He drove along Austin Street and through the center of town, passing Tudor-styled buildings that lined the quaint shopping area. He turned down a quiet side street and found Dr. Lockard’s home—a two-story, half-timbered structure that looked well maintained. He parked in the driveway and walked to the front door, where he rang the bell and wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his khakis. When the door opened, Walt felt like he was in a time machine. Jarrod Lockard had not changed from Walt’s memory of him. The man still sported a head of wild white hair that looked impossible to tame even for the most experienced hairdresser. If this feature embarrassed the doctor, it didn’t show. Somewhere in his seventies now, the man’s face carried the same cavernous folds that curved like parentheses around his lips and accentuated jowls that drooped like melted frosting.
“Dr. Lockard. Walt Jenkins.”
Dr. Lockard’s lips twisted subtly, the closest he ever came to smiling. Walt remembered how none of the detectives at the BCI had ever been able to read Jarrod Lockard’s mood. His facial expression never veered far from stoic and carried a perpetual look of attending his mother’s funeral.
“Detective. It’s been a while.”
Dr. Lockard offered his hand. Walt took it nervously, remembering that shaking hands with Jarrod Lockard was like squeezing a wet sponge.
“Twenty years,” Walt said.
“They look to have treated you well.”
“You too.” Walt released his grip. “You honestly look the exact same.”
“So when we worked together two decades ago, I looked like a seventy-year-old man?”
“No,” Walt said, coughing and choking on an errant bolus of saliva. “I meant . . . you look . . .”
Dr. Lockard stared at him without speaking.
“Good. That’s all,” Walt said, looking for a way out of the awkward reunion. “You look good.”
“Was there something on your mind, Detective?”
“Yes. An old case we worked on together.”
The doctor nodded. “Come in.”
Walt followed him into the house.
“Have a seat,” Dr. Lockard said when they entered the kitchen.
The house felt quiet and empty and eerie.
“Can I get you something to drink? I’ve got coffee still warm.”
“That would be perfect,” Walt said.
Jarrod Lockard poured two cups of coffee and sat with Walt at the kitchen island.
“What is it that you need my help with?”
Walt took a sip of coffee and felt Dr. Lockard’s stare on him. He tried hard to control the irrational nervousness that came from sitting in the man’s kitchen.
“Do you remember the Cameron Young case?”
Dr. Lockard shrugged. “Cameron Young. My favorite dead author. I remember some of it. But that was a long time ago, and I’ve been retired for a decade now. I have trouble remembering where I left my slippers.”
About to refresh the doctor’s memory, Walt startled when a black Burmese cat hopped onto the kitchen island, appearing suddenly as if it had been conjured from thin air. It slunk along the far edge of the counter, its back arched and its tail straight up like a snake about to strike. Jade-green eyes glowed from the depths of the cat’s jet-black face, with vertical slits for pupils staring at Walt as if he was trespassing.
“Walt,” Dr. Lockard said, reaching for the cat. “Where are your manners?”
Walt looked, slack jawed, from the cat to Dr. Lockard. “You have a cat named Walt?”
Dr. Lockard ran his hand over the cat’s back as it purred softly. “Purely coincidence, Detective. I’ve never married, so in lieu of companionship I have a house full of cats. There are only so many names.”
Walt shifted his gaze around the kitchen, imagining other feline eyes staring at him from the shadows.
Dr. Lockard looked blankly at Walt as he continued to pet the cat. The edges of his lips eventually curled again into the subtlest of smiles. “I’m fucking with you, Detective.”
Walt stayed still for a moment, confused. “Your cat’s not named after me?”
“No. This is Mortimer. He’s the only cat in the house and I can’t stand the goddamn thing.” Dr. Lockard lifted the cat off his lap and dropped it onto the ground where it hissed before scurrying off. “My wife and I are watching it for our daughter, who’s away for the Fourth of July holiday. But she’s picking the furry thing up this morning. Any minute, in fact. So stop sitting there like a prom queen who shit her dress, and spit out what it is you need, Detective, before my grandchildren swarm this house. Because I won’t be able to talk about dead authors from twenty years ago after they arrive.”
Walt finally smiled.
“I’m not as scary as you think, Detective. But my wife hates when I talk about old cases, so let’s get this show on the road.”
“Got it,” Walt said, reaching into the breast pocket of his sport coat and pulling out a piece of paper.
“I’m reviewing the Cameron Young case.”
“Why?”
“It’s a long story. American Events, the television show, is planning to produce a documentary about the case. I’m consulting on the project and came across something I need your opinion on.” Walt laid the piece of paper on the counter and pointed at it. “I found this forensics report . . . well, not hidden, exactly, but not made available at the time of the investigation.”
The doctor squinted his eyes as he looked at Walt. “Who was the prosecutor?”
“Maggie Greenwald.”
“Oh, say no more. Square Peg Maggie. She had a knack for making evidence disappear.”
“Unfortunately. And this case, because of the unusual circumstances, was not one that came under the scrutiny of the Southern District during their investigation of Maggie Greenwald. But I managed to get my hands on it and I can’t figure out a few things I came across.”
Dr. Lockard pulled the page close to him and lifted his chin to see through his bifocals.
“Victoria Ford’s urine and blood were discovered at the crime scene. The urine was found in the unflushed toilet; the blood was on the carpeting. DNA analysis confirmed that both the urine and the blood belonged to her. But the forensic report has me confused.”
“How so?” Dr. Lockard asked.
“The report shows that the urine contained a high level of ammonia, and that the blood had a series of chemicals in it.”
“Chemicals?”
Dr. Lockard began to read the report.
“Yeah,” Walt said. “Listed in trace amounts in the blood were styrene, chloroform, glyphosate, and triclosan. What are they, and are they usually found in blood samples?”
Dr. Lockard shook his head as he continued to read. “No. Those things are not naturally found in blood.”
“How about the ammonia in the urine? Is that normal?”
“No.”
“So where did it come from? And what are the chemicals in the blood?”
Dr. Lockard ran his tongue over the corners of his lips. The Wizard, Walt thought, had been conjured.
Dr. Lockard blinked a few times. “The ammonia is easy. Urea breaks down into ammonia after twenty-four hours. So the urine collected from the toilet was more than twenty-four hours old.”