I told her Ryan had spent most of his time searching for Pomerleau’s sole surviving victim. She asked where the poor thing was. I said he hadn’t found her. She was intrigued, wouldn’t let up on the subject until Goose arrived to bully her into a bath.
The boards at the LEC came down. The photos, maps, interview summaries, and reports were packed back into their respective boxes. The conference room reverted to its intended purpose.
Tinker faded off. Rodas disengaged. Barrow moved on to other cold cases.
Slidell went incommunicado. I hadn’t a clue what he was doing. Made no effort to learn.
The CMPD held a press conference. Broadcasters went fluently doleful. Headlines howled. Reports told of Ajax’s arrest in Oklahoma, of “evidence in his possession linking him to the murders of Shelly Leal, Lizzie Nance, and others,” of his death on Sunrise Court. Slidell stayed away. Tinker did humble while deftly exaggerating his role and that of the SBI. I had to agree with Slidell. The guy was an unctuous little prick.
Ryan and I talked often. Almost like old times. Almost. He was back on the job, working as a floater as before, adding his expertise to investigations as needed.
Friday morning, the second day of the New Year, Larabee received the toxicology report. Ajax had a blood carbon monoxide saturation of 68 percent. A level that kills you deader than shit.
Ajax also had chloral hydrate in his system, which showed up only when Larabee requested a second test expanding beyond the opiates, amphetamines, barbiturates, alcohol, and other substances on standard tox screens. Though the drug was a somewhat antiquated choice, in Larabee’s opinion, it wasn’t significant. As he’d said at the scene, a lot of folks need pharmaceuticals to pull the plug.
There was no record of chloral hydrate withdrawal at the Mercy dispensary, no prescription at any Charlotte pharmacy. Not a big deal. As a physician, Ajax would have had easy access to the drug, often used as a sedative prior to EEG procedures.
More troubling was the fact that no empty pill bottle turned up at the house on Sunrise Court or on Ajax’s person. CSS found the kitchen trash container empty, unlike other cans on the premises. A Hefty in the curbside rollout produced nothing that might have held the capsules.
The big shocker came the following Monday.
Larabee caught me in the biovestibule, paper in his hand, puzzled expression on his face.
“Post-holiday credit card bill?” Unwrapping a scarf from my neck.
Larabee thrust the paper at me. I shifted my briefcase and took it.
A quick skim, then the line that mattered. I understood why Larabee hadn’t laughed at my joke. “You’re kidding.”
“I wish.”
“The DNA from the lip print isn’t a match for Ajax.”
Larabee shook his head solemnly.
“Any possibility the jacket was contaminated?”
“They say no way.”
“And the samples you sent over were good?”
Larabee just looked at me.
“I saw lip balm in Ajax’s medicine cabinet. Maybe—”
“CSS collected it. The lab ran it as a cross test. In case some defense attorney found an expert to say the stuff scrambled the DNA sequencing, or some other junk-science hogwash.”
“What about the lip balm itself?”
“Not the same brand.”
“So, wait.” My mind was struggling to reconstruct the picture we’d so carefully crafted. “Ajax might not be our guy?”
Larabee shrugged with upturned palms. Who knows?
“But he had Leal’s ring.”
“Nance’s shoes. Gower’s key.”
“What about the blood in Ajax’s trunk? The scalp?”
“That’s taking longer.”
“Have you talked to Slidell?”
“He’s on his way over.”
An hour passed before Slidell’s heels clicked like bullets outside my door. Voices floated from Larabee’s office, modulated, no ire or outrage. Ten minutes later, Skinny blustered into my office.
The change was subtle but there. Same ratty brown jacket. Same bad haircut. What?
Slidell ankle-hooked and dragged a chair toward my desk, dropped onto it. When his legs shot forward, I saw a flash of tangerine sock. Some things are permanently set.
“You heard?”