Even if Racine was able to find out who the woman was, there were still the questions of who killed her and why and where. How did she end up in the alley? Why did the killer set two buildings ablaze but fail to burn her body? And whose skull was inside? A homeless person looking for shelter? Or another murder victim?
Ganza was getting his lunch when Maggie came into his lab. He pulled a couple of containers from the refrigerator, containers that Maggie could see had been sandwiched between vials of blood and packaged tissue samples. When he saw her, he raised one of the container’s lids.
“Join me? Homemade lasagna.”
“Did you make it?”
“Oh God, no.”
He placed it in the microwave, then retrieved two forks from a drawer. Maggie tore off several paper towels for placemats and napkins and set them on a table in the middle of the room while Ganza brought out paper plates and pulled a Diet Pepsi out of the fridge to set in front of her.
It looked like the silent ritual of an old married couple and Maggie realized they had done this many times. Ganza had shared his lunch often and yet Maggie knew little about the man’s personal life. In fact, now that she thought about it, she had no idea who could have made the lasagna. He didn’t wear a wedding ring and had never talked about a family. She’d always assumed he was a bit like her—married to his job.
At first glance he reminded her of Ichabod Crane, his tall, skeletal frame hunched over, his long, mostly gray hair tied back in a tight ponytail that seemed to make his face look more haggard than it was.
“Let me show you something interesting that I found.” He pointed to the electron microscope that occupied a corner.
Maggie put her eye to the viewer. The slide contained something long and thin, tubular with a scaly pattern.
“I’m guessing animal hair, but it doesn’t look like a dog or cat.”
“Correct. Her clothes had plenty of primary transfer, which I’ve already cross-checked as her own. The secondary, however, is a bit tricky.”
“She was found in the alley. There could be all kinds of critters. Even if she wasn’t murdered there, how do you know if this strand is from the alley or the actual murder site?”
“I’m sure it’s not from the alley. This animal most likely was never in the middle of the District.”
“Dumpsters attract all sorts of wildlife—raccoons, rats, possums.”
“But probably not deer.”
Maggie stared at him for a moment, almost waiting for him to say “Just kidding.” But Ganza didn’t kid or joke about evidence. She pressed her eye against the viewfinder again.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. The scale patterns are unique features to determine different species. I had several samples to examine. All had roots, which discounts the idea that maybe they came from a fur coat. Pelts made into clothes are trimmed and usually dyed. These hairs have characteristics of being naturally dislodged, most likely by shedding.”
The microwave’s buzzer went off and Ganza stepped aside to check on the lasagna. He opened the microwave door and the aroma of garlic and tomato sauce made Maggie’s mouth water. Ganza set the timer for another couple of minutes. He fingered a set of slides on the counter and brought another over, changing out the deer hair on the microscope’s faceplate.
“This was also attached to the folds of her clothing.”
Maggie stared down at what looked like a dusty yellow seed with traces of green.
“Centaurea diffusa,” Ganza said. “It’s a typical knapweed.”
“You know where this grows?” she asked.
“It grows wild in the Midwest.”
“That’s an awfully big area. And a lot of miles between here and there. Are you sure? Maybe someone grows it closer? In their backyard or garden?”
“They’d be in violation of the law.”
“It’s a weed.”
“It’s on the federal noxious weed list. There are penalties for moving invasive plants.”
“Okay, so where in the Midwest would this have come from?”
“It’s common along the roadside or in pastures and meadows. You know … where the deer and the antelope roam.” He offered a lopsided grin.
“Why would he kill her somewhere in the Midwest and haul the body halfway across the country to dump her in an alley in the District?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a killer drove around with a dead body in his trunk. You know these guys do strange things. Remember Edmund Kemper left a severed head in his trunk while he met with two state psychiatrists, who after that meeting pronounced him ‘safe’ and good to go.”
Maggie pulled out the set of autopsy photos Stan had allowed her to take. She flipped through and found the imprint stamped into the dead woman’s flesh. She handed it to Ganza.
“I was thinking this might be a grate in the pavement of another street or alley,” she told him. “But now I’m wondering, could it be the bed lining in a truck or SUV?”
Ganza took the photo and moved to a counter, sliding it under a magnifying glass. He switched on an overhead light and examined it, his nose practically touching the glass.
“May I keep this for a day?”