Page 56 of Identity Unknown
“Sounds like the combination to a dial lock,” Interpol decides. “Lfor left.Rfor right.”
“What wouldTNstand for? BesidesTennessee, which wouldn’t make sense?” asks the director of NASA.
“The Oak Ridge National Labs, the Y-Twelve National Security Complex are in Tennessee. The enriched uranium needed for nuclear weapons is stored and processed there,” General Gunner answers.
“A lot of sensitive research goes on that pertains to national security,” says DARPA. “Sal Giordano had been to those facilities many times.”
“What about the string of letters and numbers being a password?” Interpol suggests.
“Not to any of the secure facilities he frequented. Those passwords are far more complex and constantly changing,” the NSA replies.
“He has a safe in his home office.” I remove the slide from the microscope’s stage. “I’ve heard him mention it. Maybe it has a dial lock,” I add as reality settles leadenly.
Sal went to a lot of trouble creating a cryptic microphotograph and concealing it in an empty capsule that looks like something found in a gag store. He anticipated his abduction and death well in advance. He must have, and it’s horrible that I didn’t know. Had he shared his fears with me, maybe we wouldn’t be here now.
“It certainly sounds like he had reason to think he was in extreme danger,” Bella decides. “He must have felt that way before he got into his truck and headed to Green Bank. And you’re sure he wasn’t acting strangely?” She directs this at me.
“He wasn’t in the best mood,” I reply. “I thought it unusual when he called me from the road. But he didn’t so much as hint that he was worried something might happen to him.”
“Which doesn’t add up,” Marino replies. “If he thought someone was after him, why not say something? Why not try to stop the bad thing from happening?”
“Because he might not have wanted anyone knowing what he was involved in. He might have placed himself in gravedanger because of his own activities,” Gus says to my dismay as they continue chipping away at Sal’s character.
“What’s the capsule made out of??” Marino asks me this.
“It looks like plastic.”
“Then eventually it was going to pass through him and end up in the toilet,” he replies.
“Had he lived.”
“Meaning the secret code in the capsule might have been intended for someone else, and he swallowed it for a later recovery,” Marino continues to speculate. “But he died first.”
“I think the capsule was meant for you to find.” Benton is staring straight at me. “This is for your benefit, that’s the reason for the smiley face. That was his signal to you. He knew if the worst happened, you’d be the one doing the examination.”
“I’m not sure we can assume it was meant for me to find as opposed to any other medical examiner or coroner. Depending on where the death occurred.” I don’t want to believe what Benton is saying.
“It was meant for you to recover,” he flatly states. “He suspected that if someone took him out it would be in his own backyard. It would be while he was going about his usual business in his usual places. He knew exactly what he was doing and the dangers he faced. Even as he did little about it.”
I place the glass slide, the empty capsule inside small cardboard boxes that I label and initial. I remind my audience that only the most experienced forensic scientists can be allowed to handle the evidence I’ve collected.
“Even though I’m sure the body isn’t radioactive,” I explain. “And I seriously doubt it’s contagious with some exoticvirus that doesn’t exist on earth. But I’m not taking shortcuts or chances. We’ll decon everything in here as best we can, and whoever comes inside this room needs to be in Level-A protection just like we are. Special precautions must be taken every step of the way.”
“We understand and know what to do,” Lucy says as I plug the Stryker saw into the overhead cord reel, and Benton abruptly gets up from his chair.
He leaves the observation area without a word, and I sense his unhappy preoccupations. He had to sit there and listen to me talk about my relationship with Sal, not that Benton learned anything new. But I did as his peers put me through what felt like a voir dire examination. Plain and simple, they don’t trust Sal, and I know how he’d feel if he could hear them. It would crush him.
CHAPTER 21
The electric saw’s oscillating blade grinds through bone as I open the fractured skull as if the patient on my table is like any other. I focus intensely while willing myself to feel nothing. That will have to come later. Now is not the time. If I’m going to help him I must be strong.
Lifting out the brain, I weigh and examine it, finding the expected damage. Cerebral contusions, intracranial hemorrhage, and when I dissect the neck, I discover bleeding into soft tissue indicative of whiplash.
“The force of hitting the ground caused the neck to hyperextend rather much like when your car slams into a wall,” I explain. “And this is common in people who fall or jump from high places.”
“What actually killed him?” Bella asks as she and the others get up from their chairs, gathering their notes and other belongings.
“The longer the survival time the more his brain was going to swell, resulting in brainstem compression and respiratory arrest,” I reply. “Ultimately, that’s what caused his death, but there are multiple contributing factors. Blood loss and shock, for example. One thing adds to another.”