12
Detective Bart Romanski crumpled an empty can of sugar-free Red Bull and tossed it into the hallway trash can before keying himself back into the CBI trace evidence room. Most of the room was dark, except for a corner with fluorescent lights where he and a technician, Michael Reno, had been laboring away, analyzing the remainder of the Grooms evidence. They had been working for sixteen hours straight now, and Romanski was hoping to get through the rest before dawn. It was nine o’clock at night, but he didn’t mind; he worked best at night.
“Energizer Bunny recharged?” Reno asked.
Reno was Romanski’s favorite technician to work with. He cut quite a figure with his handlebar mustache and rolled-up sleeves revealing a forearm tattoo of Homer Simpson eating a doughnut. What hair was missing on Reno’s head was sticking out in tufts from the V-neck of his shirt. Before gowning up in lab gear, hairnet, and face mask, he looked more like a biker than a scientist. But Romanski loved the guy. He was a competent technician who kept things lively with a wiseass sense of humor, and he was the only one out of the bunch who regularly volunteered to stay late. Plus, they had survived escaping the Erebus disaster together. Trauma bonding, Romanski thought. He gave an involuntary shiver.
“Recharged. Ready to rumble?” Romanski grinned, pulling on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves.
“All set to go,” Reno said.
Romanski measured out the different reagents that Reno would needto pipette into the reaction vials for the PCR run, handing them to Reno one by one, who hunched over the tray of tubes with his pipette, tongue sticking out in concentration.
“This Communion wafer shit is crazy, isn’t it?” Reno said. “Can’t believe the dude was eating Jesus bread when he died.”
“Yeah,” said Romanski. “I went down a rabbit hole on Communion wafers yesterday. Did you know that a long time ago, only bakers, parishes, and convents sanctioned by the church could make Communion wafers? And there was this whole sacred ritual that went into making them, even sprinkling the dough with holy water and using special ovens.”
“All for a tasteless piece of cardboard.”
“No kidding. But now they’re manufactured by big companies.”
Reno grunted in assent, continuing his work with the chemicals. The DNA recovered at the crime scene had been in the form of pin-sized drops of blood, and Romanski had opted for a PCR analysis, instead of a RFLP DNA analysis, which was more reliable in court but required a larger sample size. He watched as Reno pipetted the PCR buffer, deoxynucleotide mix,TaqDNA polymerase, and other reagents for the test into the reaction tubes, which would be centrifuged and then go through about thirty rounds in a thermal cycler, amplifying the DNA millions of times to an easily detectable level. The entire process would take about two to three hours. Romanski looked at his watch. If they pushed it, he could be out of there by two a.m.
Romanski dialed Cash’s number, half expecting her to ignore his call because of the late hour. Instead, she answered the phone after half a ring, sounding alert.
“When can I drop by?” she asked.
Romanski was a bit taken aback, then reminded himself this was Cash. She always threw herself into her cases. “Well, we should have DNA results by twelve thirty, if you don’t mind staying up late.”
“Gotcha. I’ll be there.”
“Cool. Come join the party,” Romanski said, and hung up. He sat down to finish typing up the forensic report on the other fluids they had collected.
“I hope you know I’ll be out of here as soon as this hits the cycler,” Reno said as he slid the test tubes into different sides of the centrifuge.
“Make sure to balance those out,” Romanski said out of habit, almost forgetting Reno was one of his most experienced technicians, “one on each opposite end of the centrifuge. Use water if you’ve got an odd number.”
“Dude, what’s with the back-seat driving?” Reno closed the centrifuge and set the timed cycle. “Speaking of, how is that new girl Aisling doing?”
“She’s pretty good. She attended CU Denver’s forensic science program—same school I did—so I know she’s got the smarts. I worry she’s getting a little too distracted with Tyrone, though.”
“I’ve noticed. Think they’re—?” Reno made an obscene gesture with his hands and whistled.
Romanski laughed. “Not my business.”
Reno retrieved the solutions from the centrifuge and began programming the thermal cycler.
“Can you handle the rest of this if I bounce now?”
“Absolutely. Thanks for staying late, Reno, as always.” Romanski clapped a hand on Reno’s shoulder. “Say…” Romanski paused, wondering if he should even ask, but decided it was better to check in than to sweep it under the rug. “How are you doing?”
Reno had taken a month off from work after the Erebus disaster, but after his first week back, he’d suffered a massive anxiety attack, leaving him a hyperventilating mess crouched in the corner of the lab. After a second and longer break, he had returned to work and now appeared to be doing better—so Romanski hoped.
Reno busied himself cleaning up his station. “My psychiatrist says I have PTSD, but what can you do? One step at a time.” He began wiping down the area near the weighing station. “Do you ever dream about the Neanders?”
“No,” Romanski lied. “You?”
Reno hesitated. “Yeah. I dream that I’m trapped down in the mines, lost, and no matter where I turn, it’s a never-ending tunnel of darkness and stone, and I can hear them in the pitch blackness behind me.” Reno shivered. “It always ends the same way. I’m choking on acrid smoke andthose creepy, high, breathy voices get louder and louder before they grab me and tear me apart.”
