Of course, this could not be accomplished without a telephone conference that included the director of the Bureau of Forensic Science, along with the health commissioner, who was my direct boss. They worried about a possible conflict of interest because the uranium had been found in my car, and of course, Danny had worked for me. When I pointed out that I was not a suspect in the case, they were appeased, and in the end, relieved to have the radioactive sample taken off their hands.
I returned to the SEM lab and Eckles opened that frightful chamber while I slipped on cotton gloves. Carefully, I removed the sticky tape from its stub and tucked it inside a plastic bag, which I sealed and labeled. Before I left her floor, I stopped by Firearms, where Frost was seated before a comparison microscope, examining an old military bayonet on top of a stage. I asked him about the punctured rubber he was having sputter-coated with gold, because I had a feeling.
“We’ve got a possible suspect in your tire-slashing case,” he said, adjusting the focus as he moved the blade.
“This bayonet?” I knew the answer before I asked.
“That’s right. It was just turned in this morning.”
“By whom?” I said as my suspicions grew.
He looked at a folded paper bag on a nearby table. I saw the case number and date, and the last name “Roche.”
. “Chesapeake,” Frost replied.
“Do you know anything about where it came from?” I felt enraged.
“The trunk of a car. That’s all I was told. Apparently, there’s a hellfire rush on it for some reason.”
I went upstairs to Toxicology because it was a last round I certainly needed to make.
But my mood was bad, and I was not cheered when I finally found someone home who could confirm what my nose had told me in the Norfolk morgue. Dr. Rathbone was a big, older man whose hair was still very black. I found him at his desk signing lab reports.
“I just called you.” He looked up at me. “How was your New Year?”
“it was new and different. How about you?”
“I got a son in Utah, so we were there. I swear I’d move if I could find a job, but I reckon Mormons don’t have much use for my trade.”
“I think your trade is good anywhere,” I said. “And I assume you’ve got results on the Eddings case,” I added as I thought of the bayonet.
“The concentration of cyanide in his blood sample is point five milligrams per liter, which is lethal, as you know.” He continued signing his name.
“What about the hookah’s intake valve and tubes and so on?”
“Inconclusive.”
I was not surprised, nor did it really matter since there was now no doubt that Eddings had been poisoned with cyanide gas, his manner of death unequivocally a homicide.
I knew the prosecutor in Chesapeake and stopped by my office long enough to give her a call so she could encourage the police to do the right thing.
“You shouldn’t have to ring me up for that,” she said.
“You’re right, I shouldn’t.”
“Don’t give it another thought.” She sounded angry.
“What a bunch of idiots. Has the FBI gotten into this one at all?”
“Chesapeake doesn’t need their help.”
“Oh good. I guess they work homicidal cyanide gas poisonings in diving deaths all the time. I’ll get back to you.”
Hanging up, I collected coat and bag and walked out into what was becoming a beautiful day. Marino’s car was parked on the side of Franklin Street, and he was sitting inside with the engine running and his window down. As I headed toward him he opened his door and released the trunk.
“Where is it?” he said.
I held up a manila envelope, and he looked shocked.
“That’s all you’ve got it in?” he exclaimed, eyes wide.
“I thought you’d at least put it in one of those metal paint cans.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “You could hold uranium in your bare hand and it wouldn’t hurt you.”
I shut the envelope inside the trunk.
“Then how come the Geiger counter went off?” he continued arguing as I climbed in.