“But they found enough DNA to identify a Y chromosome,” I say, still reading. “So the skeleton belonged to a boy, and since the Y chromosome comes from the father, he must have been human.”
“The simple fact of a Y chromosome doesn’t prove anything,” Arnie argues. “Who’s to say what alien DNA looks like? Why couldn’t they have some DNA that’s similar to ours and some that’s not? Maybe they interbred with us thousands of years ago, and the progeny later returned to see how things were going and breed some more.”
Otto and I both eye him skeptically.
“Come on, guys,” Arnie says. There is a gleam in his eye that tells me how excited he is about this whole thing. “Think about it. Aliens from space had to have visited earth in the past. There’s all kinds of evidence that proves it. How else do you think ancient man was able to achieve such remarkable feats of technology and science as the pyramids? Or the airstrips in Nazca, Peru? Or the cave paintings, carvings, and petroglyphs dating back thousands of years that can be found all over the world, images that depict beings with reptilian heads, or what appear to be helmets, or even some that look like they’re wearing some sort of protective suit? Where did these images come from? Huh? Why do ancient images that appear in Kiev, and Africa, and Utah, and Ecuador all have these common elements, even though the people who lived back then were isolated from one another? Those ancient people thought these images were gods from heaven.” He pauses and points toward the ceiling, giving us a knowing look. “Heaven . . . as in space. Get it?”
I suspect Otto has sensed that further discussion with Arnie on the topic will be an exercise in futility, because he says, “Well, let’s wait until we have a chance to analyze the bones we found before we go labeling them as alien.” He glances at his watch. “I have an osteologist named Mark Schmitt coming up today from Chicago to take a look at them. He should be here around nine.”
“He’ll have a hard time getting through that crowd out front,” I say.
Otto nods. “I’ve arranged with the local PD to have a couple of officers out there to assist him. While we’re waiting, let’s get the bones on the table for him.” He gives Arnie a pointed look. “And I think you have some things to work on with our other active cases, don’t you?”
Arnie frowns, looking defeated. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, and then he turns and skulks away.
“You’ve broken his heart,” I tease.
Otto chuckles. “You have to admire his sense of conviction.”
“Could he be right?” I ask. I’m curious to test Otto’s skepticism on the matter. How open is he to the possibility of those bones not being entirely human?
He looks over at me with an enigmatic smile. “There are still many things in the world we don’t fully understand or know of,” he says. “I’m open to possibilities, but I’m also a realist. And I’ve seen too many human anomalies to jump onto the alien bandwagon this soon.”
“Glad to hear it,” I say. “But whatever else those bones may be, they are a thorn in my side. We can’t continue with the construction on our house until we clear this case.”
“Sorry about that,” he says. “Of course, we’ll do what we can to get to the bottom of things as quickly as we can, but I’m afraid it’s going to take time. Those bones will have to be aged, and depending on the results of that, we might have to do a little more looking around out there on your land.”
This is not good news. Postponing the construction means more time living in our current cramped quarters. And who knows how long our contractor is going to sit idly by waiting for a green light? I’m not a happy camper along about now.
We go about getting the bones laid out and ready for Schmitt to examine when he arrives. Once that is done, Otto says, “If you want, you can check in with the PD and see if there’s anything we can help with in regard to the other cases. You can be here when Schmitt does his thing if you like, but you don’t have to be. What would you prefer to do?”
My preference would be to go home, crawl back into bed, and take a nice long nap. But I don’t say so. “Actually,” I say, glancing at my watch, “I’m expecting Izzy any minute. He has a couple of interviews set up this morning to look for Hal’s replacement, and he’s invited me to sit in on them. After that, I think I’ll check in with Hurley and help him with some investigative stuff we need to do on the motel case. I’m afraid if I’m around when your Mr. Schmitt arrives, I might try too hard to persuade him that those bones are nothing to be concerned about. I’m not very objective on the subject.”
“I’ll give you a call if something comes up,” Otto says. “And I’ll give you a call after Schmitt is done with his initial examination and let you know what his findings are.”
With that settled, I grab another pastry, figuring a sugar rush will help me keep my energy levels up. This is just one of the gazillion justifications I have in my repertoire for eating things I know I shouldn’t. I have to be careful not to use them too often lest I end up with a body that requires a large circle should I ever be murdered and someone has to draw a chalk outline around me. But it’s hard. I love food. Sometimes I feel like the only way I can stick to a diet is if someone handcuffed my arms behind my back, and then put one of those cones of shame around my head—you know, the little funnel-shaped things dogs get to keep them from chewing and licking on parts of their bodies. Plus, the combination of dietary deprivation and my current sleep deficiency has left me with the personality of a serial killer, and my first victim would be some skinny chick I see eating a banana split.
If cynicism burned calories, I’d be as thin as a Victoria’s Secret model.
This train of thought is not a good one, because now I have a wicked craving for ice cream. I try to suppress it as I take another bite of my second pastry—a raspberry-filled, glazed delight—and take out my phone to call Hurley.
“Hey, what’s up?” he says when he answers.
“Are you at work yet?” I say, trying not to sound like I have a mouth full of gooey deliciousness.
“Hardly,” he says. “I’m still at the house. Matthew has decided that his blue shorts with the red buttons are the only ones he’ll wear, but he was trying to get them on and one of the buttons fell off. Now he’s having a meltdown.”
I can hear my son crying in the background. “You might have to sew it back on,” I tell him. I’m half teasing him, because I know he hasn’t a clue about how to sew on a button. But it’s only half a tease because I also know how persistent and determined our son can be once he has his mind set on something.
“Actually, I tried to superglue it,” Hurley says. “Now my fingers are fuzzy, because I picked up Matthew’s socks without realizing I had glue on my fingers.”
I bite back a laugh. Hurley sounds genuinely frustrated, and I know I would be if I was in his position. But when it happens to someone else, there is a certain level of hilarity to it all. “Nail polish remover,” I tell him. “That will get the glue off your fingers. There’s some in our bathroom medicine cabinet.”
One thing my nursing career taught me is a variety of tricks and tips for removing various stains and other unwanted “gunk” from one’s body or clothing: hydrogen peroxide for blood, hairspray for ballpoint pen ink, toothpaste for iodine, and acetone—aka nail polish remover—for any type of gummy adhesive.
“Okay, thanks,” Hurley says.
Izzy walks in and waves at me. I hold up a jelly-smeared finger to indicate I need a minute. Izzy nods and then his eyes shift to the box of donuts, his gaze longing.
“Izzy is here,” I tell Hurley, and at the sound of his name, Izzy finally tears his gaze away from the pastries. He licks his lips and then leaves the room. “I have to run, Hurley, but when I’m done with the interviews, I’ll be free to help you with whatever you need. Otto has a bone specialist coming in to examine the skeleton we found last night, but I don’t need to be here for that. In fact, I should probably try to distance myself from it lest I drop to my knees and beg the man
to dismiss the bones as nothing so we can get back on schedule with the house.”
Hurley chuckles. “There’s plenty to do,” he says, and then he starts listing items that need to be followed up on, most of which are things I can’t do alone without an officer or detective present. But then he hits on one I can do.
“I want to follow up on your idea of checking into the life insurance policies and chatting with the agent who issued them,” Hurley says.
“The agent on both policies is Patty Volker,” I say, finally letting that cat out of the bag because I figure Hurley will figure it out himself sooner or later. “I’d be happy to go and talk to her.”
There is a moment of silence on the other end. “Are you sure you want to do that?” he asks finally. “Won’t it be . . . awkward?”
“Not particularly,” I say, hoping I sound convincing. The truth is, it will be a little awkward, but my curiosity is outweighing any reservations I might have at the moment. “I’m long over David,” I tell Hurley. “And I knew Patty before she married him. She’s a nice person. Besides, this will be a strictly business visit, so there shouldn’t be any cause for awkwardness.”
“Okay,” Hurley says, and I can hear muffled, hiccupping sobs in the background that tell me Matthew is over the worst of his tantrum, though the start of a new one is always a possibility. “By the time you do that, I should be at the station, and we can reconnoiter there.”
“Consider it done,” I tell him. “And good luck with that missing button.”
I disconnect the call with a slight twinge of guilt, but also with a sense of relief that he’s the one dealing with the button debacle rather than me. I settle in behind my computer, and while keeping one hand free to continue feeding my face, I search for Patty Volker’s contact information, typing with my free hand. Once I pull up her number, I take out my cell phone and dial it, still using only one hand. I’ve always been a good multitasker, particularly when food is involved.
Patty answers on the third ring, sounding chipper and far more awake than I am. I’m licking the remnants of raspberry jelly from my fingers by the time she finishes her greeting spiel.
“Hey, Patty, it’s Mattie,” I say.
“Oh, hi,” she says, sounding a little less chipper.
“This is a business call,” I tell her to put her mind at ease. “It’s about a case we’re working on. I wonder if I could come by and talk to you about it?”
“Of course,” she says.
“What time does your office open?”
“Um, I’m not in my office, or at least not the one downtown. I let it go, and I work from home now. I have an office here at the house.”
The house. The rebuilt version of the one I used to share with David.
“Would it be okay if I dropped by?” I ask her.
“Sure. What time is good for you?”
I glance at my watch. It’s almost eight, and I figure the interviews won’t take more than an hour. Just to make sure I’m on time, I give myself a cushion. “Would nine-thirty work?”
“It would.”
“Great.”
“Can I ask what it’s about?”
“I want to chat with you about some life insurance policies that were taken out on a couple of people who are now dead under suspicious circumstances.” Izzy reappears with a short, squatty woman beside him. “I have to go, Patty, but I’ll fill you in on the details when I get there. Thanks, and see you in a bit.”
She says good-bye, and I disconnect the call. Then I look over at Izzy and the woman with him, who I’m assuming is our first interviewee. I put on my friendliest smile as hope swells in my chest that this woman will be perfect for the job and I might get caught up on my sleep in the not too distant future.
CHAPTER 17
Myrna Nesbitt is one of those women whose age is difficult to guess. Her hair is a basic brown color, cut in a classic pageboy style. I don’t see any gray there, but these days it’s so easy for women to fight off the gray that it’s an unreliable cue. She is a round woman, short in stature, with nary a wrinkle anywhere. This would seem to imply youth, but there is an expression of knowledge, wisdom, and confidence on her face that suggests some years of experience behind her. That, and her somewhat dowdy business jacket, basic skirt, and sensible pumps.
Izzy makes the introductions, and we all settle in at the library table. With another longing look at the box of pastries, Izzy pushes it across the table to Myrna and invites her to help herself.
She thanks him and shakes her head. “I need to maintain the girlish figure,” she says with a wink.
Izzy slides Myrna’s résumé over to me, and I give it a quick once-over as he starts in with a basic description of the job she is applying for. Based on the dates I see for her educational experience and previous jobs, I do some quick math and estimate Myrna to be somewhere in her mid to late forties. She has a master’s degree in pathology and has spent the past seven years working for a private medical research lab in Chicago that is currently focused largely on stem cell research. She lists necropsy—the animal kingdom’s version of a human autopsy—as one of her primary duties there.
Prior to this job, she worked at a variety of hospitals and clinics all over the country—California, Virginia, Vermont, Florida, Montana, Tennessee, New Jersey, and Arkansas—changing jobs every two years or so.
Izzy finishes with his description and asks Myrna why she’s interested in the job.
“I find I need more challenge in my work life,” she says. “In my current job, I spend most of my day cutting up dead animals. It’s tedious, monotonous, and depressing. I had hoped to eventually become more involved in the research end of things, but all I do is cut and report, cut and report, cut and report.” The singsong quality of her voice gets across her bored feelings well. “My understanding is that this job involves some investigative work as well as the cutting, and I find the opportunity to get away from the dissection for a while, to challenge my brain in other ways, very appealing.”
It’s an articulate, intellectual, and satisfactory answer. Myrna speaks in a reasoned and intelligent way that suggests she is a bright, well-educated woman. So far, so good.
“You do understand that this job is only part-time,” I say to her. “You and I will be sharing a full-time job.”
She nods and smiles at me. “I have some money saved up,” she says. “I find that at this stage in my life I’m more interested in using my spare time to explore other interests. I need to make up for lost time.”
“Lost time?” Izzy says.
“I’ve dedicated my life thus far to two things,” Myrna says. “One of those is my career. I had hoped it would follow a different track than it has, and I also hoped it would be more rewarding to me than it’s proven to be. I don’t really feel like starting over in a new field or career at my age, so it makes sense for me to find something different to do with my talents, something that lets me explore other areas of my brain and other areas of life.
“The second thing I’ve dedicated my life to is my abusive, cheating, drunken, scumbag husband.”
Her words come as a shock to me, and judging from the way Izzy has leaned back in his seat, I’m guessing they are a shock to him as well.
“Like my job,” Myrna continues, “I had high hopes for my marriage—things like children, a nice house, and a husband who loved and adored me. Unfortunately, none of those things came to be.” She pauses and sighs. “I’m sure you’re wondering why my work history includes so many different positions in so many different places for such short periods of time.”
Again, she pauses, looking back and forth between me and Izzy. Neither of us says anything, but I give Myrna a grudging shrug of acknowledgment because I had noticed this peculiarity in her job history, and I am curious about it.
“It’s because my husband couldn’t hold down a job. He also had a hard time getting along with people. When it comes to burning bridges, my husband—or rather my ex-husband—is a
first-class arsonist.” She makes a pained face. “He also happens to be sterile, hence no children, although in retrospect I suppose that was a good thing.” She flashes a smile at us before continuing. “Anyway, it took me longer than I like to admit to get smart and leave him, but I finally wised up. I thought my current job would offer enough challenges and diversity to fill the void, and for a number of years, I guess it did. But not anymore.
“Now my primary focus in life is me, and what makes me happy. My current job no longer makes me happy for the reasons I’ve already explained, so I’ve decided to look for something different. I believe this job can offer me that.”
“It appears that most of your career cutting, as you call it, involved necropsy,” Izzy says. “Do you have any experience with human anatomy?”
Myrna rakes her teeth over her lower lip. “Hands-on experience? No. But I studied human anatomy as part of my degree, so I think I have a good handle on it, and I don’t think the necropsy procedures are all that different from what you do. Plus, I’m a fast learner.”
Izzy chats with her some more about her past jobs, the time frame she’s looking at for making the move if we offer her the position, and whether we can check with her current employer for a reference.
“I’d rather you didn’t say anything to my current employer until you’re ready to offer me a spot,” she says. “They don’t know yet that I’m looking.”
“Not a problem,” Izzy tells her. He asks her if she has any questions.
“Regarding salary,” she says, “the range was posted along with the job description on the online site, but it leaves a fair amount of wiggle room. Can you give me any idea where I’d start?” She then quotes him her current salary, which makes me think I’m in the wrong business.
“Obviously we can’t match that,” Izzy says.
“I realize I will be taking a pay cut,” Myrna says. “I’m just trying to figure out how much of one it will be. I’m sure the cost of living here in Sorenson is a lot less than it is in Chicago, so that will help some, but I do need to plan.”
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