Drowning Barbie by Frederick Ramsay Page B

course, druggies did have an amazing resilience to things that would kill an ordinary person. Somehow Darwin’s theory of natural selection didn’t work in the drug world. First-timers and the chronically stupid would frequently succumb on their first or second foray into that dark world, but hard-core stoners seemed indestructible. Then, just when it appeared they had super powers, their personal Kryptonite locked on and they imploded.
    He closed the toxicology file and sorted through the rest of the tech’s findings—fibers, clothing, estimates of the weapon used to stab her. Not much to work with. Most of what he had would confirm a killer, or method, but not lead to him or her. He envied those TV characters that could identify pollen from Patagonia with a click of the mouse, or clinch the ID of a killer by running a DNA test in twenty minutes on a sample of gummy bears taken from a garbage can. With that thought in mind, he remembered he wanted to order a DNA screen on the tissue scrap from the skeletal remains. It would be a long shot at best. Schwartz hadn’t asked for it, and although it would put a dent in his budget that he might have difficulty justifying later, his gut told him it would be needed. He didn’t know why. He claimed no extrasensory powers, but when his intuition spoke, he listened. Today it was nagging him to order the test.
    ***
    Ike returned to his office alternately annoyed at Blake Fisher and admiring him for standing by his convictions. In a world committed to the homogenization forced on it by political correctness, the mediocrity of celebrity worship, and the cult of self-empowerment, a person standing on principle was a welcome rarity. He would not have objected if the good vicar had bent the rules this one time, however. A problem he believed solved now owlishly stared at him, daring him to find a quick and easy solution. There did not seem to be one.
    He placed a notepad in front of him. Pen in hand he considered who and how many people he should include on his guest list. If there is one thing a man hates to do, party-planning would be near the top of the list. Party-planning, reading Christmas letters, pets wearing clothes, and drinks made with crème de menthe. He was okay with quiche.
    The intern, who by now had acquired the label “TAK,” The Academy Kid, walked past his door. Ike called him in.
    â€œHow good are you with computer stuff?” Ike was not a Luddite, but his skill set in most things electronic was pretty much limited to pushing the I/O button and double-clicking icons.
    â€œI get around the web,” TAK said.
    â€œOur original geek installed some sophisticated software on our system and I want to know if you’re good enough to run it.”
    â€œYeah, I scanned through some of your programs. ‘Sophisticated’ isn’t the half of it. You have enough stuff jammed into your box to start World War III.”
    â€œTo end it, maybe, but we’d never start it. Here—” Ike picked up the yellowed photo on his desk. “See if you can scan this in and run it through the facial recognition program. If this child ever entered the system, we may get a hit. I want know who left their antique trash in my father’s barn. Also, run it through the program that ages people. How old would you say this picture is?”
    TAK took the photo from Ike and turned it over. “Eleven years more or less. There’s a date on the back.”
    â€œOkay, I’m guessing the girl in the photo is five or six, so age her eleven years.”
    â€œI don’t know, Sheriff. I know computers as good as the next guy, but running that software might be beyond me.”
    â€œTAK, do you know the first rule of police work?”
    â€œUmm…which first rule would that be? The instructor who teaches forensics said the first rule was ‘Never screw up a crime scene until the ME clears it.’ The range officer said