Now someone was dead, and Conklin was 99 percent sure that the professor had done the shooting and that he would have an alibi. Not just an alibi, but a rock-solid, airtight, unimpeachable alibi.
Conklin rummaged in the glove compartment and located half of a packaged brownie. He gobbled it down, then got out of the car and headed to the staircase outside the aquarium building. He climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time.
He entered the building on the second floor, badged the cop at the door, and took a left past some exhibits, including a cylindrical tank full of shiny, swirling fish. Another cop was guarding the elevator.
“You’ve got to take the fire stairs, Inspector. The elevator is out.”
Christ.
Conklin took the fire stairs down, opened the fire door, and stepped into eight inches of cold seawater. He passed the 725 gallons of illuminated moon jellies, then slogged along the dimly lit corridor, following signs to the three-hundred-foot-long moving walkway that had been tunneled under the bay.
Conklin stopped at the head of the walkway, which was no longer moving, and tried to get his bearings. The aquarium arced overhead. Sharks and other large fish, schools of anchovies, and various slimy creatures from the deep swam over and around him. It was like surround sound for the eyes—and it wasn’t comfortable.
Halfway down the tunnel, a stream of water poured onto the walkway through a hole about six feet up the wall. At best, the spray was destroying evidence. At worst, the entire exhibit was in danger of becoming like a submarine with a breached hull.
Feeling suddenly sick from the underwater effect, Conklin held on to the railing. He really didn’t want to puke in the crime scene. He steadied himself, took some deep breaths, then he pushed off and sloshed over to where the CSIU team was processing the scene.
The victim’s body was facedown on the walkway, and the rising water was almost to the point where it would cover the hole in the back of his head.
Charlie Clapper, longtime head of the CSIU, was stooped over the body, lifting a pocket flap with his gloved hand.
Conklin said, “Hey, Charlie. What’s the story here?”
“Well, Rich, we’ve got a white male, fifty or so, shot through the back of the head, as you can see. Hold on, I’ve got his wallet. Crystal, can you shine a light on this?”
A young tech in high rubber boots came over to them and flashed her light on the dead man’s driver’s license.
Clapper said, “Here we go. Our victim is in fact a white male, fifty-two, five foot six, hundred and forty pounds, hazel eyes. Name of Mr. Perry Judd. FYI, Mr. Judd never knew what hit him.”
“Damn it,” Conklin said. “This man is Perry Judd? You’re sure?”
“I’m only sure that I’m holding Perry Judd’s driver’s license.”
“Can you turn his head so I can see his face?” Conklin asked.
“Not until the ME gets here,” said Clapper. “You know that, Richie. Until then, we gotta cool our heels.”
Chapter 75
JOE AND I spent the night inside a cozily furnished hospital room, holding Julie, bottle-feeding her, and telling her that she was a good strong baby and that we loved her so much.
When we weren’t with Party Girl, we slumped in chairs in the waiting room, where we counted holes in the acoustic tiles and sometimes caught a few, very fractured z’s.
As long as the night had been, the hours between 8:00 and 9:00 a.m. had been longer. We drank vending machine coffee as we waited for Dr. Erwin Dwy, Julie’s hematologist, to see us. And then, finally, he came to the waiting room and brought us back to his office.
Dr. Dwy was 6 feet 9 inches tall, going gray at the temples, and had a long, smiling face and sad eyes. He offered us chairs at his desk and we sat across from him, watching him take phone calls from parents of sick children. Between calls, he apologized, then took another call, until at last he gave us his attention.
“Let me be candid with you,” said Dr. Dwy, folding his hands on his desk. “I don’t have wonderful news.”
I was already terrified; I had been in that state since we’d last seen Dr. Gordon and she had said Julie should have an aggressive workup at the hospital. But now, looking into Dr. Dwy’s eyes, I reached a new high in terror.
I went rigid. I gripped Joe’s hand hard, and I flashed on the night I gave birth to Julie in a blackout with an electrical storm crackling around me. I remembered screaming like a wounded mountain lion—and I wanted to scream like that now.
I don’t have wonderful news.
Joe said, “Tell us what you know, Dr. Dwy.”
“Of course,” he said. “Of course. Well, we gave Julie every test in the book—blood tests, CAT scans, we even did a bone marrow biopsy. She took it very well.