LITMIR.BIZ

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the kiddie lunch.

      He unwrapped the sandwich. At least, it was on rye. He took a bite and in walked Hennon.

      “Don’t bother to get up,” she said motioning him back down. “Finish swallowing.”

      He did and put down the sandwich.

      “Want some coffee?” she asked.

      “Sure.”

      “Kelly,” she called out. “Two black coffees, one with sugar.”

      The receptionist ambled into the office, sulking. “It’s my lunch hour, Dr. Hennon.”

      Hennon stared her down and a moment later Kelly brought in two styrofoam cups.

      “Have a good lunch,” said Hennon.

      The girl mumbled and slammed the door as she left.

      “I would have fired her a long time ago, but my partner has a soft spot in his heart and a hard spot somewhere else for her. Speaking of true love, how’s your ‘sort of’ girlfriend, Pete?”

      “She’s fine. She just bought a gun. You own a gun, Annie?”

      “No. I’d probably maim myself. Why’d she buy one? Just feeling vulnerable?”

      “About six months ago, a psycho almost raped her. She’s still nervous about it. Claims she hears noises outside.”

      She whistled. “If I were her, I’d buy a gun, also.”

      “I thought you’d say that.”

      “You carry a picture of her?”

      “Who? Rina?”

      “If that’s her name.”

      Decker dug out his wallet and showed the dentist a snapshot. Hennon frowned.

      “Is this an exceptionally good photo of her?”

      “Neither exceptionally good nor bad. It’s what she looks like.”

      The dentist handed him back his wallet.

      “Shall we get down to business?” she asked.

      Decker said, “What do you have?”

      She flipped on the viewing monitor.

      “I went down to the morgue this weekend. Dr. Marvin Rothstein sent me a set of X rays that looked promising as one of our Jane Does. This is the original full mouth set I took on Jean—twenty shots. Compare these to Dr. Rothstein’s set.”

      She let Decker look for a minute.

      “There are similarities,” she said, “Same number of teeth, same teeth in the mouth have been restored, same interdental spacing, except that everything looks a little off kilter—like looking in a mirror at a funhouse. For instance, this right bitewing molar shot that I took on Jean shows the amalgam—the silver filling—covering the top of the upper molar and two sides: a typical filling for this tooth called an MOD. The angle I took it from shows a little tiny sliver of filling extending past the preparation line. It’s called an overhang and it’s a teeny one. Rothstein’s X rays don’t show it all.”

      “Meaning?”

      “I’m coming to that. Take a look at this, Pete. This one is the full mouth set of Jean that I shot over the weekend,” she said mounting another set of X rays on the viewer. “Now compare this set to Dr. Rothstein’s.”

      Decker studied the films.

      “It doesn’t show the sliver of filling, either.”

      “Exactly. And look how much more similar the two sets are. Know what I did? I angled the X ray tube a little bit forward. Foreshortened the beam. When one compares radiographs for something as important as identification of a murder victim, one better make damn sure that the two sets of X rays are shot from the same angle. Otherwise, one may miss an obvious match and feel stupid.”

      She breathed on her fingernails and rubbed them on her white coat.

      “But the clincher is this. I called up Dr. Rothstein and asked for the patient’s orthodontist. His name is Dr. Neiman and he sent me her casts. You want to compare the two?”

      She showed them to Decker.

      “To me, they look identical.”

      “Not quite. Remember I told you that the girl wasn’t wearing her retainer as much as she should have. The skeleton’s teeth weren’t quite as aligned. But even so, I superimposed a bite plate of Jean’s teeth and matched it to his patient’s casts, and then I reversed the procedure and superimposed the patient’s bite plate over Jean’s teeth. It’s the same person.

      “Pete,” she said, pointing to the plaster casts. “Say hello to Lindsey Bates.”

      5

      At the time of the Missing Persons Report three and a half months ago, Lindsey Bates had been sixteen years and two months old, five feet four inches tall, 108 pounds, with blue eyes, blond hair—American pie turned vulture fodder. Last seen by her mother after announcing that she was going to the Glendale Galleria to find a hot pink blouse to match her new yellow baggies. She’d planned to be back around four, and when she hadn’t returned by five, Mrs. Bates began to worry. Forty-eight hours later, Lindsey was considered an official Missing Person. There were several other entries in the file—interviews with parents and friends—but nothing had proven useful.

      The Glendale detective assigned to the case had been Don Oldham, an energetic, overweight man of fifty, who had reached twenty-five biggies a month ago and hung up his shield. After the Bates identification was made and the parents notified, Decker visited him in his condo that overlooked the smoggy San Gabriel mountains. Some say retirement kills the spirit, but if there existed a happier man than Oldham (Donnie as he insisted on being called) Decker hadn’t met him. Oldham was an avid tropical fish breeder, and he reminded Decker of a mad scientist as he tested water samples and added chemicals to the fifty aerated aquariums that filled his living room. The tanks gurgled and bubbled like boiling cauldrons. It took Donnie nearly twenty minutes to get down to business.

      He remembered the case. His conclusion was profound: Either an abduction or a runaway.

      Did he favor one over the other, Decker asked.

      Oh, probably the abduction, said Oldham. None of the girl’s personal effects seemed to be missing. Her car was still in the parking lot. People don’t leave without taking some memento along.

      But then again, he added gleefully, she still could have been a runaway.

      Decker thanked him. As he turned to leave, he saw Oldham taking off his shirt and dipping his bare arms into a tank of guppies. A caved-in patch of glossy scar tissue decorated the man’s right shoulder. Decker wondered how he’d caught the bullet.

      He arrived back at the squad room shortly after noon and found Marge at her desk, looking sick.

      “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.

      “Chug-a-lugged too many beers,” she answered, pushing hair out of her eyes. The blond strands hung limply down to her shoulders. Her complexion was wan.

      “You don’t look hungover; you look sick. As in the flu. Why don’t you go home?”

      She dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand. “The aspirins’ll kick in. I’ll be all right.”

      “What are you working on now?” Decker asked.

      “I just got another weenie wagger. Third one in a week. Seems this particular dude just loves to excite himself in the movie theater, preferably kiddy films. They caught him at the climax—his—buttering some little girl’s popcorn at the Brave Li’l Mouse Movie.”

      Decker groaned.

      “Mama went bonkers,” Marge continued. “Started screaming in

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