Invisible Prey

suits. They just want to reach out and take some.”
    “I see money in this, for my old company,” Lucas said. He’d once started a software company that developed real-time emergency simulations for 911 centers. “We could make simulation software that would teach Republicans how to fuck and Democrats how to steal.”
    “Jeez, I don’t know,” Rose Marie said. “Can we trust Republicans with that kind of information?”
     
    B ACK AT HIS OFFICE, Carol told him that the intern, Sandy, had been up half the night preparing a report on Hewlett-Packard printers and on murders in the Upper Midwest. He also had a call from one of Jim Cole’s assistant county attorneys.
    Lucas called the attorney, and they agreed that Lucas and Flowers would testify before the grand jury the following day. The assistant wanted to talk to Flowers before the grand-jury presentation, but said it would not be necessary to review testimony with Lucas himself.
    “You’ll do the basic bureaucratic outline, confirm the arrival of the initial information, the assignment of Agent Flowers to the case, and Flowers’s delivery of the technical evidence to the crime lab. We’ll need the usual piece of paper that says the evidence was properly logged in. That’s about it.”
    “Excellent,” Lucas said. “I’ll call Agent Flowers now and have him get back to you.”
    Lucas called Flowers: “You’re gonna have to carry the load, Virgil, so you best memorize every stick of information you put in the files. I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody from Kline’s circle has been talking to somebody from Cole’s circle, if you catch my drift.”
    “After that newspaper story, I don’t see how Cole could bail out,” Flowers said.
    “I don’t see it, either. But depending on what may have been said behind the chicken house, we gotta be ready,” Lucas said. “Tell them what you got, don’t get mousetrapped into trying out any theories.”
    “Gotcha,” Flowers said. “Gonna get my mind tightly wrapped around this one, boss. Tightly.”
    Lucas, exasperated, said, “That means you’re going fishing, right?”
    “I’ll talk to the lab people and make sure the paperwork is right, that we got the semen sample and the pubic hair results, the photos of Kline’s nuts. Copies for everyone. And so on, et cetera. I’ll polish my boots tonight.”
    “You’re not going fishing, Virgil,” Luca said. “This is too fuckin’ touchy.”
    “How’s the little woman?” Flowers asked.
    “Goddamnit, Virgil…”
     
    L UCAS GOT his share of the paperwork done, reviewed it, then gave it to Carol, who had a nose for correct form. “Look it over, see if there are any holes. Same deal as the Carson case. I’ll be back in five.”
    “Sandy’s been sitting down in her cubicle all day, waiting for you…”
    “Yeah, just a few more minutes.”
    While Carol was looking over the paperwork, he walked down to the lab and checked the evidence package, making sure everything was there. Whatever else happened, Lucas didn’t want Kline to walk because of a bureaucratic snafu. Back at his office, he sat at his desk, kicked back, tried to think of anything else he might need. But the prosecutor had said it: Lucas was essentially the bureaucrat-in-charge, and would be testifying on chain-of-evidence, rather than the evidence itself.
    Carol came in and said, “I don’t see any holes. How many copies do you want? And you want me to call Sandy?”
    “Just give me a minute. I gotta call John Smith.”
     
    S MITH WAS LEAVING a conference on the stabbing of a man at Regions Hospital a few weeks earlier. The stabbed man had died, just the day before, of an infection, that might or might not have been the result of the stabbing. The screwdriver-wielding drunk might be guilty of a minor assault, or murder, depending.
    “Depending,” Smith said, “on what eight different doctors say, and they’re all trying to tap-dance around a malpractice suit.”
    “Good luck,” Lucas said. “Anything new on Bucher?”
    “Thanks for asking,” Smith said.
    “Look, I’m going to interview this Amity Anderson. I told you about her, she was the secretary to the Wisconsin woman.”
    “Yeah, yeah…Hope something comes out of it.”
     
    A MITY A NDERSON WORKED at the Old Northwest Foundation in Minneapolis. Lucas tracked her through a friend at Minnesota Revenue, who took a look at her tax returns. Her voice on the phone was a nasal soprano, with a touch of Manhattan.