Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) Page 19

  Looking perturbed I’m late, he gives me a frosty gaze. “Why didn’t you come to the back door like everyone else?”

  I shove past him into the reception area. To hell with him. “You invited me, Doc, and I’m in a helluva hurry,” What I don’t say is,“I’m NPD, so I’ll come to whatever door I like.”

  I feel around in the dark and flip the light switch. Nothing. “What the—?”

  “I, uh . . . don’t quite know if there’s light in here,”Bite Doc says.

  In the reception’s pea-green murk, his face reminds me of a troll’s, hair stuck like white fuzz to his wrinkled forehead, his eyes unusually glazed. The look makes me wonder if he’d use that scalpel on me—

  “Better get some light bulbs, Doc. You’re a prime target for a robbery.”

  On second thought, who’d rob this creepy place?

  “I was working. I did not hear you knocking.” Then off he strides toward the door leading from the reception to a hallway and toward his lab.

  “Still working at midnight? I thought I was the only fool that did that.”

  When he doesn’t answer, I follow the hulking man through the reception’s deep gloom and then back the gray carpeted hallway.

  The lab’s fluorescent lights do nothing to reduce the creep factor of Verbote’s place at this hour. “Sorry to interrupt and run,”I say, although I distinctly recall being invited,“but I got another vic to go see over in Newport. What’ve you got for me?”

  Anyone else would’ve asked,“Another murder? What vic?” Not Bite Doc. I’ve arrested a few nut job geniuses like him. They take in only what they choose inside their brilliant brains. Make you feel like you’re talking to yourself and, usually, answering.

  Weirdest damn bastard—

  I follow him to a desk the size of a Lexington horse barn. Unlike his immaculate stainless steel table, the desk stops short of organized chaos. On top sits several computer towers popular in decades past, some beige, some black, and all blinking blue and red and glaring at me with high-tech menace better suited to a B-grade science fiction movie.

  Even I recognize the computer outfit he’s firing up would make a museum piece. “Doc, do these things work?”

  Bite Doc grabs a chair and sits with an imperial flourish of his lab coat. Ignoring me, he strokes the mouse. It rests on, of all things, a mouse pad with a picture of Liza Minelli. Pondering what he sees in the leggy dancer, I watch the dark screen clear and images fade in.

  I’ve arrived here expecting no miracles, but tonight I’m demanding proof. No amount of Bite Doc’s scientific hocus pocus will deter me, not this time. “What’re we going to look at, Doc?”

  “Computer-generated images of your perp’s bite marks using Hollow Volume Overlay.”

  I scowl.

  “Perhaps I should let you guide the presentation? You ask the questions,”he says,“I’ll answer.”

  I lower my gaze, absorbing the implied insult to my intelligence. I’d arrest him right now if I had time, arrogant bastard. I think better of it, though. I’ve sacrificed precious time from a homicide scene to traipse over here, but I’ve got nothing on Bite Doc. There’s always my other suspect, Theodore McCloskey, although I think the chances of that marshmallow-bellied bastard plotting serial murders are slim.

  It’s time to put the proverbial shoe up Bite Doc’s ass. “Doc,”I say, glancing at the computer, watching with growing irritation while two familiar images play onscreen,“I’ve already got photos of Meera’s and Angie Miller’s bite wounds. We looked at them this morning—together. Seeing them again on your computer isn’t going to identify my perp.”

  “Sheesh,”he says, and then shakes his big leonine head. His judgmental frown and boorish look of stubborn resistance tell me I’ve just broken a cardinal rule of interviewing: I’ve insulted the man who knew something important and was willing to share it, the key word being was. Now he just sits there across from me, glaring.

  Impasse.

  I soften my tone. “Sorry, Doc, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m in a hurry.” Didn’t you hear me say I’ve got another murder? “Can we bypass all the circuitous explanation? Can you just tell me what you’ve got?”

  Nada. Nothing. Zip. Frustrated, I watch his long white fingers, dexterous digits strong as an Orangutan’s, noodle the mouse, sneaking a caress of Liza’s face.

  Have those hands murdered?

  I’m still waiting on the results of my BCI background check on Bite Doc. Maybe that’ll answer a few questions.

  “From the suck marks on your victims’ shoulders, I’ve created impressions.” He stops to see if I’m following.

  “Uh-huh,”I say, forcing a smile, trying to act patient. Hurry up, dammit!

  He goes into detail, anyway, explaining how he’s poured this rubbery gunk into the bite wounds, about how he’s let it gel to make impressions of Angie Miller’s and Meera’s bite wounds, and how the gunk’s picked up the ridges and flaws in the perp’s teeth, taken from the impressions of the bite wounds.

  “Then I photographed the impressions and moved my photos into Photoshop,”Bite Doc continues explaining.

  I want to strangle him, but noting my glare he at last noodles the mouse more quickly.

  “In both Meera’s and Angie Miller’s case, you will see in a moment that the bite wound patterns match,”he says.

  Eyes glued to the screen, I watch the split images merge. The two photos that were previously separate, when once overlain appear as one, and capture my full attention. “I see,”I say. I do see, too, and for several seconds I say nothing, just stare at the images. It’s the damndest thing. Ridges on the two vics’ overlain bite wounds now appear with certain points highlighted. They’re identical and match perfectly.

  Bite Doc nudges the mouse. Another image appears. Mouth, frontal view. Looks like I’m looking head-on at an X-ray of someone’s gaping mouth. Like Angie Miller surely must have done when she understood her fate the last few minutes of her life, I open my mouth wide and stare. “Doc, is that an image of my perp’s teeth?”

  “No, that’s an image of myteeth.”

  My gaze slides sideways at him. “Why do I want to look at an image of your teeth?”

  But I don’t have to ask. Clever bastard. He’s setting me up for another of those teachable moments, like when he explained suck marks, ecchymotioca. Only this time, I’m not biting. I cross my arms and stand, preparing to leave. “Look, Doc, I’d like to look at your teeth, but I got another homicide over in Newport—”

  One he doesn’t seem the least bit interested in.

  “Patience, Detective Hawks.” A sly look lights his face. Bite Doc clicks the mouse. Another image appears. This one’s different. Good thing, too. I’m ready to commit murder.

  “Hellfire,”I say, leaning close,“Is that my perp’s teeth?”

  “Yes,”he says, engrossed—and as ecstatic—as I am. “That’s our boy.”

  Megalo Don. I’m looking at his teeth. Fuck me running.

  * * *

  For several seconds, we both stare at the image of Megalo Don’s dentition.

  “You want to see something that’ll give you a hard-on, Detective?”

  Spotting weirdoes is my job. At the moment, I feel like an abject failure, worse than I did when I flunked my first semester of law school on purpose to piss off my dad, Judge Hawks. I gaze into Doctor Brick Verbote’s eyes. I’m no profiler, but this dude’s weird. Am I three inches from my killer’s face?

  “Show me,”I say. “I’ve not had a good hard-on in a while. I’m due.”

  Bite Doc strokes the mouse, and then an image of Megalo’s bite sails over the top of the merged image of Meera’s and Angie Miller’s bite wounds. All points, the ridges, valleys, and the fissures between the teeth match perfectly. All the points of light along the ridges light up.

  “Holy mother of God—”I say, staring open-mouthed.

  I pride myself on keeping a calm exterior, but this time, I don’t bother. If I’m seeing wh
at I think I am, then Bite Doc has just linked Megalo Don to both women’s murders. This is case linkage, almost as good as motive. NPD’s now got two related cases—and a bona fide serial killer on our hands.

  “So the same bastard’s inflicted wounds on both women? Is that what this is telling me?” I glance at the computer screen. “Show me his ugly bite again, Doc.”

  Megalo Don’s mouth appears onscreen with a nudge of the mouse from Bite Doc.

  “Hellfire.” I let out a long low whistle. “Whoever this bastard is, he’s got one helluva mouthful of teeth. Looks like a damned shark’s mouth.”

  “Yes, he has a most impressive bite,”Bite Doc says, deeply admiring. He splits the screen again. Two more side-by-side images appear. One’s Bite Docs’ and one is Megalo Don’s. “Note this gap between his incisors, Detective. If you’ll please look”—he points to his own gaping maw—“there is no such gap between my incisors.”

  Getting a whiff of garlic, I examine Bite Doc’s incisors, which he clinks with the scalpel. “Uh-huh,”I say, feeling like the fool I am. Bite Doc’s had me figured all along: he’s trying to use his technology to rule himself out as a suspect. The images of his dentition and Megalo Don’s don’t match. His teeth are perfect as a mule’s, but they have no gaps or chips, whereas Megalo’s display a gap between two upper incisors and a chip on one upper eye-tooth.

  “I can’t believe it,”I say, shaking my head. “I’m really looking at Megalo’s bite onscreen.”

  But will these HVO images help me nail Megalo Don?

  I work to give the impression I have yet to attain the hard-on Bite Doc promised. Like the dude in the old detective movie, Colombo, I scratch my head and look puzzled. “Enlighten me,”I prod,“as to the evidentiary value of this, will you, Doc? How exactly do I use this to persuade a jury that the same perp’s done both vics?

  “I mean, it sounds good,”I continue hammering away,“but how do I know your technology works?”

  After listening to Bite Doc’s mumbo-jumbo this morning about stripping bare the perp’s ego, once we’ve gotten a look at his teeth, I called Wes and asked him to get me the run-down on bite wound evidence, anything with the potential to deep six a prosecutor’s case. Wes told me they’ve used forensic odontologists’ testimony to imprison more than a few innocent persons. In those cases, the testimony was flat wrong.

  “I hear the idea that every person’s teeth are unique is junk science,”I say, again challenging Bite Doc. “Your theory hasn’t been fully tested.”

  Bite Doc’s flush suffuses the roots of his yellowish-gray hair. He’s cornered and knows it. He’s pissed.

  I don’t care. Megalo Don’s my homicide case. I’m the NPD dick Bite Doc must deal with. Like it or not, I’m calling the doc’s science into question. I wait, my gaze pinned to his face.

  He tosses the scalpel. It thunks onto the desktop. Finally, Bite Doc’s scowl relaxes, turns shifty. “I understand, Detective Hawks,”he says. “You are out to apprehend your killer, so you are serious about your evidence’s integrity, but—”

  “I’m serious as a fucking heart attack about my evidence’s integrity,”I say, cutting off Bite Doc’s impending lecture. “If there’s any doubt whatsoever about the efficacy of HVO technology’s use in testimony, I’m screwed.” Arms crossed, I keep waiting. I’m in charge tonight, not the doc. If egos are being stripped bare, it’s sure as hell not going to be mine.

  Bite Doc speaks after several tense seconds. “I admit forensic odontology still has a long way to go.” He turns his attention back to the computer screen. “But what you see here, Detective Hawks, is a start, so I’ll share what I can with you if you’re still interested.”

  Meaning he’ll share what I’m capable of understanding.

  Not quite done sweating this oily bastard, I ignore the insult. “What’s the drawbacks of using your evidence?”I say. “And don’t tell me there’s not any: I know better.”

  “I’ve scanned photos of the impressions using a flatbed optical scanner, so the measurements I’ve taken of the ridges of his teeth disregard 3-D features.”

  “Doc,”I say, grateful for Wes’ rundown but aware I’m on thin ice because I still don’t know what the hell Bite Doc’s talking about,“could you bypass the equipment lecture and tell me the problem? Put yourself in my shoes.”

  “The optical scanner isn’t laser, so I’ve not recorded any 3-D information about your perp’s dentition from the photos of Meera’s and Angie Miller’s impressions.”

  I’m screwed, like I thought. I’ve just made case linkage, or Bite Doc did, by placing Megalo Don’s bite on both vics’ shoulders. I felt so damn sure about it, but now I don’t know. What if the technology’s wrong?

  And the clock’s ticking. I glance at my watch. Damn. I still have to get to Newport and make sure DeeDee doesn’t screw up my crime scene. On the phone, Captain Meyers said the latest vic looks like another of Megalo Don’s. Counting Meera and Angie Miller, and now the latest, that’s three vics.

  Megalo has got to be stopped. I’ve got to do it.

  It takes me several seconds to refocus. I’ve never felt so alive. This case is a career maker, mine, not DeeDee’s. Smelling blood, I close in for the kill.

  “Tell me, Doc, if you’ve not recorded any 3-D information from Meera’s and Angie Miller’s impressions, what—exactly—have you recorded?”

  “The flatbed optical scanner records light reflected from dental impressions,”Bite Doc says, ignoring my warning not to focus on the equipment. “Once again, we are looking at the highlighted biting surface of your perp’s teeth. This is not 3-D, as I stated, but it’s good as it gets. The technology limits us.”

  I nod, agreeing. “No argument from me.”

  Too late, I notice Bite Doc’s expression slip into that dreamy far-away look he often gets, right before he either starts stuttering, or stops talking altogether. But this time, he surprises me. “If you are interested,”he says,“I have found a way to make the identification method more accurate.”

  “Well, yeah, I’m interested.”

  I stand and stretch, feeling paralyzed from sitting too long. Why do conversations with Bite Doc have to go this way every damn time? “What are you suggesting?”

  Bite Doc walks to the cabinet against the far wall and retrieves several impressions and puts them on a square looking stainless steel plate.

  “I use contrasting colors of dental stone to make my impressions,”he says, striding back to the desk. “It’s a new technique that works with 3-D scanning. Using my uniquely colored stone work, in conjunction with tri-instrument dental beam identification tomography, I can—”

  “Whoa!” I hold up a hand. This feels familiar, like the lecture on ecchymotioca, or suck marks. “I’ve had a really long day. Could you run that past me again?”

  “TIDBIT,”Bite Doc says, sarcastic, condescending. “Use the acronym for tri-instrument dental beam identification tomography, if it’s easier for you.”

  And then he explains TIDBIT.

  Squelching another urge to strangle him, I review what he’s explained to make sure I’ve got it. “So you can actually use . . . TIDBIT to measure the ridges of the perp’s teeth in 3-D and prove it’s him doing the biting? With mathematical certainty?”I add. “So our jury’s convinced?”

  “We could show beyond a reasonable doubt in any criminal case,”Bite Doc says, correcting me,“that your perp made these wounds, once you have him in custody, but—”

  I pick up on the uncertainty in his voice, but I let it pass. “Doc, how do you think he’s making the feet-like patterns in our vics’ skin?”

  “As I explained, he’s making his own molds and using them to custom make grills—”

  “Right,”I say. “I get that part, but where do you think he’s learning how to makethem?”

  Bite Doc scrapes a cauliflower ear with the scalpel. I’m making him uncomfortable on purpose with my questioning. His dentition and Megalo Don’s don’t match, and that
’s good for the doc. But the perp’s been using homemade“grills,”like an orthodontic patient’s retainer, that leave bite wound patterns shaped like feet in his vics’ shoulders. Someone like Bite Doc, with enough experience, could disguise his bite pattern with a custom grill.

  But Bite Doc has argued well that the perp wasn’t trying to hide his bite, that he used the grills as sexual apparatus to get off while murdering his vics. I get that, too, but it still doesn’t exonerate Bite Doc. That’s exactly what I’d say if I were the perp. Or Bite Doc.

  While fairly certain the doc’s dentition can disprove him as a suspect, I’m taking no prisoners and no chances. “Continue,”I say, sounding like a prison guard granting an inmate permission to piss.

  “His molds are rudimentary,”Bite Doc says,“so he is acquiring enough knowledge on his own to make them. But since he is obviously not an expert, he must—in order to obtain materials for his mold making—know someone with connections in forensic dentistry.”

  A little frisson of fear ripples my back. Someone like Alaina Colby. Who does she know with a foot fetish and a penchant for violent sadistic sex? How close is she to him? How close is she to becoming his next victim?

  “So what is the problem with using TIDBIT to get the 3-D impressions and nail this bastard? Can we do it like . . . yesterday?”

  Bite Doc gives me a scornful look. “I have no laser scanner,”he snorts. “Those cost money.”

  What the hell? He’s genuinely offended, although I can’t figure why. He’s wealthy enough to buy such a laser scanner. Like the name Hawks, Verbote also bespeaks wealth in Cincinnati. Old wealth. For a second, I want to rush out and find one, but I’m certain commercial laser scanners aren’t standard shelf stock at Wal-Mart. So far Bite Doc hasn’t mentioned anything about me buying him a new microscope, even though I’ve lost that bet. I’m not adding a laser scanner to his grocery list.

  “Listen, Doc. I’m going to accept for now what you’ve shown me as proof we’ve got the same guy biting both women, but I need evidence that will hold up in court.”

  Pacing, I toss the monkey wrench I’ve been saving into Bite Doc’s theory. I point to the photos displaying onscreen. “What happens if you add flesh to the messy gray area of your bite mark pictures—?”