Ryan once described to me what he called the “big bang break”: the one clue or insight that suddenly sets an investigation barreling in the right direction. That one synapsey moment when realization explodes and the search hurtles forward on the right trajectory. Ryan believed at least one big bang lurked in every case. And despite his personal pain, he was determined to find one for the “poor little lambs.” His commitment buoyed my spirits.
I was rinsing my bowl and mug when the phone rang. Larabee was calling to remind me of a meeting that morning. A prosecutor was coming to the MCME to review our findings for an upcoming deposition. Larabee was on at eight, I was on at nine.
The case involved the death of an L.A. actor who’d flown to Charlotte to play the part of a rabbit in a feature film. After two days of shooting, the man had failed to reappear on-set. He was found four weeks later in a culvert by the tracks in Chantilly. His sometime boyfriend had been arrested and charged with murder one.
As Larabee and I wrapped up, Ryan caught my eye and pointed upstairs. I nodded, distracted. And annoyed. Wet-nursing a lawyer was not in my plan for the day.
Ten minutes later, Ryan returned, hair wet and slicked back below the Costa Rican cap. He wore jeans and a short-sleeved polo over a long-sleeved tee.
We talked little in the car. Which, thanks to my passenger, smelled of my pricey Egyptian musk black soap.
I dropped Ryan at the LEC and continued on to the MCME. I was reviewing my file on Mr. Bunny when Larabee came through my door. “How was your weekend?” he asked.
“Good. Yours?”
“Can’t complain. I hear Ryan’s hanging in.”
“Mmm.” I wondered who’d told him. Figured it was Slidell.
“You’ll never guess what was waiting on my voicemail this morning.” Larabee loved making me predict what he had to say. I found the game tiresome.
“A giant sea slug.”
“Hilarious.”
“And she’s playing here all week.”
“Marty Parent called.”
It took a moment for the name to register. “The new DNA analyst at the CMPD lab.”
“She’s a go-getter. And an early riser. Left a message at 7:04, asking that I call her back.”
I waited him out.
“Which I will do as soon as I’m done with Vinny Gambini in there.” Tipping his head toward the small conference room.
“Who is it?”
“Connie Rossi.”
Constantin Rossi had been with the DA’s office for as long as I could recall. He was shrewd and organized and didn’t waste your time. Or try to push you beyond conclusions allowed by the facts.
“Rossi’s okay,” I said.
“He is.”
I was finished at eleven and went in search of Larabee. Found him in autopsy room one, slicing a brain.
“What did Parent say?” I asked.
Larabee looked at me, knife in one hand, apron and gloves speckled with blood. “I’m not sure if it’s good news or bad.” Spoken through three-ply paper hooked over his ears.
I wiggled my fingers in a “Give it to me” gesture.
Larabee laid down the knife and lowered the mask. “Parent spent all weekend analyzing the smear on Leal’s jacket.”
“You’re kidding.”
“She’s divorced, and her kid was away with the ex.”
“Still.”
“The kid’s a daughter. Ten years old.”
“Right.” When Katy was younger, I’d have done the same if a maniac had been targeting girls her age.
“You nailed it. What the ALS picked up was a lip print. Our swab contained beeswax, sunflower oil, coconut oil, soybean oil—”
“Lip balm.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Saliva?” I felt my pulse kick up slightly.
Larabee smiled the answer.
“Holy shit. Tell me she got DNA.”
“She got DNA.”
“Yes!” I actually did that pump-action thing with one arm.
“She’ll send it through the system today.”
“And up to Canada.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe? It’ll come back to Pomerleau.” I was totally jazzed. It was Ryan’s big bang. Slidell would get his task force.
“Are you familiar with amelogenin?”