The sleeves of her long lab coat were rolled up to her elbows, her hands gloved. Arranged over her work area were test tubes containing cotton-tipped swabs, and a physical evidence recovery kit-or PERK comprising the cardboard folder of slides and the envelopes of hair samples from Lori Petersen’s case. The file of slides, the envelopes and the test tubes were identified by computer-generated labels initialed by me, the fruits of yet one more of Margaret’s programs.
I vaguely recalled the gossip at a recent academy meeting. In the weeks following the mayor of Chicago’s sudden death, there were some ninety attempts at breaking into the medical examiner’s computer. The culprits were thought to be reporters after the autopsy and toxicology results.
Who? Who broke into my computer? And why? “He’s coming along well,” Betty was saying.
“I’m sorry . . . ” I smiled apologetically.
She repeated, “I talked with Dr. Glassman this morning. He’s coming along well with the samples from the first two cases and should have results for us in a couple of days.”
“You sent up the samples from the last two yet?”
“They just went out.”
She was unscrewing the top of a small brown bottle. “Bo Friend will be hand-delivering them-”
“Bo Friend?”
I interrupted.
“Or Officer Friendly, as he’s known by the troops. That’s his name. Bo Friend. Scout’s honor. Let’s see, New York’s about a six-hour drive. He should get them to the lab sometime this evening. I think they drew straws.”
I looked blankly at her. “Straws?”
What could Amburgey want? Maybe he was interested in how the DNA testing was going. It was on everyone’s mind these days.
“The cops,” Betty was saying. “Going to New York and all. Some of them have never been.”
“Once will be enough for most of them,” I commented abstractedly. “Wait until they try changing lanes or finding a parking place.”
But he could have just sent a memo through the electronic mail if he’d had a question about DNA tests or anything else. That’s what Amburgey usually did. In fact, that’s what he’d always done in the past.
“Huh. That’s the least of it. Our man Bo was born and bred in Tennessee and never goes anywhere without his piece.”
“He went to New York without his piece, I hope.” My mouth was talking to her. The rest of me was elsewhere.
“Huh,” she said again. “His captain told him to, told him about the gun laws up there in Yankeeville. Bo was smiling when he came up to get the samples, smiling and patting what I presume was a shoulder holster under his jacket. He’s got one of these John Wayne revolvers with a six-inch barrel. These guys and their guns. It’s so Freudian it’s boring . . .”
The back of my brain was ‘recalling news accounts of virtual children who had broken into the computers of major corporations and banks.
Beneath the telephone on my desk at home was a modem enabling me to dial up the computer here. It was off-limits, strictly verboten. Lucy understood the seriousness of her ever attempting to access the OCME data. Everything else she was welcome to do, despite my inward resistance, the strong sense of territory that comes from living alone.
I recalled the evening paper Lucy found hidden under the sofa cushion. I recalled the expression on her face as she questioned me about the murder of Lori Petersen, and then the list of my staffs office and home telephone numbers-including Margaret’s extension-tacked to the cork bulletin board above my home desk.
I realized Betty hadn’t said anything for quite a long time. She was staring strangely at me.
“Are you all right, Kay?”
“I’m sorry,” I said again, this time with a sigh.
Silent for a moment, she spoke sympathetically. “No suspects yet. It’s eating at me, too.”
“I suppose it’s hard to think of anything else.”
Even though I’d hardly given the subject a thought in the last hour or so, and I should be giving it my full attention, I silently chastised myself.
“Well, I hate to tell you, but DNA’s not worth a tinker’s damn unless they catch somebody.”