The Fourth Figure by Brian; Pieter; Doyle Aspe Page A

enthusiasm.
    â€œHe doesn’t want a shrink.”
    â€œSo what do we do?”
    â€œHannelore’s been confined to the house by the doctor.”
    After the lousy experience at the hospital, Hannelore had consulted her obstetrician and he had advised her to take time off and get some rest. She had accepted his judgment with stoic good spirits, something Van In found strange and out of character. She usually didn’t give in so easily.
    â€œShe’s going to try to win him over, gain his confidence. Perhaps she’s the one to break down the wall he’s built around himself. She managed to get a shitload more out of him than I did, I can tell you that.”
    Van In scrambled to his feet and rubbed his face with both hands. Sleepless nights had left him with feet like clay and legs like lead. “I’m thinking we should contact the police physician and have a word or two with Jasper Simons.”
    â€œAnd what about the black widow?” asked Guido.
    â€œIgnore her, Guido.”
    â€œAnd if that doesn’t work?”
    â€œThen we move in with the federal boys. If we have to live with someone, then give me the feds over a dangerous spider any day.”
    â€œThat means you’ll have to grow a mustache, Pieter. You know what the feds do with mustacheless men?”
    â€œI do,” said Van In. “They get to lick the colonel’s ass.”
    Forensic medicine had evolved by leaps and bounds in recent decades, and DNA technology had been responsible for most of the advances. These days, a couple of cells were enough to identify a criminal, and they didn’t always have to be skin cells. Blood, sperm, saliva, sweat, and tears also contained genetic material. Investigative techniques had made similarly spectacular advances. Ear and tooth prints, for example, were just as reliable as traditional fingerprints. Invisible footprints could now be made visible using new advanced photography, blurred video material could be digitally enhanced, and toxicologists were capable of detecting just about every poison on the planet. Van In tried to keep track of it all as far and as often as he could, which was why he was so surprised that the police physician was unable to answer his question.
    â€œSo if I’m understanding you right, you haven’t been able to determine the cause of death?”
    â€œNot for the present, Commissioner. I was hoping the toxicologist’s report would fill in the gaps.”
    â€œYou think she was poisoned?”
    The police physician had more than ten years’ experience, and this was the first time in his career that he’d been stumped. “All I know is what didn’t kill her.”
    The case clearly bothered him. He went on: There were no signs of external injury on Trui Andries’s body. She had no congenital defects, yet her heart had packed it in. The blood work had been equally inconclusive. The victim hadn’t been taking medication or drugs of any kind, and there were no signs of suffocation. Death by poisoning seemed the only remaining hypothesis, but the analysis had yielded nothing. All the tests were negative.
    â€œThat’s why I asked Raf Geens to do some sniffing around for me,” he said.
    â€œIs that the guy who works for criminal investigations?” Van In asked.
    According to some rumors, Geens was a drunk who enjoyed the protection of a few people with influence; others—a small minority, it has to be said—swore by all that was holy that the eccentric analyst was a genius.
    The police physician nodded. In spite of his professional pride, he belonged to the latter group.
    â€œSo you think he’ll come up with something?”
    The police physician smiled. “Passion is a machine, and no one knows what it’s capable of. If you ask me, Geens worked through the night on the case. Shall I give him a call? He might have something for us.”
    â€œNo need, Doctor.