifying. It wasn’t easy to keep a straight face, but I managed.
“I’ll have you know,” she said, “I won’t be spoken to that way. I want the name of your immediate supervisor.”
That was almost too good. Hilarious, even. “That would be Harry I. Ball,” I said in all seriousness. “Would you like his number?”
She flushed with anger. “Go to hell,” she said, and stalked away.
I hurried after her. “That’s Harry Ignatius Ball,” I told her. “He’s the commander of the attorney general’s Special Homicide Investigation Team’s second unit. We’re based in Bellevue, and we’re investigating a series of homicides that are similar to this one, deaths that may or may not be related.”
Detective Caldwell may not have had a sense of humor, but shewas listening. It finally dawned on her that there might be something more to what I was saying—that I wasn’t just giving her a hard time, although I have to confess that I had enjoyed that part of our conversation immensely.
She stopped and turned back to face me. “What homicides?” she demanded.
Detective Caldwell had me there. This was a simple question that I didn’t much want to answer. I felt like a politician who thinks he can get away with saying something in one part of the country without having it go over like a pregnant pole-vaulter everywhere else. The cases in question had come from several different jurisdictions, and Ross Connors had been trying to keep our involvement under the media radar. I understood that. By keeping us out of it, we left the locals to take most of the media heat. Come to think of it, a little heat would have been welcome right about then.
“How about we go by your office and discuss it.”
“You’re not going anywhere near my office,” she returned.
My Mercedes was parked
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