42
LATE IN THE afternoon, as Corrie passed by the door of Morwood’s old office—now occupied by Lime—the senior agent called out. “Agent Swanson?”
She backed up and paused. Lime was sitting behind his desk, the chief fire investigator in a chair opposite with a file open in front of him.
“Come in,” said Lime. “Have you met Lawrence Feeney?”
“Yes,” said Corrie as Feeney stood and extended his hand. He had questioned her early in the investigation. She felt a tightening in her chest.
“Please sit down.”
They all sat, and Lime leaned forward on his elbows, looking first at Corrie, then at Feeney. “Let’s get straight to the point, shall we? I mean, as it concerns Agent Swanson.”
“Right.” Feeney turned to her. “We determined the source of the fire. It was a short circuit in the autoclave.”
“In other words,” said Lime, “not the Bunsen burner, as Lathrop suggested.”
“We found the burner in the off position,” Feeney added. “Disconnected, and the gas cock at the source turned off, as well.”
Although none of this was a surprise to Corrie, she nevertheless felt a wave of relief wash over her.
“Furthermore,” Feeney said, “our investigation showed that the autoclave had not been properly maintained. The lab’s sprinkler and smoke detector system were inoperable because of chewed wires—a rodent infestation that went undetected. That fire-suppression system, of course, is supposed to be tested regularly. On two recent occasions, Lathrop asked the inspectors to come back another time when he was not busy, and as a result the system had not been tested within the prescribed schedule. Finally, the fire was accelerated by stacks of unopened packages, boxes, and deliveries that had been allowed to accumulate in the front hall of the lab.”
“As chief of the lab,” Lime added, “Lathrop had responsibility for all these issues.”
Corrie was stunned by these last pieces of information. It took her a moment to process them—and then, suddenly, she felt a wave of anger at Lathrop’s carelessness.
“What’s going to be done?” Corrie asked. “I mean, Agent Morwood’s death was Lathrop’s fault!”
“He’ll be given an engraved plaque—and retired.”
“That’s it?”
Lime looked at her. “I understand your anger. I feel it, too. But Lathrop didn’t do anything criminal—these were a cascade of oversights that, taken together, combined to make an unlikely tragedy.”
Corrie swallowed and said nothing further. It felt like manslaughter.
“The worst thing he did,” Lime said, “was blame you. Your fellow agents feel that pretty keenly—a lab technician, casting blame on one of their own. The SAC has asked Lathrop to take his remaining vacation days starting tomorrow, then move directly into retirement. We won’t see him around here again.”
Corrie nodded. She still felt a burning sensation. It was so unfair. By all rights Lathrop should be locked up. On the other hand, she realized Lime had arranged this brief discussion to give her some closure, even if incomplete. And for that, she was grateful.
“Thank you, Agent Feeney,” said Lime.
The fire investigator rose and left. Lime waited until he was gone before speaking again. “I know this is a lot for you to handle right now. But it’s important to move forward, and I’m confident you agree. So: tell me how the case is going. I understand you interviewed Dr. Eastchester this morning?”
Corrie made a mental effort to get back into the groove of the case. She told Lime about the visit, and explained she’d be sending the serial number of the strange device to Quantico for tracing. She hadn’t yet made further progress on the dental records but hoped to find time for that in the very near future—and she’d decided to conduct the search herself, rather than delegate it.
Lime listened intently, nodding, then congratulated her on the excellent work.
43
WHEN NORA ARRIVED back in the vehicle pool, she saw a pickup truck with a sheriff’s decal emblazoned on the side. A big-bellied man in a cowboy hat stood nearby, notebook in hand, with a young sheriff she recognized immediately as Homer Watts.
Tappan got out of the jeep and strode over, Nora and Skip following. “I’m Lucas Tappan,” he said, his hand extended with artificial cheer. “And these are my associates, Nora Kelly and Skip Kelly. Can I help you?”
“Nora, good to see you!” Watts said, coming over. She saw he was wearing his trademark rig: six-guns, fancy cowboy hat, and boots. The other man, who wasn’t nearly so colorful, followed.