Blood List(42)

"Ideally, when it's all said and done, we'll have one and only one irreconcilable Match-9."

"And that means?" Paul asked with raised eyebrows.

Carl stopped his lecture to explain the term. "Irreconcilable Match-9 would mean that all nine people have something in common, a perfect coincidence. It's doubtful we'll get one, but if we do, we have a massively high chance that that's our link, odds at least in the high 90th percentile. Does that all make sense?" The little man was actually smiling.

"It does," Paul said. "You're an extraordinarily nerdy man, you know that?"

"All I'm missing is the pocket protector," Carl said. He turned back to his computer. Paul noted that although Carl didn't have full range-of-motion with his injured arm, he could type with blinding speed.

"How's your arm?" Paul asked.

"Not so bad anymore," Carl said and rotated his shoulder in a practiced stretch. "I had to have a couple surgeries to repair some tendons, but with a few more months of physical therapy, it should be good as new." He grinned. "Fuck you very much."

Paul chuckled. "I'm glad it's healing okay," he said and turned back to his work. He started looking for matches as the grin faded from Carl's face. Carl rubbed his arm self-consciously and turned back to his computer. Poor guy, Paul thought.





Chapter 15





January 9th, 8:12 AM EST; J. Edgar Hoover building; Washington, D.C.



After another pornographic frisking and an escort through the endless hallways, Paul found himself back in the same conference room with the same piles of papers, the same nine computers, and the same large display on the wall. The team was busy rooting through documents. "Why does everybody look so pissed off?" Paul asked.

Carl jerked his head toward the wall display, and Paul had his answer. A list was projected on the wall in digital clarity:



Match-2 (276) Rotator cuff surgery, lived in CA, allergic to penicillin, etc.

Match-3 (92) Alumni SUNY school, owned a Hyundai, glasses required for driving, etc.

Match-4 (17) MasterCard, patient at South Manhattan Municipal, etc.

Match-5 (3) Lived in NY, Lived in NJ, two children

Match-6 (0) No matches

Match-7 (1) Owned a cat

Match-8 (0) No matches

Match-9 (0) No matches.



Paul looked at Carl. "So what do the numbers in parentheses mean?" Paul asked.

Sam replied in his ear. "Number of matches in that category. Now shush."

He had no experience with this sort of thing but was pretty sure that even though the team wasn't expecting Carl's ideal Match-9, they expected something higher than a Match-5 that was more significant than cat ownership.

They spent the next few hours digging through files. Again. Looking for missed clues. Again. I'm glad I never wanted to be a cop, Paul thought.

Every now and then they found something that the computer hadn't recognized. Paul didn't see why upgrading "Owned a Hyundai" from Match-3 to Match-4 was important or relevant, but Carl seemed pleased when he found the typo that threw the computer off track. He supposed that if there was one error, there must be more. They spent the next several hours looking.

"I think…," Doug started to say, then stopped and studied the paper in his hand. The rest of the team exchanged hopeful looks. Doug slid himself over to the next desk and jumped to the medical files. He muttered to himself as he read. "Knee surgery. There it is again. Toradol, followed by Ultram." After a quick scan, he moved to the next victim's information. At each terminal he made a small entry.

The rest of the team looked at each other with restrained excitement. "There he goes," Jerri muttered to Marty, hope painted on her face. Good God, she's beautiful, Paul thought.

It took less than five minutes for Doug to complete the circuit of desks. He walked to the center console and typed, his fingers a blur on the keyboard. Paul wanted to ask what he was doing but didn't dare interrupt.

After a minute Doug looked up at Gene, his eyes ablaze with excitement. "Why would you prescribe Toradol followed by Ultram for pain?"

Gene's eyes widened. "I…I have no idea, Doug. Why would you prescribe Toradol followed by Ultram for pain?"

"I don't know. They're both non-narcotic, non-steroidal analgesics. Toradol can mess you up pretty good and isn't nearly as cheap as something like oxycodone or codeine. There were some lawsuits in the mid-to-late nineties about liver damage, even some deaths." He went back to the computer and continued to type.

"How do you know this shit?" Marty asked.

Doug grinned without looking up and shook his head. "I'll never tell."

Marty rolled his eyes.

A minute passed, then another. All work had stopped except for Doug's frantic hammering on the keys. His mutters turned into a coherent statement. "Sam, please put victim nine's autopsy photos on the large screen."