Missing: The Body of Evidence (3 page)

The
climb up the stairs to her apartment was taking forever. The day spent trawling
around the Sunnyvale condo knocking on doors had taken its toll. Her legs felt
like they were carrying more than her petite-frame. She arrived at her door,
opened it, and made her way to the living room. Nancy put her present on the
dining table and threw her purse on the coffee table. She took off her jacket,
unfastened her shoulder holster, and hung them on a coat stand before she
flopped onto her sofa. Her mind was telling her to drift off to sleep as she
sank into the contours of the sofa cushions, but the pain in her gut told her
it was time to be eating. Zapping a ready-made meal in the microwave seemed
like too much effort. She reached out for her purse on the coffee table, took
out her cell phone, and called for a pizza delivery.

Her head sank back in the cushion and she
gazed at a painting hung on the wall in front of her. The painting acted like a
comforter. She had bought it on vacation to remind herself of the pleasant
times she had spent trekking through the countryside in the Pine Mountain area.
It helped her forget the stress she encountered on the streets of LA and
reminded her there was a whole different way of life out there. Each time she
studied it, she would lose herself in the beauty of the nature of the scene
displayed in the picture. Her mind would fantasize she was taking different
routes to explore the surroundings.

This time she focused on the log cabin set
in the background, behind a creek, and surrounded by majestic-pine trees. Her
eyelids felt heavy. It was as if she had tunnel vision.

In the edges of her vision, she seemed
to be travelling towards the scene so fast that the tunnel walls flooded her
vision with multi-coloured lines, which changed to scenery as she slowed down.
She imagined drifting to the door and entering the cabin as if she were holding
a video camera. Inside, a rickety fan squeaked rhythmically as it moved the air
over two young girls playing with dolls in front of a log-burning stove. A
woman in her mid-thirties, around the same age as she, walked around a
solid-pine table, setting dinner plates.

‘Put another log in the stove, it’s
chilly in here. I feel like someone is walking over my grave,’ the woman said.

She could see plumes of smoke rising
from a pine-rocking chair where the man of the house was smoking a pipe and
reading a book. Steam drifted from an open kitchen door, bringing with it the
sound of steaks sizzling and a wonderful aroma, which masked the foul-smelling
tobacco smoke. Miniature ants formed a two-lane highway on the kitchen
doorframe, attempting the seemingly impossible task of emptying the kitchen of
food. ‘Dinner’s ready.’ the woman called out, followed by the sound of bells
sounding out Yankee Doodle in the distance and growing louder.
The picture faded in tandem with the chiming sound rising. She sat
up, disorientated and groggy.

‘Damn door chime.’

She threw her legs over the side of the
sofa, grabbed her purse, pushed herself to her feet, staggered to the door and
looked through the spy hole.
Pizza.
She opened the door, paid the
delivery guy, returned to her living room and sat at her computer desk. As she
devoured a slice of pizza, she turned on her computer. The strange events of
the morning began to gnaw away at the back of her mind. “Spontaneous Combustion”
she typed into the browser search and hit the return key. The last thing she
wanted to do was to appear to be an idiot, and thought it better to be armed
with as much information as possible, however sceptical she felt about the
subject.

Nancy clicked on the links and searched the
net for all the information she could find on the subject. Most of the articles
seemed to be speculation, with little scientific explanation. There were only
two-hundred cases ever reported worldwide, with the last one in America in
nineteen-eighty-six. The bulk of the explanations were anywhere from the favourite
‘alcoholism theory’ to ‘paranormal events.’ The alcohol theory put forward the
unlikely explanation that the victim’s skin became flammable owing to the high
level of alcohol in the body. Paranormal events were even more unlikely, with
theories down the ages claiming sinners were being collected by Satan after
striking bargains with the devil. But, what they all had in common was that the
scenes they described were almost identical to what she found at the
professor’s apartment. She was about to give up on her search, when she noticed
an article with the heading, ‘Iranian nuclear physicist dies in mysterious
fire.’ She opened the article dated two weeks ago and read on.

In a freak accident at an underground
nuclear research facility, the senior nuclear research physicist, Asad Hemmati,
died in a fire in circumstances that left only his hands and feet intact. An
Iranian investigator reportedly said ‘It appears to have been a freak accident,
and under the circumstances, not thought to be part of the concerted effort by
the West to disrupt our nuclear program.’ A spokesman for...

Nancy closed the article and sat back. The
information gleaned from her search had left her none the wiser.

Her fingers tapped on the bottom of her
keyboard and she leaned forward and typed “Astral Chemicals Inc” into the
browser search. The answer came back... “Nothing found” In her peripheral
vision, she noticed the telephone directory, picked it up and thumbed through
it.
Why would a psychologist and brain neuron expert, work for a chemical
company?
There was no listing for the company.

Nancy walked over to the coffee table, opened
her purse, took out her notebook and dialled the number taken from the
professor’s card. An answering machine picked up the call. She left a message
with her details and her phone number at the police station. Heavy eyelids, and
an odour from a long day at work, told her it was time for a quick shower and
bed.

Nancy picked up her crystal ornament from
the dining table, walked to the bedroom, moved some other LAPD memorabilia
around on her windowsill and placed the ornament in the centre of the display. A
feeling she was not alone in the room caused her to twist around. There was
nothing there, but a noise from the living room she could not get a handle on
seemed out of place. She craned her neck and listened. Cautiously, she
re-entered the room. Her heart thumped in her chest cage. The blank screen of
her computer lit up from its slumber and she took a step back.

‘How the hell?’

The browser opened on the search page for
spontaneous combustion.
Sure I closed it. Maybe not.
A glance around the
room assured her there was nothing out of place.
Get a grip.
Nancy
closed down the computer, turned off all the lights and retired to her bedroom
for a quick shower before jumping into bed.

Nancy was not one to feel insecure at home
alone, but on this occasion, she lay there, trying not to move, or to make a
sound. She listened intently, to the occasional rattle of water pipes, and to
the noise of doors opening and closing in the other apartments. Her senses
heightened to the extent that even the drips from the showerhead sounded like
an explosion in her brain as they hit the tray.

How in hell’s name could the other
residents not hear the smoke alarm?

Nancy
gave one last glance around her apartment before heading out of the door, down
the stairway and to her car. She cursed inwardly at the lack of sleep from the
night before. All it would have taken, she thought, was for her to get out of
bed and to tighten the control to the shower in the OFF position, but somehow,
her exhaustion had pinned her to the bed. With an hour to spare before she was
due at the fire department test lab, she headed for the professor’s apartment.
Her foot pressed down hard on the gas pedal, but the engine did not respond as
normal. She turned off the freeway, onto the road toward the professor’s
apartment and then left into the cul-de-sac, where she stopped in front of the
apartment block.

The engine of her Ford spluttered on as she
turned off the ignition. She hauled her aching body out of the driver’s seat
and walked over to the apartments. The curtains at the janitor’s window moved.

‘Number five.’ It was the only apartment
where the police officer had told her no one was at home on the day of the
fire. Yesterday’s footwork had taught her a light tap on the door was not a
recipe for success and she banged hard on the door.

‘What is it?’ a woman’s voice called out.

The door opened slightly and stopped at the
pull of a security chain. A woman’s face appeared in the chink.

‘Detective Roberts, LAPD. I need to ask a
few questions about the professor from number seven.’

A rattle of the chain and the door opened.

‘Come in, tragic accident. I saw it on the
news when I got home from work. Lucky the whole place didn’t go up in flames.’

‘You work nights?’

‘For my sins... yes. How can I help?’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘Around eleven in the evening when I set
off for work, he was arguing with a young man at his door.’

‘What were they arguing about?’

‘I couldn’t tell. All I heard the professor
say was to get some sleep and he needed to take him back in the morning. The
professor gave him something from his pocket, sort of sleight of hand. The
young guy dropped something and the professor picked it up. Then he slammed the
door in the young man’s face.’

Drugs?
‘Can
you give me a description of the young man?’

‘Early twenties, he was wearing a
dark-hooded top and baggie-black jeans. I didn’t see his face. The professor
looked like he’d just returned home and he was carrying a Wal-Mart bag.’

Nancy noted the details, jotting down the
woman’s name and contact details.

‘Thanks, if I need anything else I’ll
contact you.’

Nancy turned, skipped down the stairway and
made her way to the janitor’s apartment. There was no need to knock on the
door; he stood in the doorway, his arms folded and a look of thunder on his
face.

‘Yes?’

‘Were you expecting me? Can I come in?’

He stood his ground. ‘I heard you arrive.
Your car needs a service. I guessed you may have more questions.’

‘Can we talk inside? It will only take a
few minutes.’

He glanced over his shoulder down his
hallway and back to her.

‘I suppose.’ He raised his voice. ‘But make
it quick. I need to go out.’

The stench was overpowering as she followed
Kelly down the hallway.

‘The bat...’

‘Changed the battery last week. The fire
officer checked my records.’

‘You told the officer you were making a
coffee when you heard the alarm, but you told me the alarm woke you up.’

‘Yeah, what... what I meant was I was half
asleep when I was making a coffee.’

‘Have you seen a young man hanging around,
wearing a dark-hooded top and some black jeans?’

He looked down and started to shuffle his
feet. ‘No. Is that all you want? I have business to attend.’

‘Sure, that’s all, do you mind if I have a
glass of water, then I can go. I doubt I’ll need to ask you anymore questions.’

He looked relieved. Nancy experienced a
strange feeling she was being watched and glanced around the room.

‘Kitchen’s that way.’ He pointed. ‘Rinse a
glass out in the sink.’

Nancy arrived in the kitchen, the sink was
full of dirty dishes and the trash can was overflowing. The oven looked as
though it had never seen a cleaning. There wasn’t a sign of a kettle, coffee,
or cups and mugs, just empty beer cans strewn around the surfaces. She looked
over her shoulder to make sure he wasn’t watching and stooped to lift the lid
on the trash can. At the top, she noticed an empty lasagne package and a
Wal-Mart bag. She turned to the sink and ran the tap, rinsed out a glass and
put it back in the sink, not daring to take a drink. Nancy returned to the
living room and faced Kelly. She stifled the notion to ask him where he bought
the lasagne. It ran through her mind that thousands of the same brand of lasagne
were sold every day at Wal-Mart.

‘Is that all, then?’

‘Er... Yeah. Fine thanks, I’ll let you get
on with your business.’

Holding her breath, she hurried through the
living room, down the hallway and scurried out of the apartment. The door
slammed behind her. Nancy breathed out and then she took a sharp intake of
fresh air.
Jesus, the filth some people live in. What do I do now about the lasagne?
Nancy hesitated and sucked at her bottom lip. The idea that she had handled
the situation badly weighed heavily on her mind. The lack of any sign of items
to make coffee conflicted with his statement; this, together with the Wal-Mart
bag and lasagne package was enough to give her cause for concern.

Nancy sighed and she concluded her
discovery was not of enough concern to arrest him, especially if his coffee
equipment was there all along and tucked away in a cupboard. A glance at her
wristwatch reminded her she was due at the fire department test centre and
emptied her mind of her deliberations. Nancy headed for her car and decided it
was best to run what she had found past Logan. Nancy shuddered at the distinct
feeling she was being watched. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the
curtains move at Kelly’s apartment window.