Lupi 08 - Death Magic

a ruler.”
    “Thanks.” She took the sack and reported to the hearty Uddley on what kind of crime scene equipment she had. “I’ve got my spiral, so I can take notes, make some sketches. I don’t have anything to measure with, but I can estimate shorter distances pretty well. My spread hand is eight inches from thumb to little finger, so . . . just a sec.” Scott still stood there, waiting. “Yes?”
    “Is it okay if I scrounge for sandwich fixings or something? For all of us, I mean, but especially Cullen. Healing burns a lot of calories.”
    And lupi shouldn’t get too hungry. “Sure, go ahead. I won’t need you right away, but eat quick, just in case.”
    He headed for the back of the house. Lily did, too, stopping at the doorway into the library. “We’re going to do this bass-ackwards,” Uddley boomed cheerfully in her ear. “Could all blow up in our faces, but we’ll go for it anyway.”
    “I’m not following you.”
    “When you work a scene, you never start with a theory and look for evidence to support it—but that’s what we’re going to do. It gives us a clear set of priorities, you see, in case you run out of time. Now, we know we’ve got an incendiary device, not a true bomb—not much blast, plenty of burn. According to your witness, there were two projectiles.”
    “According to one of them, yes. The other—Dr. Fagin—I haven’t interviewed him yet. His injuries needed attention.”
    “Two projectiles fits my theory. They wanted to break the window first so they could get their incendiary device well into the room before it broke and started burning everything. The witness you interviewed is a lupus, yes?”
    She agreed that he was.
    “Excellent. It’s his description of the smells that all but clinches it. Good man. Observant. I’m betting someone tossed an SIP.”
    “Okaaay.”
    A quick, booming laugh. “Jargon’s a bitch. Sorry. SIP stands for self-igniting phosphorus. The original SIPs were made during World War II by the British, but were never used in combat. Too dangerous to the user. They’re a take on the good old Molotov cocktail, though more sophisticated chemically. Easy to make. You put white or yellow phosphorus—that’s the garlic smell—mixed with benzene, water, and a bit of rubber into a glass bottle. Benzene smells sweet, see? Like your lupus reported. You throw your bottle at a hard surface. It breaks, the ingredients ignite, and you get a quick, hot fire, caustic smoke, and fumes from phosphorous pentoxide and sulfur dioxide. Sulfur dioxide—that and phosphorus make a burned match smell, and it’s also a key ingredient in smog. It all fits. So here’s what we’ll do.”
    Uddley went on to give her a quick précis of what she would do in the first hour and what would come later, if she had more time. He assured her he could stay on the phone with her all day, if necessary—“No need to rush on my account! It’s all billable hours!” They’d keep the line open, but she’d need both hands to work the scene, so she put her phone on speaker and clipped it to her waistband.
    Thirty-eight minutes later she’d taken dozens of pictures, completed a rough sketch, and had begun collecting trace evidence. She’d scraped burned crud from walls and floor, carefully marking each Baggie with the precise location, and sticking each location with a bit of masking tape, then taking a picture of the marked location. She’d also taken into evidence one larger item—a big chunk from a concrete block. Probably the first projectile.
    Now it was time to collect glass. Unfortunately, there was glass everywhere from the window. What they wanted was glass that might have come from a bottle filled with phosphorus, benzene, and a bit of rubber.
    Time for less conventional means. Lily straightened. Her right arm, the weak one, was aching. She’d been leaning on it a lot. Absently she rubbed it. “Scott? I’m ready for you to Change.”
    A tinny voice came from near her waist. “I’d like to brief him myself, if you don’t mind.”
    “Sure. Hold on a minute, Scott,” she said, heading for the door to the kitchen. She reached for her phone with her left hand and unclipped it.
    And dropped it when her hand tingled, then turned numb and useless.

TWENTY-TWO
     

     
    “YOU should’ve told him,” Scott said.
    They were in Rule’s car, headed for Bethesda. Scott was driving, of course. Lily had turned the heater on. The sun was down and the temperature