at Randall Pharmaceuticals who said he’d found a body. Randall’s was clear out on the northeast edge of town toward the airport.
The caller had had sense enough not to inform anyone but the police and to have a coworker guard the body while he met them at the gate. The man who met them wore green overalls and a company logo on the back: a double helix and test tube. He introduced himself as Joe Penton, then climbed in the backseat and directed them around the side of the gatehouse and down a rutted drive past a long, low annex and then a maze of pens and sheds and feed bins. Farther down the hill, through sparse clumped grasses, they came to a grove of trees that was part of a narrow woods stretching in both directions along the almost dry creek bed.
The body was there, half hidden in the trees, with another overalled man squatted down not far from it. “It’s Dr. Winston,” this one told them, looking up from where he was crouched. “Dr. Edgar Winston.”
Dora gave the place a quick going over. No sign of a struggle. Nothing disturbed. Just the body, lying there, the long white lab coat stained with something down the front, the elderly victim’s face drawn in an expression of concentration that might mean something and mightnot. There was grass all around him, no surface to take footprints. The series of pens and shelters ran from the annex almost all the way down the hill to where they were.
“What’s the low building there?” she asked their guide. “And the pens?”
“Animal labs,” he replied. “The company makes veterinary medicines.” He indicated the nearest pens, where half a dozen pigs were lined up against the fence, staring in their direction.
“For pigs?” Phil asked, in his disbelieving voice.
“Sure, pigs,” said Joe Penton. “And horses and cows and dogs and cats and anything else people keep for livestock or pets or in zoos.”
Dora took her phone from her pocket and called for the medical examiner and the forensics team. If they’d hurry, they could get here before people started piling out of that building. Already she could see round pale blobs at third-floor windows. They were no doubt wondering what the hell the car was doing down here, light flashing.
She took out her notebook. “And your name is?” she asked of the kneeling man.
“Twenzel,” he said. “Bill.”
“We take care of the animals,” said Penton. “Once or twice a week we walk the perimeter and check the fences. There’s a cut in the fence, by the way.” He pointed down to the tree line, toward leaning posts and sagging chain link. “Anyhow, that’s how we found Dr. Winston.”
“And you know him?” Dora asked.
“Well, sure. We work for the animal labs. There’s six of us altogether, four for weekdays and a weekend crew. We clean pens and do the feeding, stuff like that, so we see…saw Dr. Winston almost every day. He was the head honcho. He headed up the improved breeds project.”
“Improved breeds?”
“They’re using DNA to make new breeds of livestock. You know, like hybrids. Cattle resistant to disease, or leaner pigs, like those guys over there.” He gestured toward the pens, where the pigs were still lined up, noses to the wire.
Leaving Phil to continue the questioning, Dora began to inspect the area. Her primary task right now was to locate and protect anything that might be used as evidence and keep people from messing up the crime scene. If it was a crime scene. They wouldn’t know whether it was or not until they had a cause of death. The guy might have dropped dead of a heart attack.
“Poor guy,” said someone.
She turned, trying to find the source of the voice, but could not. The pigs had gone back to their food troughs, and the other pens seemed almost empty, though she spied a scurry of quick movement from one about halfway up the hill.
“What kind of animals have you got out here?” she called.
Joe walked over, ready to be expansive. “Oh, different kinds.
The caller had had sense enough not to inform anyone but the police and to have a coworker guard the body while he met them at the gate. The man who met them wore green overalls and a company logo on the back: a double helix and test tube. He introduced himself as Joe Penton, then climbed in the backseat and directed them around the side of the gatehouse and down a rutted drive past a long, low annex and then a maze of pens and sheds and feed bins. Farther down the hill, through sparse clumped grasses, they came to a grove of trees that was part of a narrow woods stretching in both directions along the almost dry creek bed.
The body was there, half hidden in the trees, with another overalled man squatted down not far from it. “It’s Dr. Winston,” this one told them, looking up from where he was crouched. “Dr. Edgar Winston.”
Dora gave the place a quick going over. No sign of a struggle. Nothing disturbed. Just the body, lying there, the long white lab coat stained with something down the front, the elderly victim’s face drawn in an expression of concentration that might mean something and mightnot. There was grass all around him, no surface to take footprints. The series of pens and shelters ran from the annex almost all the way down the hill to where they were.
“What’s the low building there?” she asked their guide. “And the pens?”
“Animal labs,” he replied. “The company makes veterinary medicines.” He indicated the nearest pens, where half a dozen pigs were lined up against the fence, staring in their direction.
“For pigs?” Phil asked, in his disbelieving voice.
“Sure, pigs,” said Joe Penton. “And horses and cows and dogs and cats and anything else people keep for livestock or pets or in zoos.”
Dora took her phone from her pocket and called for the medical examiner and the forensics team. If they’d hurry, they could get here before people started piling out of that building. Already she could see round pale blobs at third-floor windows. They were no doubt wondering what the hell the car was doing down here, light flashing.
She took out her notebook. “And your name is?” she asked of the kneeling man.
“Twenzel,” he said. “Bill.”
“We take care of the animals,” said Penton. “Once or twice a week we walk the perimeter and check the fences. There’s a cut in the fence, by the way.” He pointed down to the tree line, toward leaning posts and sagging chain link. “Anyhow, that’s how we found Dr. Winston.”
“And you know him?” Dora asked.
“Well, sure. We work for the animal labs. There’s six of us altogether, four for weekdays and a weekend crew. We clean pens and do the feeding, stuff like that, so we see…saw Dr. Winston almost every day. He was the head honcho. He headed up the improved breeds project.”
“Improved breeds?”
“They’re using DNA to make new breeds of livestock. You know, like hybrids. Cattle resistant to disease, or leaner pigs, like those guys over there.” He gestured toward the pens, where the pigs were still lined up, noses to the wire.
Leaving Phil to continue the questioning, Dora began to inspect the area. Her primary task right now was to locate and protect anything that might be used as evidence and keep people from messing up the crime scene. If it was a crime scene. They wouldn’t know whether it was or not until they had a cause of death. The guy might have dropped dead of a heart attack.
“Poor guy,” said someone.
She turned, trying to find the source of the voice, but could not. The pigs had gone back to their food troughs, and the other pens seemed almost empty, though she spied a scurry of quick movement from one about halfway up the hill.
“What kind of animals have you got out here?” she called.
Joe walked over, ready to be expansive. “Oh, different kinds.
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