“Digits zero through nine.”
Vander raised his voice above the printer’s rat-a-tat-tat. “At the most, there could be only ten. Ten numbers, fax or otherwise, exactly like this one except for the last digit” He gave me a printout. “I’ll dean it up some more and get you a beer copy later,” he said. “And there’s one more thing. I’m not having any luck getting my hands on Ronnie Waddell’s print, the photo of the bloody thumbprint recovered from Robyn Naismith’s house. Every time I call Archives, I’m told they’re still looking for his file.”
“Remember what time of year it is. I’ll bet there’s hardly anybody there,” I said, unable to dispel a sense of foreboding.
Back in my office, I got hold of Marino and explained what the image enhancer had discovered.
“Hell, you can forget the phone company,” he said. “My contact there’s already left for the vacation, and nobody else is going to do shit on Christmas Eve.”
“There’s a chance we can figure out who she sent the fax to on our own,” I said.
“I don’t know how, short of sending a fax that reads ‘Who are you?’ and then hoping you get a fax back that reads ‘Hi, I’m Jennifer Deighton’s killer.’“
“It depends on if be person has a label programmed into his fax machine,” I said.
“A label?”
“Your more sophisticated fax machines allow you to program your name or company name into the system. This label will be printed on anything you fax to someone else. But what’s more significant is that the label of the person receiving the fax will also appear in the character display window of the machine sending the fax. In other words, if I send a fax to you, in the character display of my fax machine I’ll see ‘Richmond Police Department’ right above the fax number I’ve just dialed.”
“You got access to a fancy fax machine? The one we got in the squad room sucks.”
“I’ve got one here at the office.”
“Well, tell me what you find out. I’ve gotta hit the street.”
Quickly, I made up a list of ten telephone numbers, each one beginning with the six digits Vander and I had been able to make out on the sheet of paper found on Jennifer Deighton’s bed. I completed each number with a zero, a one, a two, a three, and so on, then began trying them out. Only one of them was answered by an inhuman, high-pitched tone.
The fax machine was located in my computer analyst’s office, and Margaret, fortunately, had begun her holiday early, too. I shut her door and sat down at her desk, thinking as the minicomputer hummed and modem lights blinked. Labels worked both ways. If I began a transmission, the label for my office was going to appear in the character-display window of the fax machine I had dialed. I would have to kill the process fast, before the transmission was completed. I hoped that by the time anyone checked the machine to see what was going on, “Office of the Chief Medical Examiner” and our number would have vanished from the window.
Inserting a blank sheet of paper into the tray, I dialed the Washington number and waited as the transmission began. Nothing materialized in the character-display window. Damn. The fax machine I had dialed did not have a label So much for that I killed the process and returned to my office, defeated.
I had just sat down at my desk when the telephone rang.
“Dr. Scarpetta, “I answered.
“Nicholas Grueman here. Whatever you just tried to fax, it didn’t transmit.”
“Excuse me?”
I said, stunned.
“I got nothing on this end but a blank sheet of paper with the name of your office stamped on it. Uh, error code zero-zero-one, ‘please send again; it says.”
“I see,” I said as the hairs on my arms raised.
“Perhaps you were trying to send an amendment to your record? I understand you took a look at the electric chair.”
I did not reply.
“Very thorough of you, Dr. Scarpetta. Perhaps you learned something new about those injuries we discussed, the abrasions to the inner aspects of Mr. Waddell’s arms? The antecubitalfossas?”