Strangers

another fugue. She tried to fling the book aside but could not, tried to stand up but could not. She drew deep breaths, closed her eyes, and waited for her pulse rate to sink toward normal.
        When she opened her eyes and looked at the author's photograph again, it still disturbed her, though not as badly as it had at first. She knew that she had seen this man before, had met him somewhere, and not in the best of circumstances, though she could not remember where or when. His brief biography on the jacket flap informed her that he had lived in Portland, Oregon, and now resided in Laguna Beach, California. As she had never been in either of those places, she could not imagine when their paths might have crossed.
        Dominick Corvaisis, about thirty-five, was a striking man who reminded Ginger of Anthony Perkins when that actor had been younger. His looks were compelling enough that she could not imagine having forgotten where she had met him.
        Her instant reaction to the photo was strange, and some might have dismissed it as a meaningless fillip of an overwrought mind. But during the past two months she had learned to respect strange developments and to look for meaning in them, no matter how meaningless they seemed.
        She stared at Corvaisis' photograph, hoping to nudge her memory. Finally, with an almost clairvoyant sense that Twilight in Babylon would somehow change her life, she opened it and began to read.
        
        Chicago, Illinois.
        From University Hospital, Father Stefan Wycazik drove across town to the laboratory operated by the Scientific Investigation Division of the Chicago Police Department. Though it was Christmas Day, municipal workers were still cleaning last night's snowfall from the streets.
        Only a couple of men were on duty at the police lab, which was located in an aging government building, and the old rooms had the deserted feeling of an elaborate Egyptian tomb buried far beneath desert sands. Footsteps echoed resoundingly back and forth between the tile floors and the high ceilings.
        Ordinarily, the lab did not share its information with anyone from outside the police and judicial systems. But half the police officers in Chicago were Catholics, which meant that Father Wycazik had more than a few friends on the force. Stefan had importuned some of those friends to make petitions in his name and to pave the way for him at the SID.
        He was greeted by Dr. Murphy Aimes, a paunchy man with a perfectly bald head and walrus mustache. They'd spoken on the telephone earlier, before Stefan left the rectory for University Hospital, and now Murphy Aimes was ready for him. They settled on two stools at a laboratory bench. A tall opaque window loomed in front of them, decorated with dark streaks of pigeon dung. On the marble top of the bench, Aimes had laid out a file folder and several other items.
        "I must say, Father, I'd never compromise case information like this if there were any possibility of a trial arising from the shootout at that sandwich shop. But I suppose, as both perpetrators are dead, there's no one to be put on trial."
        "I appreciate that, Dr. Aimes. I really do. And I'm grateful for the time and energy you've expended on my behalf."
        Curiosity ruled Murphy Aimes's face. He said, "I don't really understand the reason for your interest in the case."
        "I'm not entirely sure of it myself," Stefan said cryptically.
        He had not revealed his purpose to the higher authorities who had made him welcome at the lab, and he did not intend to enlighten Aimes, either. For one thing, if he told them what was on his mind, they would think he was dotty and would be less inclined to cooperate with him.
        "Well," Aimes said, miffed at not being taken into Stefan's confidence, "you asked about the bullets." He opened a manila envelope of the type that ties shut with a string, and he emptied its contents into his palm: two gray lumps of lead. "The surgeon removed these from Winton Tolk. You said you were particularly interested in them."
        "certainly am," Stefan said, taking them in his own hand when Aimes offered them. "You've weighed these, I suppose. I understand that's standard procedure. And they weigh what.38 slugs should?"
        "If you mean, did they fragment on impact - they did not. They're so misshapen they must've impacted bone, so it's surprising they didn't fragment a little