Identity Unknown (Kay Scarpetta #28)

Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

A n hour later I’m showered and back in the kitchen when Lee Fishburne calls. He has preliminary results of the trace evidence analysis, and I don’t let on that Faye already leaked the headlines to me. I know how to act as if hearing something for the first time.

Lee verifies that swabs taken of the Brileys’ hands and their clothing are negative for GSR, and I wouldn’t be surprised even if Faye hadn’t told me earlier. I never expected that Luna was shot at close enough range to have soot and partially burned powder deposited on her. As for her parents, gunshot residue can be washed off, and I suspect that’s what they did, assuming one of them pulled the trigger.

“For sure Luna shouldn’t have GSR on her hands if she wasn’t holding the gun when it fired,” I’m saying over the phone as I refill the coffee reservoir. “And I wouldn’t expect Ryder and Piper Briley to be positive for GSR either since they had ample time to make sure nothing like that was found on them. I’m betting they washed the clothing they had on or disposed of it somewhere by the time the police got there.”

“I wonder about any pictures taken of them earlier that evening that might show they changed their clothes later?” Lee says.

“A good point that you should mention to Investigator Fruge,” I suggest. “Based on what I saw when I arrived at the house, Luna had been dead for several hours before the father called nine-one-one.”

“What’s known as being guilty as sin.” Lee’s voice is disgusted over the phone. “Their swabs and clothing also were negative for the particles that fluoresce cobalt blue under UV. The residue that was on their daughter’s pajama top.”

… Made mostly of silica but also magnesium, aluminum, iron and other elements…, Faye said to me moments ago.

“And this is where it gets interesting, Kay. The sparkly stuff is a simulant of lunar regolith…”

… They brought to mind microscopic asteroids… I hear Faye’s voice.

“… In other words, fake moon dust,” Lee is telling me in my Bluetooth earpiece. “Microscopically, the simulant particles are more uniform because they’re ground up by machines. But the composition is the same, about half of it melted silica sand. Glass, in other words. It’s not all that hard to tell simulant from the real thing, but you’ve got to know what you’re looking at.”

“Let’s make sure I have this straight,” I reply. “You’re saying that fake moon dust was on Luna’s pajamas?”

“It’s weird that’s her name.”

“I’m finding everything about this weird, Lee.” I resume loading silverware and plates into the dishwasher.

“We’re talking about pulverized volcanic ash, an igneous rock like basalt,” Lee continues to explain over the phone as I start the dishwasher. “It’s mined and turned to dust by huge crushers and grinders. Then this is processed and packaged inside cleanrooms.”

He goes on to explain that natural moon dust particles are sharply irregular, melted and porous. They’re created by meteors smashing into the surface of the moon. Simulated or real, the shards are electrostatically charged, sticking to everything.

“Explaining why the dust is problematic to astronauts and their equipment,” Lee is saying. “You sure as hell don’t want to track it into your space shuttle or habitat. It’s a wonder some of the Apollo guys back in the sixties and seventies didn’t have serious respiratory problems.”

“You’re sure we’re dealing with simulated moon dust?” I walk through the living room carrying two coffees. “Possible it might be something else?”

“When I got up this morning I had an email waiting from a friend of mine I contacted late yesterday, a materials scientist at Johnson Space Center. She confirmed that the images and composition of the particles are consistent with a high-grade lunar regolith simulant. The reason it fluoresces under UV is because it’s supposed to. Although she said she’s never seen a simulant light up cobalt blue. She has no idea who might make it.”

“That was my next question,” I reply. “Where would someone get fake moon dust?”

“You can order small amounts off the internet. Mainly people do it as a curiosity or they’re space geeks. Or they’re someone like me who wants to look at it microscopically. You’d be amazed by the stuff I order online that I might never get a chance to examine otherwise. But moon dust simulated or real isn’t something you’d give to a child who might inhale it or get it in their eyes.”

“Does the simulant one can buy off the internet have a fluorescent additive?” I’ve returned to the bedroom, Benton in the bathroom with the door shut, the shower running.

“Not any I’m aware of.”

“And if you’re using it for big scientific projects, I would imagine you’re not buying sample sizes off the internet. You’re dealing with a commercial lab somewhere.”

“There are only a few of them in the country, none in Virginia that I know of,” Lee says. “And regolith simulant isn’t the sort of thing you create in your hobby shop with a tumbler or a portable grinder. Industrial machinery is involved, and you’ve got to get the right rocks and minerals from somewhere on this planet.”

He explains that the typical moon dust simulant used for scientific research often has a fluorescent additive that glows white. It makes it easier to determine if a spacesuit or piece of electronic equipment is properly sealed. High-quality simulants are pricey, anywhere from ten to thirty dollars per pound depending on where you get it.

“That adds up when buying tons of it to simulate lunar, Martian or asteroid conditions,” Lee is saying.

“Can you make any sense of this?” I sit down on the bed, sipping my coffee. “We’re talking about a child who didn’t go out and play. Luna Briley rarely left the house or had company. She was all but held in solitary confinement.” I feel the anger flaring again. “How the hell did she get fake moon dust on her?”

“I’m guessing it was transferred to her pajama top by someone who had physical contact with her. My question is whether there are other sources of the simulant inside her house.”

“I don’t know if the entire place was searched with crime lights, but the bedroom and certain other areas definitely were while I was there,” I reply. “And nothing fluoresced cobalt blue. Not that I saw or have heard about.”

“If there’s no trace of it in the house,” Lee says, “then it was transferred to Luna by someone who had it on their clothing. That’s what I’m guessing.”

“And how might that person have been exposed?”

“Anybody who works around it, for example,” he says. “A number of aerospace companies and government agencies, including NASA, use regolith simulants, as you might imagine. The real thing is locked up in vaults. Only a small amount of real moon dust and rocks still exist since we were last on the moon more than fifty years ago.”

I’m getting off the phone when Benton emerges from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a towel wrapped around him. He’s clean-shaven, his hair damp and combed straight back, his chiseled chest and flat belly covered in a sheen of sweat. I tell him what I’m finding out.

“Christ. I can’t say I saw that coming,” he says.

“You and me both.”

“I can’t imagine many uses for fake moon dust beyond the obvious aerospace research,” he adds. “For one thing, it’s extremely dangerous.”

“To everything and everyone,” I reply. “Chronic exposure without appropriate protection can cause severe lung damage and death. I’d worry about anyone spending much time around it.”

“Our trace evidence lab will confer with yours when appropriate to confirm what Lee told you, and I have no reason to doubt him.” Benton is getting dressed in khaki pants, a polo shirt. “We’ll find out who’s having a simulant like this shipped to them, specifically focusing on anything in this area.”

“I suspect that whoever left the microscopic residue on Luna wasn’t aware of it and wouldn’t have been unless walking under a black light,” I reply as Carrie Grethen hovers in my thoughts. “I suppose someone regularly exposed to moon dust, fake or otherwise, could leave it all over the place without realizing it? Or is this more of the same? Another rabbit hole? Another riddle to solve that leads nowhere, Benton?”

“We don’t know who left it,” he says. “And we don’t know the source. But if Carrie’s the one transferring this stuff all over the place, I strongly suspect she’s none the wiser.”

“Then she’s made a mistake.”

“She may have.” Benton ties his shoelaces.

“Or maybe she doesn’t care if she’s leaving it,” I reply. “Or she wants us to find it.”

“All of the above are possible, depending on other things going on.”

While he’s on the phone with other agents, I put on clean cargo pants and a long-sleeved tactical shirt not appropriate for hot weather. But when I last packed the jump-out bag it was winter. My clothes are wrinkled and a bit musty smelling. I should have hung them up before going to bed but was distracted by my husband and tequila.

I’ve texted Lucy several times on a secure messaging app, and am just now hearing back. She and other investigators are next door at NASA Langley inside building 1112 examining Sal’s pickup truck. I reply that Benton and I will head that way as soon as we check out of our room. Then I pass along what I’ve learned from Lee Fishburne about the moon dust simulant.

Probably the same thing we’re finding all over his truck, Lucy writes back. You’ll see when you get here.

I ask if she’s heard from Marino. I’ve sent texts and tried to call since early this morning, and he’s not responding. She informs me that he rented a car and drove back to Alexandria. No way he was getting on the helicopter again, he told her to tell me. Last they communicated he was at the office, and I send him a message. I tell him that Benton and I are on our way to look at Sal Giordano’s pickup truck.

I’m with Faye, Marino answers me right away.

He’s inside the firing range with Faye Hanaday, and he sends a video of a white cloth-covered target screeching along a track. Faye has safety glasses and headphones on while testing the Beretta .22 pistol that killed Luna Briley.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Faye blasts away, ejected cartridge cases clinking. She shoots the target from varying distances with Ryder Briley’s gun, firing the same hollow-point ammunition that killed his daughter. Then my “smart” ring vibrates, alerting me that Marino is calling.

“How long are Luna Briley’s arms,” he asks right off.

“About fourteen inches. As I’ve mentioned, she was small for her age,” I reply, and Benton is off his phone. He sits down on the bed next to me.

“And assuming her arm was bent while she was pointing the pistol at her head, the distance would be even less than ten inches. Half that, maybe,” Marino calculates.

“Very possibly.”

“No way she shot herself,” he says. “Hold on, I’m putting us on speakerphone so Faye can tell you herself.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s what we thought,” she says. “Based on my test fires and absence of GSR on the victim, I’d estimate the shooter was three to five feet away from her. Luna Briley couldn’t have been holding the gun, end of story.”

I tell Marino to let Blaise Fruge know immediately that I’m finalizing the manner of death as a homicide.

“The Brileys will go ballistic,” he says, unaware of the pun. “You’d better be looking over your shoulder, Doc.”

“I make a habit of it anyway,” I reply.

It’s after eleven as Benton and I drive away from the Langley Inn, the morning bright and warm, the blue sky scrubbed by yesterday’s storms. We follow Sweeney Boulevard around the north end of the Air Force runway as F-22s tear up the sky.

In the past several years I’ve noticed stepped-up activity around Virginia military bases, more fighter jets doing maneuvers day and night. When I visit my Tidewater office, I see more battleships and nuclear submarines in and out of the Norfolk Naval Station, the largest in the world.

The constant roaring and screaming overhead sounds like an invasion as we take Commander Shepard Boulevard past a sprawling mobile home park. Nearby is a run-down bar with a purple film covering the windows, a place to be avoided, I’ve been told in the past. Across from a motor speedway is NASA Langley Research Center, its large-scale wind tunnel stretching along the roadside like a giant white Slinky.

A blue globe sculpture of the NASA “meatball” logo rises from a circle of grass in front of the entrance. Over the main gate a digital sign welcomes visitors, which strikes me as ironic when protective services officers are armed with submachine guns. Several of them have pulled over a truck, searching it with a dog. A driver in a Prius is being questioned while his backseat is gone through.

Benton rolls down his window, and it’s obvious that we’re expected, no visit to the Badge & Pass office needed. A quick look at our IDs and we’re given directions for where we’re going.

“As you get closer to the gantry, you’ll see the hangars. Have a nice day.” The officer steps back from our car.

We drive through the middle of the campus, passing through a cluster of white vacuum spheres with steam billowing around them. Numbered buildings are brick and modern, others dreary precast dating back to the beginning of the space administration. Names describe the work that goes on. The Hypersonic Facilities. The Autonomous Incubator. The Sonic Boom Lab.

The farther we go from the center of the campus, the more isolated and mysterious the facilities. We wind through acres of open fields and woods, antennas of all shapes and sizes standing sentry. As we near the gantry looming above the trees, we begin to see a series of silvery hangars of varying sizes. There’s no signage, only numbers, and I notice NASA protective services black Tahoe SUVs patrolling the area.

Beyond a drone test range enclosed in netting is hangar 1112, concrete and windowless with a flat roof and a metal retractable door that’s closed. Benton parks near other SUVs and several crime scene vans. I text Lucy that we’re here, and in seconds she emerges from a side pedestrian door. Covered in white Tyvek, she hands us folded PPE. Her eyes are tired, and I wonder if she got any sleep last night.

“How’s it going?” I balance on one foot at a time, pulling on booties. “Any updates?”

“The team’s been at it for hours, and we’ve found a few curiosities. Impressions left on glass that don’t make any sense,” she says as Benton and I cover up with protective gowns. “They look sort of like handprints. But not normal hands. A combination of mitten and clawlike is the best I can describe it.”

As she tells us this I can imagine Marino’s reaction if he were here, and I’m glad he’s not. He’d resume harping about the crop circle and so-called alien abductions. The older he gets, the stronger his convictions, and I don’t look forward to telling him about the simulated moon dust. He’ll put two and two together and come up with the wrong number.