Red Dragon - Thomas Harris [12]
“Was the dog wearing a collar with the Leeds name on it?”
“No.”
“Did the Jacobis in Birmingham have a dog?” Graham asked.
“We're supposed to be finding that out,” Springfield said. “Hold on, let me see.” He dialed an inside number. “Lieutenant Flatt is our liaison with Birmingham . . . yeah, Flatt. What about the Jacobis' dog? Uhhuh. . . uhhuh. Just a minute.” He put his hand over the phone. “No dog. They found a litter box in the downstairs bathroom with cat droppings in it. They didn't find any cat. The neighbors are watching for it.”
“Could you ask Birmingham to check around in the yard and behind any outbuildings,” Graham said. “If the cat was hurt, the children might not have found it in time and they might have buried it. You know how cats do. They hide to die. Dogs come home. And would you ask if it's wearing a collar?”
“Tell them if they need a methane probe, we'll send one,” Crawford said. Save a lot of digging."
Springfield relayed the request. The telephone rang as soon as he hung it up. The call was for Jack Crawford. It was Jimmy Price at the Lombard Funeral Home. Crawford punched on from the other phone.
“Jack, I got a partial that's probably a thumb and a fragment of a palm.”
“Jimmy, you're the light of my life.”
“I know. The partial's a tented arch, but it's smudged. I'll have to see what I can do with it when I get back. Came off the oldest kid's left eye. I never did that before. Never would have seen it, but it stood out against an eightball hemorrhage from the gunshot wound.”
“Can you make an identification off it?”
“It's a very long shot, Jack. If he's in the singleprint index, maybe, but that's like the Irish Sweepstakes, you know that. The palm came off the nail of Mrs. Leeds's left big toe. It's only good for compari?son. We'll be lucky to get six points off it. The assistant SAC witnessed, and so did Lombard. He's a notary. I've got pictures in situ. Will that do it?”
“What about elimination prints on the funeralhome em?ployees?”
"I inked up Lombard and all his Merry Men, major case prints whether they said they had touched her or not. They're scrubbing their hands and bitching now. Let me go home, Jack. I want to work these up in my own darkroom. Who knows what's in the water here – turtles - who knows?
“I can catch a plane to Washington in an hour and fax the prints down to you by early afternoon.”
Crawford thought a moment. “Okay, Jimmy, but step on it. Copies to Atlanta and Birmingham PD's and Bureau offices.”
“You got it. Now, something else we've got to get straight on your end.”
Crawford rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Gonna piss in my ear about the per diem, aren't you?”
“Right.”
“Today, Jimmy my lad, nothing's too good for you.”
Graham stared out the window while Crawford told them about the prints.
“That's by God remarkable,” was all Springfield said.
Graham's face was blank; closed like a lifer's face, Springfield though.
He watched Graham all the way to the door.
# # #
The publicsafety commissioner's news conference was breaking up in the foyer as Crawford and Graham left Springfield's office. The print reporters headed for the phones. Television reporters were doing “cutaways,” standing alone before their cameras asking the best ques?tions they had heard at the news conference and extending their mi?crophones to thin air for a reply that would be spliced in later from film of the commissioner.
Crawford and Graham had started down the front steps when a small man darted ahead of them, spun and took a picture. His face popped up behind his camera.
“Will Graham!