Frozen by Jay Bonansinga

mazes of cubicles, light tables, electron microscopes, and examination areas. Known as the “dry lab,” this area encompassed much of the basement level, and now sat completely empty, dark, and silent. Okuda’s buzz had completely kicked in by that point, and the shadows seemed to pulse with a weird kind of energy. Energy radiated off Grove as well. Okuda sensed it like a red wake curling behind the handsome profiler. The man’s expression was fixed and set, almost like a pitcher about to deliver a fastball on a full count.
    Turning a corner at the end of the main corridor, Okuda remembered the diary. “You know what?” he said over his shoulder, snapping his fingers. “There’s a document you might want to check out.”
    â€œWhat kind of document?” Grove was striding briskly along behind Okuda.
    â€œA park ranger there that day, she kept a journal.”
    â€œA journal.”
    â€œA diary, yeah, we used excerpts in our presentation to the Royal Academy last year.”
    â€œAnd you’ve got her entry from that day?”
    â€œYes, absolutely, that’s what I’m saying.” Okuda nodded as they marched along. “We’ve got her journal entry from the day they found the Iceman.”
    They turned another corner and headed down a narrow side corridor bordered by unmarked doors.
    Grove looked intrigued. “This is a private journal?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œIt’s personal, right? It’s not an official logbook, or job-related thing.”
    â€œNo, no. This is a copy of a girl’s personal diary. She was pretty freaked out by the whole thing. Here we go.” At the end of the hall Okuda paused in front of a painted iron door with an elaborate magnetic lock. He dug in his pocket for his wallet, found the little magnetic card, pulled it out, and swiped it through the lock. The door clicked, and Okuda led the profiler into a dark archive room.
    Fluorescent lights stuttered on, illuminating a musty chamber of interlocking shelves brimming with hand-labeled binders, bound reports, and dog-eared old volumes reaching up to the acoustic tile ceiling fifteen feet overhead. A single shopworn conference table cluttered with index cards sat in the center of the room. The worn carpet was the color of old mustard. The air smelled of mold.
    â€œIf I’m not mistaken, that journal is still in the ID bin,” Okuda muttered, more to himself than Grove, as he crossed the room and knelt down by a row of black vinyl binders packed as tightly as a huge tin of sardines.
    â€œID bin?”
    â€œInterdepartmental . . . here we go.” Okuda felt pleasantly giddy as he pried one of the binders out of its row and opened it. He saw the telltale labeling on the first page, a series of coded numbers over a Xerox of a freehand signature. Okuda smiled. Contrary to popular myth, heroin addicts are not antisocial creatures who nod off in shadowy opium dens with needles sticking out of their arms. The heroin high is so transformative, so monolithic to the central nervous system, that the junkie cannot help but become a hail-fellow-well-met. It’s only when sobriety kicks in a few hours later that the addict wakes up in hell. “I believe the first ten pages or so are from that day,” Okuda said as he handed over the binder. “The ranger’s a young lady named Lori Havers. Can’t tell you much about her . . . except that she was assigned to the Mount Cairn trailhead, which was the area in which the mummy was found.”
    The profiler opened the binder and started reading.
    â€œIf memory serves, I think she came from Denver, had a master’s degree in social work, something like that,” Okuda went on. “She left the ranger service shortly after all this happened. I think she moved back to Denver. Feel free to take a seat.” Okuda gestured at the conference table. “Take all the time you need, and use the