Blood Test

Bingo. Helen Holroyd. Her voice sounded different when heated by emotion.

“What kind of trouble, Helen?”

“He’s in prison, down in La Vista!”

“What!”

“I just spoke to him — they allowed him one call. He sounds terrible! Heaven knows what they’re doing to him! A genius locked up like a common criminal! Oh God, please help!”

She was falling apart, which didn’t surprise me. Icy people often freeze themselves in order to hold in check a volcanic stew of disturbing and conflictual feelings. Emotional hibernation, if you will. Crack the ice and the stuff inside comes pouring out with all the discipline of molten lava.

She was sobbing and began to hyperventilate.

“Calm down,” I said. “We’ll clear it up. But first tell me how it happened.”

It took a couple of minutes for her to regain control.

“The police came to the lab late yesterday afternoon. They told him about those people being killed. I was there, working on the other side of the room. Hearing about it didn’t seem to affect him. He was at the computer, typing in data, and he didn’t stop the entire time they were there. Just kept on working. I knew something was wrong. It’s not like him to be that impassive. He had to be really upset. When they were gone I tried to talk to him but he shut me out. Then he left, just walked out of the building without telling anyone where he was going.”

“And drove to La Vista.”

“Yes! He must have thought about it all night and left early in the morning because he got there by ten and had some kind of altercation with someone. I’m not sure who, they wouldn’t let us talk long and he was so agitated he wasn’t making much sense. I called back and talked to the sheriff but he said they were holding Raoul for the Los Angeles police to question. He wouldn’t tell me more, said I was free to get a lawyer, and hung up. He was rude and insensitive, talking about Raoul as if he were a criminal and my knowing him made me a criminal, too.”

She sniffled, remembering the indignity.

“It’s all so — Kafkaesque! I’m so confused, don’t know how to help him. I thought of you because Raoul said you had connections with the police. Please tell me, what should I do?”

“Nothing for the time being. Let me make a few calls and get back to you. Where are you calling from?”

“The lab.”

“Don’t go anywhere.”

“I rarely do.”

Milo wasn’t available and the desk man at the station wouldn’t tell me where he was so I asked for Delano Hardy, my friend’s occasional partner, and was connected to him after being put on hold for ten minutes. Hardy is a dapper, balding black man with an easy wit and a ready smile. His skill with a rifle had once saved my life.

“Hey, Doc.”

“Hi, Del. I need to talk to Milo. The guy at the desk was all hush-hush. Isn’t he back from La Vista?”

“He’s not back because he never went. Change of plans. We’ve been working on a very hot case and a big break came through yesterday.”

“The stomach-shitter?”

“Yeah. We’ve got him cold and Milo and another guy have been locked up with the prick all morning playing good-cop, bad-cop.”

“Congratulations on the bust. Could you give him a message to call me when he’s free?”

“What’s the trouble?”

I told him.

“Hold on. Lemme see if he’s gonna break soon.”

He returned to the phone moments later.

“He said give him another half hour.

He’ll call you.”

“Thanks a lot, Del.”

“No sweat. By the way, I’m still digging that Strat.”

Hardy was a fellow guitarist, a first-rate musician who gigged with an R & B group after hours. I’d bought him a vintage Fender Stratocaster in gratitude for his marksmanship.

“Glad you’re enjoying it. Let’s jam again.”

“Absolutely. Come by the club and bring your axe. Gotta go now.”

I called Helen and told her it would take time. She sounded shaky so I talked her through it by getting her to tell me about her work. When the chill came back into her voice I knew she’d be okay. At least for a while.

Milo called an hour later.

“Can’t talk long, Alex. We’ve got the asshole nailed. A Saudi Arabian student, related to the royal family. It’s gonna get hairy but I’ll be damned if this one is gonna slither away on diplomatic immunity.”

“How’d you get him?”

“I wish I could say it was brilliant police work. He attacked another woman and she had mace in her purse. Sprayed the fucker until he shrieked, knee-dropped him, and called us. Little wisp of a thing, too,” he added, with admiration. “We found articles belonging to the other victims in his apartment. The guy shits his pants when he gets excited. It’s been a giggle interrogating him. Only cheerful note is that his asshole lawyer has to sit there and smell it, too.”

“Sounds like fun. Listen, if you can’t talk now—”