old steel tool chest that sat
on the counter. He opened it, snugged the lid onto the bottom and handed it to
Hess.
The
old man looked down, then reached in with a thick fingertip and poked the item
in question. It was a standard 20-amp automotive fuse, the kind you'd find by
the dozen under any dashboard. The color of the glass was good and Hess could
see no break in the filament inside.
"I
already checked, and it's good," said Gilliam. "More to the point,
there's no fuse like it used anywhere in Janet Kane's BMW. The car is only
seven months old, so all the German-made factory fuses are still in it. They're
a different design. This one must have come from somewhere else, been intended for use somewhere else. Some other car. Some other piece of equipment. I don't
know. But I'd like to know what it was doing in Janet Kane's car."
Rayborn
asked him exactly where they'd found it and Hess asked if they'd printed it, at
the same time.
Gilliam
looked from one to the other.
"Behind
the driver's seat. Sitting right in the middle of the floor. And yes, Tim,
there was a print on the glass of it. Just a partial but we've got some ridge
endings and bifurcations to work with. I eliminated Janet Kane myself. I've
made up an AHS card for CAL-ID and WIN, but the specifying parameters will be
up to you two. If he's got a thumb on file, we've got a shot at him."
"Write
up the parameters, Tim," said Merci.
"I
want to talk to Dalton Page first. And to an old rapist I busted. They know
what we're looking for."
Merci
ignored him, looking instead at Gilliam with what Hess was beginning to think
of as her customary suspicion. "Anything else, Mr. Gilliam?"
"That's
the bulk of it."
"Good
work." Then she turned her dark, adamant eyes on Hess. "Tim, go see
your profiler and your rapist now. Because I want those parameters ready by the
end of the workday and I want those prints on their way."
"You'll
have them. I can talk to Dalton alone. But I think you should see the creep
with me."
"I'll
consider it."
Hess
turned and started across the room. He heard the conversation without seeing it
and wondered if that's how it was when you were dead, hearing things without
seeing them, aware of a world going on without you. He looked back at them with
something like longing.
"What
about my oak branches, Mr. Gilliam?" asked Merci. "I sawed hard to
get them. Outside cut first."
She
looked over at him with a humored expression and Hess realized she'd cut the
branch the hard way.
"Oh,
standard nylon rope, Sergeant. Safety orange in color—something you might find
in a camping or hunting or surplus store. Judging from the depth of the notches
and the strands that wore through and stayed for us to see, it was bearing
some weight. The same rope—or very similar—used on each tree."
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Dr. Dalton Page asked Hess to
meet him at his home. They had talked there, on his patio, several times over
the years. The house was up on Harbor Ridge in Newport, an older tract in the
city, where rambling ranch-style homes sat on terraces in the hills with views
of the ocean. If you stood on the beach at sunset and looked up at them, a
hillside of orange reflections looked back at you.
Driving
out Hess recalled that Page had bought the place twenty years ago, anticipating
retirement from the faculty of Johns Hopkins medical school. Hess had asked his
help the first summer Page came to vacation in California, and they had kept in
touch after that. Friends at the FBI had recommended Page as one of the best
forensic psychiatrists in the country. He lectured at the Bureau regularly and
had testified often as an expert witness.
Hess
had helped organize a little party—mostly law enforcement and DA officers—to
welcome Dalton and Wynn Page to Orange County. That was a decade ago, when the
doctor retired and they moved here year round. Wynn had grown up in Newport and
Hess remembered her seeming happy to be back home. Page himself had been wry
about living
on the counter. He opened it, snugged the lid onto the bottom and handed it to
Hess.
The
old man looked down, then reached in with a thick fingertip and poked the item
in question. It was a standard 20-amp automotive fuse, the kind you'd find by
the dozen under any dashboard. The color of the glass was good and Hess could
see no break in the filament inside.
"I
already checked, and it's good," said Gilliam. "More to the point,
there's no fuse like it used anywhere in Janet Kane's BMW. The car is only
seven months old, so all the German-made factory fuses are still in it. They're
a different design. This one must have come from somewhere else, been intended for use somewhere else. Some other car. Some other piece of equipment. I don't
know. But I'd like to know what it was doing in Janet Kane's car."
Rayborn
asked him exactly where they'd found it and Hess asked if they'd printed it, at
the same time.
Gilliam
looked from one to the other.
"Behind
the driver's seat. Sitting right in the middle of the floor. And yes, Tim,
there was a print on the glass of it. Just a partial but we've got some ridge
endings and bifurcations to work with. I eliminated Janet Kane myself. I've
made up an AHS card for CAL-ID and WIN, but the specifying parameters will be
up to you two. If he's got a thumb on file, we've got a shot at him."
"Write
up the parameters, Tim," said Merci.
"I
want to talk to Dalton Page first. And to an old rapist I busted. They know
what we're looking for."
Merci
ignored him, looking instead at Gilliam with what Hess was beginning to think
of as her customary suspicion. "Anything else, Mr. Gilliam?"
"That's
the bulk of it."
"Good
work." Then she turned her dark, adamant eyes on Hess. "Tim, go see
your profiler and your rapist now. Because I want those parameters ready by the
end of the workday and I want those prints on their way."
"You'll
have them. I can talk to Dalton alone. But I think you should see the creep
with me."
"I'll
consider it."
Hess
turned and started across the room. He heard the conversation without seeing it
and wondered if that's how it was when you were dead, hearing things without
seeing them, aware of a world going on without you. He looked back at them with
something like longing.
"What
about my oak branches, Mr. Gilliam?" asked Merci. "I sawed hard to
get them. Outside cut first."
She
looked over at him with a humored expression and Hess realized she'd cut the
branch the hard way.
"Oh,
standard nylon rope, Sergeant. Safety orange in color—something you might find
in a camping or hunting or surplus store. Judging from the depth of the notches
and the strands that wore through and stayed for us to see, it was bearing
some weight. The same rope—or very similar—used on each tree."
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Dr. Dalton Page asked Hess to
meet him at his home. They had talked there, on his patio, several times over
the years. The house was up on Harbor Ridge in Newport, an older tract in the
city, where rambling ranch-style homes sat on terraces in the hills with views
of the ocean. If you stood on the beach at sunset and looked up at them, a
hillside of orange reflections looked back at you.
Driving
out Hess recalled that Page had bought the place twenty years ago, anticipating
retirement from the faculty of Johns Hopkins medical school. Hess had asked his
help the first summer Page came to vacation in California, and they had kept in
touch after that. Friends at the FBI had recommended Page as one of the best
forensic psychiatrists in the country. He lectured at the Bureau regularly and
had testified often as an expert witness.
Hess
had helped organize a little party—mostly law enforcement and DA officers—to
welcome Dalton and Wynn Page to Orange County. That was a decade ago, when the
doctor retired and they moved here year round. Wynn had grown up in Newport and
Hess remembered her seeming happy to be back home. Page himself had been wry
about living
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