‘Oh yeah,’ Sinclair said without pause. ‘We’ve got some good stuff.’
He manipulated the shavings with the spatula, flattening them some as he bumped the magnification up to forty.
‘Maybe a blade of some type,’ he said. ‘The striations are probably from the finishing process and end up being a defect because no finishing process is going to be perfectly smooth. I mean, the manufacturer’s going to be happy, but he’s not at our end seeing this. There, here’s an even better area, I think.’
He moved aside so we could take a look. Marino bent over the eyepieces first.
‘Looks like ski tracks in snow,’ was his comment. ‘And that’s from the blade, right? Or whatever?’
‘Yes, imperfections, or toolmarks, made by whatever shaved this metal. Do you see the match, when one shaving is lined up with the other?’
Marino didn’t.
‘Here, Doc, you look.’ Sinclair got out of my way.
What I saw through the microscope was good enough for court, the striations of the Warrenton shaving in one field of light matching the striations of the shaving in the other. Clearly, the same tool had shaved something made of magnesium in both homicide cases. The question was what this tool might be, and because the shavings were so thin, one had to consider a sharp blade of some type. Sinclair made several Polaroid photographs for me and slid them into glyassine envelopes.
‘Okay, now what?’ Marino asked as he followed me through the center of the firearms lab, past scientists busy processing bloody clothing under biohazard hoods, and others examining a Phillips screwdriver and machete at a big U-shaped counter.
‘Now I go shopping,’ I said.
I did not slow down as I talked but, in fact, was getting more frantic because I knew I was getting closer to reconstructing what Carrie or her accomplice or someone had done.
‘What do you mean, shopping?’
Through the wall I could hear the muffled bangs of test fires in the range.
‘Why don’t you check on Lucy?’ I said. ‘And I’ll get back to both of you later.’
‘I don’t like it when you do this later shit,’ Marino said as elevator doors parted. ‘That means you’re running around on your own and poking your nose in things that maybe you shouldn’t. And this ain’t the time for you to be out on the street with nobody around. We got not a clue where Carrie is.’
‘That’s right, we don’t,’ I said. ‘But I’m hoping that’s going to change.’
We got out on the first floor, and I headed with purpose to the door leading to the bay, where I unlocked my car. Marino looked so frustrated, I thought he might launch into a tantrum.
‘You want to tell me where the hell you’re going?’ he demanded at the top of his voice.
‘A sports store,’ I said, cranking the engine. ‘The biggest one I can find.’
That turned out to be Jumbo Sports south of the James, very close to the neighborhood where Marino lived, which was the only reason I was aware of the store, since prowling for basketballs, frisbees, free weights, and golf clubs rarely entered my mind.
I took the Powhite Parkway, and two toll booths later was exiting on Midlothian Turnpike, heading toward downtown. The sports store was -big and built of red brick, with stick figures of red-painted athletes framed in white on the outside walls. The parking lot was unexpectedly full for this time of day, and I wondered how many well-toned people spent their lunch hours here.
I had no idea where anything was and had to take a few moments to study the signs above miles of rows. Boxing gloves were on sale, and there were exercise machines capable of tortures I did not know. Racks of clothes for every sport were endless and in blazing colors, and I wondered what had happened to civilized white, which was still what I wore on the much-appreciated occasion I found time to play tennis. I deduced that knives would be with camping and hunting gear, a generous area against the back wall. There were bows and arrows, targets, tents, canoes, mess kits, and camouflage, and at this hour, I was the only woman who seemed interested. At first, no one was inclined to wait on me as I hovered patiently over a showcase of knives.