Fisk nodded and they did the scrub.
She wasn’t worried about the other samples. The hair in the sink wasn’t Timothy’s. His jewelry was either gold or platinum, impervious to most chemicals; and she’d soaked them in a household cleaner that the ’net told her would destroy DNA.
You can find anything on the ’net.
On the way down the stairs, Virgil said to Fisk, “Tina Locklin, George Baer.”
“That’s right,” Fisk said. “I have no idea if Tina had anything to do with anything.”
“I get that a lot,” Virgil said, and he thanked her for her time.
—
Out in thestreet, Virgil asked Esselton and Smith about what they thought, and they both thought that a DNA check would be routine. “I got some hair out of his sink, and I got some hair out of her sink, too. Make sure there was no funny business.”
“How long for the results?”
“You know we’re backlogged. We could be a couple of months out.”
“Yeah yeah yeah…”
“If you put pressure on somebody to jump the line, maybe…two weeks at best?”
“I’ll put pressure on somebody to put pressure on somebody else, and it won’t be two weeks. Call as soon as you have something.”
—
Virgil called Lucasfrom his car, told him about the sampling situation, the delay in the DNA results, which was not news to either of them—sometimes, DNA delays ran to months—and about the nurse who may have been obsessed with Timothy Carlson.
“I’ll call Henderson and have him talk to the governor either about jumping the DNA line or getting the samples out to a private lab,” Lucas said. “I’ll get something done.”
“Good. How are you feeling?”
“Still wobbly. I’m not on the toilet, though; I don’t think I have anything left inside.”
“Been there,” Virgil said. “Listen, I’m going to see if I can run down George Baer, and then maybe look for Tina Locklin.”
“Does that feel right to you?”
“I dunno. I’ll tell you what—Fisk is a tough nut. Smart, controlled. I kind of liked her,” Virgil said.
“How often do you run into somebody you kinda don’t like?” Lucas asked.
“Not that often, I guess,” Virgil said.
“You’re weird, Virgil, and you have to live with that,” Lucas said. “Call me after you talk with Baer.”
23
George Baer lived on the tree-lined shore of Turtle Lake, which was north of St. Paul. As far as Virgil knew, and he tended to know these things, Turtle Lake had had a good population of largemouth bass, of nice size, and also a lot of smaller northern pike.
Which, in his humble opinion, was not outstanding, but was okay. He followed his iPhone app to Baer’s house, and found him, after speaking to his wife, Edna, at the front door, in his backyard with a compound bow, shooting at a life-sized whitetail deer target.
When Virgil walked around the house, Baer peered at him, frowning, and barked, “Who’re you?”
“Bureau of Criminal Apprehension,” Virgil said. “Your wife told me you were out here. I need to chat with you about Timothy Carlson.”
“Is there something wrong?”
