Matt's standard interview techniques ran through my mind. Rule one: Give the person time to answer even if there are periods of silence. A guilty person has a harder time with silence than an innocent one. A guilty person talks more, in general, often asking for a question to be repeated or shifting blame elsewhere.
I kept quiet while Matt reviewed the information he had on the fires and on the unidentified murder victim. The team looked bored.
Not exactly enthralled myself, I looked around the room again at the familiar photographs. My gaze landed on a framed enlargement, showing Danielle in front of an official-looking building. I squinted, which usually helped my long distance vision. An embassy? I thought I recognized the French flag.
At this distance, a large gold seal stood out against the white stone of the building. A queasy feeling took over my insides. I pulled my iTouch onto my lap, careful not to disrupt the interactions of the group, such as they were.
My fingers flew through links from my search engine until I got a close-up of the Seal of France.
And of the murder victim's tattoo.
No wonder I'd thought of the Statue of Liberty when I saw the photo of the tattoo. The crown with seven arches was the same on both; both were French in one way or another. I scanned the online write-up. The personification of Liberty held a fasces, an ancient symbol of authority—not a thick candle, as I'd thought. I must have been channeling Rose and her Unity Candle when I'd first seen the blurred image of the tattoo.
My heart was heavy. It seemed clear that the murder victim was Danielle Laurent. It didn't help that her killer might have been someone in this room.
Matt's nudge brought me back to the seminar room, where he was asking me a question. I had a feeling it wasn't the first time he'd asked.
"Gloria? The spectra?"
I did my best to gather my wits. I retrieved a set of printouts from my briefcase—the spectra provided by the arson lab. I spread the sheets along the middle of the table. Familiar peaks and valleys revealed the chemical composition of the five different fire retardants used in the recent blazes.
"We're hoping you can help identify these very complex substances," Matt said, apparently realizing he couldn't count on me to lead the discussion.
"Can't tell," Carson said, arms still folded.
"Could be anything," Peter said, his eyes seeming out of focus.
All we got from Teresa was a shake of her head, which was more than Stan offered.
Matt pushed the printouts closer and waited. Who would break?
"We've been through all of this with the fire department," Carson said, finally. "You should be looking elsewhere. Don't you have a list of known offenders or something? We have work to do."
I was convinced that Danielle was our victim, but I pushed my distress to the side. Maybe I could come at this in a different way and catch someone off guard. "I know how it is, these days especially, to get funds for research," I said. "By the time you write up a proposal, wait for the approval and then the funding, you're way behind another lab or even another country." I clucked my tongue in sympathy.
"Throw in a mountain of paperwork and regulations that are updated hourly and you've got an impossible situation," Carson said. "No one on the outside seems to get it."
Stan leaned over and stared down the table at Carson, knocking into his coffee mug, splashing the sleeve of his white lab coat with brown liquid.
Which prompted me to wonder—why was Stan so nervous? And where was his sweater?
I couldn't recall seeing Stan without his trademark cardigan, even in the summer months since the whole facility was kept at a pretty low temperature for the sake of the computers and the equipment.
Things were stacking up against Stan. As the oldest in the group, he'd likely be the most eager to get results and retire on the strength of a groundbreaking paper. Danielle could have been in the wrong place, or perhaps trying to end a romance with an improbable future.
On an impulse I stood up. "I need to use the restroom," I told the group. "I'll be right back."
Matt gave me a questioning look. I knew he didn't believe my excuse for a minute.
****
I headed down the carpeted hallway toward Stan's office, multitasking as usual. I emailed the RPD from my iPhone. I needed to send Matt's good buddies in uniform to Danielle Laurent's residence. It would be awhile before DNA or even dental records would provide an ID, but maybe there'd be something among her belongings that would confirm my ad hoc assessment.
I also needed to find Stan's sweater. I pictured myself returning to the room triumphant, carrying a charred green cardigan. A few feet from his office door, I nearly collided with Albert, a janitor I'd seen a few times. He was carrying a plastic bag from a dry cleaners. Through the transparent wrapping, I saw a hanger with a green sweater attached.