The Detective [Part V]

PART V – The Lab

The lab was the antithesis of the Precinct house. It was spotless and didn’t smell like last nights meatballs. It had a welcoming open architecture of glass and the natural light poured into the access corridors. The labs themselves were more controlled. The Detective liked it here. No matter what the temperature outside was, The Lab was a constant 68.

He signed in and then took the elevator to the third floor where he hoped they could fit the sequencing of the tooth’s DNA into the queue so it didn’t have to wait another week. He was pretty sure that if it went that long he’d end up getting the report just as the phone rang telling him it was time for another tea party.

The truth was it’d take too long anyway. The Lab didn’t actually do the sequencing anyway. Like everything else these days it got outsourced, sent off to be processed at an industrial for-profit lab. However, they could give it priority nudge. And if he played his cards right they would. The girl who ran the check-in desk had a thing for him. He’d have one right back for her if he thought it’d do either of them any good.

She smiled as he walked through the front doors. She always did. Then again it was easy to smile in a bright place like this. He wondered if she still smiled when the lights went out at night. She gave him a playful once over then asked, “Did you bring me something nice?”

The Detective pulled the jar from his pocket and set it on the counter. Somehow that single tooth grinned. “I hope you got a sweet tooth,” he said. She laughed a little. Then she noticed the blood on the tooth and got to work.

“What is this, number four?”
“Lucky number four.”
“I bet you need a rush.”
“I bet you’re right.”
“Only if you buy me drink.”
“I’ll buy you whatever you want if I get the results back in three days.”
“You’re on.” She grabbed the jar and dropped it into a padded envelope as the label printed out. She’d been typing away the whole time.

Just then the FedEx Guy walked through the front door. She buzzed him in and she handed him the envelope. He put it with the pile in the corner and started running his magic box over each label.

“Would you have bet me if he’d already picked-up for the day?”
“Yep. Then I would have driven it to the airport myself.”
“Call me in three days and we’ll see where we stand.”
“Why don’t I call you in two?”
“Why don’tcha?”

With that he turned and didn’t look back. He felt a little bad about the fact that even if he did get the results back in three days all she’d get was a drink. He’d have Kris call him and make an excuse about the case and leave her sitting in the restaurant just before the food got there. He’d drop enough money to cover the meal and an after dinner bottle of wine so she could hate him in the morning. Then he’d go to the bar and get good and drunk for being such a bastard. But, she had a thing for him, and he’d have one for her too if he thought it’d do either of them any good.

[This is an experiment. I don’t know where it is going. I write it and post it with only a questionable reread. It’s about the process of hitting the keys in the most reflexive of styles. It probably will go nowhere, but we’ll find out. I have no plan. I have no outline. I have no reason. It’s still © 2007 Greg Bunch, even if it sucks.]