Glancing at my watch, I next dialed Abby’s pager number.
Five minutes later, I had her on the line.
“Abby, I know your sources are sacred, but there’s something I must know.”
She didn’t respond.
“In your account of Brenda Steppe’s murder, you wrote she was strangled with a tan cloth belt. Where did you get this detail?”
“I can’t—”
“Please. It’s very important. I simply must know the source.”
After a long pause, she said, “No names. A squad member. It was a squad member, okay? One of the guys at the scene. I know a lot of squad members . . .”
“The information in no shape or form came from my office?”
“Absolutely not,” she said emphatically. “You’re worrying about the computer break-in Sergeant Marino mentioned . . . I swear, nothing I’ve printed came from that, came from your office.”
It was out before I thought twice. “Whoever got in, Abby, may have typed this tan cloth belt detail into the case table to make it appear you got it from my office, that my office is the leak. The detail is inaccurate. I don’t believe it was ever in our computer. I think whoever broke in got the detail from your story.”
“Good God” was all she said.
Chapter 15
MARINO DROPPED THE MORNING NEWSPAPER ON TOP of the conference table with a loud slap that sent pages fluttering and inserts sliding out.
“What the hell is this?” His face was an angry red and he needed a shave. “Jesus Christ!”
Wesley’s reply was to calmly kick out a chair, inviting him to sit.
Thursday’s story was front-page, above the fold, with the banner headline:
DNA, NEW EVIDENCE RAISE
POSSIBILITY STRANGLER
HAS GENETIC DEFECT
Abby’s byline was nowhere to be found. The account was written by a reporter who usually covered the court beat.
There was a sidebar about DNA profiling, including an artist’s sketch of the DNA “fingerprinting” process. I wondered about the killer, imagined him reading and rereading the paper in a rage. My guess was wherever he worked, he called in sick today.
“What I want to know is how come I wasn’t told any of this?” Marino glared at me. “I turn in the jumpsuit. Do my job. Next thing, I’m reading this crap! What defect? Some DNA reports just come in some asshole’s already leaked, or what?”
I didn’t say anything.
Wesley replied levelly, “It doesn’t matter, Pete. The newspaper story isn’t our concern. Consider it a blessing. We know the killer’s got a strange body odor, or at least it seems likely he does. He thinks Kay’s office is on to something, maybe he makes a stupid move.” He looked at me. “Anything?”
I shook my head. So far there’d been no attempts at breaking into the OCME computer. Had either man come into the conference room twenty minutes earlier, he would have found me ankle-deep in paper.
It was no wonder Margaret had been hesitant last night when I asked her to print out the flat file. It included about three thousand statewide cases through the month of May, or a run of green-striped paper that stretched practically the length of the building.
What was worse, the data were compressed in a format not meant to be readable. It was like fishing for complete sentences in a bowl of alphabet soup.
It took me well over an hour to find Brenda Steppe’s case number. I don’t know if I felt thrilled or horrified—maybe it was both—when I discovered the listing under “Clothing, Personal Effects”: “Pair of nude pantyhose around neck.” There was no mention of a tan cloth belt anywhere. None of my clerks remembered changing the entry or updating the case after it was entered. The data had been altered. It was altered by someone other than my staff.
“What about this mental impairment stuff?” Marino rudely shoved the newspaper my way. “You find out something in this DNA hocus-pocus to make you think he ain’t operating on all cylinders?”
“No,” I honestly replied. “I think the point of the story is some metabolic disorders can cause problems like that. But I have come up with no evidence to suggest such a thing.”
“Well, it sure as hell ain’t my opinion the guy’s got brain rot. Me, I’m hearing the same garbage again. The squirrel’s stupid, nothing more than a lowlife. Probably works in a car wash, cleans out the city sewers or something . . .”
Wesley was beginning to register impatience. “Give it a rest, Pete.”
“I’m supposed to be in charge of this investigation and I gotta read the damn newspaper to know what the hell’s going on . . .”