Jump The Line (Toein' The Line Book 1) (17 page)

And damn, are they macabre.  But the
y’
re also fascinating.  Bric
k’
s an odontologist.  He studies bite wound patterns on victims of serial biters, who frequently become serial murderers.  H
e’
s got a project in his lab right now h
e’
s been working on: Meera.  We do
n’
t know her real name, not yet.  Newport PD picked up her remains from a dumpster in the alley near Oma
r’
s.  Campbell County has had her mutilated body in their morgue for weeks, over in Kentucky. 

After analyzing Meer
a’
s bite wounds, Brick will make a forensics report to Newport PD and the FBI.  Or if the killer is caught and goes to trial, h
e’
ll testify as an expert witness.  W
e’
ve got a routine.  Brick pursues his work back here in his lab, and I sort through the paperwork mess h
e’
s created up front.  Sometimes he invites me to his lab to assist.  Tha
t’
s why I keep this job.  I
t’
s been a challenge, but
I’
ve put patient
s
’ records back in order.  Brick still fights my efforts to schedule patients when h
e’
s deep into one of his projects.  And by the distant look in his eyes, h
e’
s ready to gallop back into his lab and blow off two afternoon appointments. 

“I’
m sorry
I’
m late, Brick
,”
I again mumble.
 “
I had . . . a crim quiz
.
”
 
I feel terrible, but i
t’
s only partly a lie.  I did have a crim quiz.  I did
n’
t take it, a detail I fail to share.

“
Well, sheesh
.
”
 
His voice a rumble, he wields a scalpel with the ferocious dexterity of a Cincinnati Philharmonic conductor.
 “
You are duty bound to your parents to make good grades
.
”

I bite back a response.  He thinks I have parents who give a crap whether I make it through college?
 “
Sure
,”
I agree, shrugging.  Who cares if my rich boss thinks everyon
e’
s a nice Mormon? 

“
Alaina
,”
Aurelia shows up and interrupts, her awful timing rivaled only by the malicious glint in her eyes
,“
a ma
n’
s been calling from some place called Oma
r’
s . . . a bar . . .
?
”  

I step back when Brick, looking startled
I’
d get a phone call from a bar, waves the scalpel in the air to emphasize his displeasure.  In his gaze I see the same scathing disapproval I saw earlier in Professor Levi
n’
s eyes. 

“
Um, Bric
k
—”

“
A bar?  Oh, my heaven
,”
he says, slicing air with the scalpel. 

H
e’
s unusual for a Mormon.  Or for that matter any man.  Bric
k’
s rich and at fifty-nine still unmarried.  He does
n’
t chase women or even waste his mega-millions on red sports cars.  He does
n’
t spend it on landscaping, either, not by the looks of this plac
e’
s rundown exterior.  He has no vices, other than being annoyingly unaware of his surroundings, which makes it easy for me to sneak in late, except today.

Vowing to murder Aurelia, I wince.  My left ankl
e’
s fired up from where I fell on the sidewalk.  The pai
n’
s a sure sign ther
e’
s a serious problem coming down the old crapper toward me.  I hide a yawn, born of an overwhelming desire to crawl into one of Bric
k’
s storage rooms and go to slee
p—
right after I settle with Aurelia. 

“I’
m sure i
t’
s a mistake, Aurelia
,”
I say, arguing.
 “
No one ever calls me here
.
”
 
And even if they did, Ang and Stoke use my cell phone.  The
y’
d never call the front desk.

“
Wrong
,”
she says.
 “
He said he was calling you from Oma
r’
s, a . . . bar.  He has an Indian accent
,”
Aurelia adds, dark eyes aglow with vengeful success.  Sh
e’
s officially guaranteed
I’
ll be fired.
 “
H
e’
s called several times and left messages.  For
you
.
”

Bric
k’
s gaze hardens.  He waves the scalpel more madly: w
e’
re talking William Tell Overture. 

Sweat pops on my forehead.
 “
For me?  A phone call from a
bar
?
”

I’
ve no friends with an Indian accent wh
o’
d be calling from a bar.  Sheesh, Brick.
 

“I’
ll check the answering machine
,”
I say, hoping Bric
k’
ll hurry back to his lab and Aurelia will self combust.  That would get me off the hook for now.

“
Alaina, come with me
,”
Brick says.
 “
Aurelia, you go buy donuts
.
”
 
He whips a wad from his lab coa
t’
s pocket and peels off a twenty.
 “
Here
.
”

I
t’
s not the stellar size of Bric
k’
s wad, although
I’
ve seen none bigger.  I mean, h
e’
s loaded, no secret.  I
t’
s the visual exchange between him and Aurelia that creeps me out.  Are they colluding?  Is he getting Aurelia outta here so he can fire me?

“
Whatever
,”
I say.  Am I afraid?  Hell no. 
I’
m a college student.  If I disappear, i
t’
ll be all over national news.  Everyone will come looking for me.  Of course, maybe
I’
m just paranoid.  Maybe
I’
ll get lucky and Brick wo
n’
t kill me.  Maybe h
e’
s finally decided i
t’
s tim
e—I’
m being fired.

Chapter 14

With these dire images clouding my exhausted brain, I turn on my heel.  Worried, head down, I follow Brick to his lab, his sanctuary.

“
Come in, come in
,”
he says, impatient.
 “
W
e’
ve work to do
.
”

Whew!  Brick is
n’
t going to fire me, but . . . is he going to kill me?

Mindful of his skill with the scalpel, I keep my distance, watching him wave it in the air above the remains of a cadaver h
e’
s been trying to identify for NPD.

“
You have met Meera a few times now
,”
he says, pointing to a stainless steel gurney.
 “I’
d like your opinion this morning
.
”

“
Okay, sure
,”
I say, grateful, feeling excited.  Now and then Brick remembers
I’
m a crim major.  Kinda sweet.  Bric
k’
s actually involving m
e—
Goshen Gim
p—
in a live forensics investigation.

Meer
a’
s kept me in suspense since Brick first brought her various parts in through the back door, some of her packed in a U-Haul box, some in a Yeti cooler.  The rest of Meera remains in the Newport, Kentucky morgue.  But some of her bones, munched on by her killer, lay strewn like witc
h’
s scree on the stainless steel table, alongside the rubbery impressions taken by Brick from the bite wounds on Meer
a’
s body, wha
t’
s left of it.  Whoever killed her ate most of Meera and then kept her around, chewing on her bones like they were snacks.  Sh
e’
s a mess.

“
Have you thought any more about how we can identify her
?”
Brick asks. 

“I—
guess not
,”
I say, pondering the problem of Meer
a’
s identification, but wishing h
e’
d quit it with that scalpel.  I
t’
s unsettling, Bric
k’
s scalpel waving, although I admit
I’
m still fascinated with the stainless steel scalpels and knives for shaving bone and the titanium pics for digging, plus the gnawed femurs and tibias and collar bones strewn on Bric
k’
s stainless steel lab table.

“
Wha
t’
s her race
,”
Brick asks.
 “
Caucasoid or Negroid
?
”

“
Indian
,”
I say, not falling for his trick question.  H
e’
s quizzed me this way many times before, so
I’
m used to his treachery.

“
Age
?
”

“
Not more than twenty-five based on the wear showing on her teeth
,”
I say.  Like a pair of jeans or old sneakers, teeth wear with their owner.  The more wear, the older the vic. 
I’
ve learned this from Brick, who takes a strange sadistic delight in teaching me.

“
Why would someone do this to her, Brick
?”
I ask, concerned with her murdere
r’
s motive. 

“
As you know, Alain
a
”
—
nice benign fatherly smile but stern tone of voic
e
—
“I’
m not in the business of determining
why
.
”

I know, Brick
. 
Your job is to help the LEOs find out whose big teeth have been munching on Meera
. 

We examine the photos of Meer
a’
s shoulder, the meat looking bruised and stringy, munched on like a Ketucky Fried Chicken drumstick.  Then we compare these to the dental impressions.  If i
t’
s not photos h
e’
s inspecting, i
t’
s those rubbery impressions h
e’
s made of Meer
a’
s bite wounds.  Brick knows bite wound patterns better than he knows his own bicuspids. 

Drawn to Meer
a’
s tattoo, I stare. 

“
I
t’
s a Hindi symbol
,”
Brick says, watching me inspect the photo of her ankle.
 “
She was tattooed by her parents when she was a baby.  The tattoo identifies her caste.  Sh
e’
s merchant, not Brahmin.  It tells us sh
e’
s from India
.
”

Below the tatt in the photo is another tattoo, a pair of initials in English:
G.M.
 
“
Looks like she had that one added later
,”
I say.
 “
Maybe years later
.
”

“
Yes
,”
Brick agrees.
 “
The ink is a different color, not faded like her caste tattoo
.
”

“
I
t’
s probably from a local tattoo shop near campus.  That tat
t’
s not traceable
,”
I say.
 “
It could be put there by any artist, by anyone, even Meera
.
”

“
Not traceable by the local yokels, tha
t’
s for sure
,”
Brick agrees with a snort.  He lives to make fools of cops.  I
t’
s weird he likes to make trouble for them, since his work supports their efforts, but tha
t’
s Brick.

I stare at the initials. 
G.M.  G.M. G.M.
  They are speaking to me.  Have I seen them somewhere before?  Maybe. 
But where?
 
And what are they saying?  What, what, what?

“
Newport PD is circulating photos of the tatt in NCIC, the FB
I’
s National Crime Information Center database for missing and unidentified persons
,”
Brick says. 

I nod, agreeing.
 “
I
t’
s difficult figuring out her identity using the tatt
.
”

While NCIC stores a gazillion tatts, however, there is only one set of teeth in the entire freaki
n
’ universe like Meer
a’
s.  No one else has them.  Not her parents, whoever they are.  Not any of her siblings, if she had any.  Not a rabbit, or a dog, or an alligator.  No one in Go
d’
s universe has no
w—
or will ever hav
e—
Meer
a’
s teeth. 

“
Everyone alive has a set of teeth as unique as their fingerprints
,”
Brick says, practically reading my thoughts, enjoying another chance to lecture.
 “
The teeth outlast the body after death.  Burn a body to a char or toss it into a wood chipper, whatever.  The teeth remain
.
” 

“
I know
,”
I say, stepping back from Bric
k’
s reach.  I dance topless in a ratty Newport bar filled with perverts.  Could I end up like Meera?  I
t’
s occurred to me more than once.  Berta Colby, for all her faults, taught me: trust no one, but suspect everyone.  That includes Brick.

“
You notice anything else . . . unusual
?”
Brick asks. 

“
No
,”
I say, my gaze wandering to the door.  Good thing no clients call Verbote Dental any more, since
I’
m supposed to be up front answering those phones that never light up.

No need to worry, though.  Bric
k’
s focus returns to Meer
a’
s bite wounds.  H
e’
d rather identify a bite wound over having sex.  The
y’
re Bric
k’
s business, his only business.  And may our dear Heavenly Father himself help anyone who tries to escape Bric
k’
s discerning eye once h
e’
s drawn a bead on their teeth.  Working for Brick,
I’
ve learned tons about teet
h—
and mouths. 

“
I see nothing unusual
,”
I say, and then add
,“
Um, I better get up front and check our phone messages
.
”

Brick follows me out of the lab and into the hallway. 

“
Brick, is Aurelia back with those donuts yet
?”
I ask, trying to unload him.  

“I’
ve been meaning to tell you, Alaina,
I’
ve hired someone from a temp service to help Aurelia . . . ahem . . . run things up front
.
”

I stare, my mouth forming a big fa
t“
O
.
”
 
Is this why he sent Aurelia for donuts
?
 
“
Are you firing me
?
”

“
No, oh, no, no, no
,”
he says, shuffling. 

Bric
k’
s not the nervous type, so h
e’
s hiding something.  What?

“
Aurelia says . . .
they
say I need to give you a performance review
.
”

“
Uh-huh
,”
I say, uncaring who this mysteriou
s“
the
y”
might be.  I still have my job, so what do I care about a performance review?  In another semester,
I’
ll graduate. 
I’
ll be in New York.
 “
Whenever yo
u’
re ready
,”
I add, wanting to grab Bric
k’
s scalpel and saw off my foot.  The pai
n’
s increasing.  I
t’
s that bad.
 “
I really need to get up front, Brick
.
”

He blocks the hallway, his eyes filled with a wild blank stare, like Sea Biscuit at the starting gate.  Carrying my backpack, overcrowded with makeup and black curtains and rubber bands for my harem outfit, in case I have to dance An
g’
s shift tonight, I turn and rock past him toward the front office.

* * *

Dear God,
I’
m limping, and i
t’
s still early in the day.  Wha
t’
s worse, when I miss my ballet class, my left ankle turns into a pissy crybaby begging to be stretched.  Today, however, after I leave here, instead of going to my ballet class,
I’
ll have to go looking for Robin. 

Ho
w’
m I gonna dance at Oma
r’
s if Ang does
n’
t show again tonight?
 

“
Oh
,”
Brick yells
,“
I forgot to tell you, I do
n’
t know who, bu
t
—” 

I rush down the hallway, back turned against him, waiting for him to clear his Einstein brain of cobwebs.
 “
Spit it out
,”
I want to yell, but say nothing, keep moving.

“
Did
n’
t Aurelia tell you?  Someone is here to see you.  Oh, and . . .
,”
he says, tossing the words against my retreating back
,“
you have a guest in the reception room
.
” 

I halt.  My backpack slams against my shoulder blades.  Favoring my left ankle, I turn and stare at Brick, last night returning in vivid detail.