Iced!: The 2007 Journal of Nick Fitzmorgan (4 page)

Blood never makes me squeamish, but the thought that I could be handling a drop of my dad’s blood — and that he might have
been hurt somehow — made my hands shake.

The slide fumbled from my fingers —

“No!” I gasped.

— and went flying across the room.

The glass slide narrowly missed the hard surface of the desk and skittered across the floor. Most of the Hood splattered into
tiny droplets and soaked into the dark carpet.

I stood horror-struck for a moment. Had I just blown the case? How would I ever match the blood now?

I rushed over and carefully picked up the slide. A very tiny droplet clung to the glass. Things might still work out okay,
I thought.

A few years ago, this tiny amount of blood wouldn’t be enough to run a DNA analysis. But with recent advances, all that has
changed.

Luckily I was able to get a DNA profile from the remaining droplet of blood. And when I compared it to my dad’s profile that
we’d made a few months ago, I knew; that I had a match.

Now I was certain about two things. The drop of blood had come from my dad. And this was definitely not a game.

Dad could be in serious danger. He might have struggled when kidnappers took him out of this room. But if he was kidnapped,
where was the ransom note?

Nothing made sense!

It was time to call for help.

I went to my dad’s desk and hit the speed dial on the videophone. After three rings, Judge’s face filled the screen. I could
see a wall of her office in the background.

I breathed a sigh of relief. “Judge, I’m so glad I caught you.”

“I’m just leaving now,” she said. Seeing my worried look, her eyes narrowed. “Nick, what’s wrong? Is your father there?”

“No,” I said. “That’s why I’m calling. I think Dad might be missing.”

Judge looked startled for a moment but then snapped into heir all-business mode. “Tell me everything.”

I quickly filled her in on the strange man with the skull, the drop of blood, the song — everything that had happened since
I arrived home. Judge nodded and asked me questions as I told her.

By the time I finished, Judge already had a plan. “Maura’s one of the most sensible people I know. I’m going to call her now
and ask her to join you,” she said. “This is more than likely just a big misunderstanding, but better safe than sorry.”

I asked, “What about the police?”

Judge took a breath. “Normally I would tell you to call them immediately. But the Notabe case I’m wrapping up involves some
pretty powerful people in law enforcement, and some of them have taken bribes from her. Maura is the nearest person to you
I can trust. She’ll be able to help you with everything. In the meantime, use what I taught you here and do what you do best.
Put together the pieces of the puzzle.”

I heard a voice call out to Judge. It sounded like Mr. Bulldog telling her that they were running late. Judge’s eyes never
left mine. “Nick, look for Maura,” she instructed. “But be careful whom you trust. At least for now. All right?”

“Okay, Judge.”

“I’m sure this will all work out, and you’ll see your dad soon. I’ll be back in touch the second I finish with the Notabe
case.”

We said our good-byes, and the screen went dark.

I looked around the office. I felt better after talking with Judge, but was still pretty much at a loss. What could I do to
help track down my dad?

“Put together the pieces of the puzzle,” Judge Pinkerton had told me on the phone.

But how could I do that if I couldn’t even find the pieces? I felt as empty-headed as the skull.

The piece of cloth from the strange man’s coat! The skull! They must be clues. I followed my instincts. First, the cloth.
It would be faster. When I pulled it out of the baggie, I saw that there were several hairs stuck to it.

I did a quick hair/fiber analysis. The hairs didn’t match any of the human samples on my database. But then I was struck by
a thought. What if the hair hadn’t come from a person — but from an animal?

I tapped into the Museum of Natural History’s computer and discovered that the hair had come from a yak. And what was more
interesting was that the follicle was still attached.

This fact meant that the hair came directly from a yak and had not been processed into a shirt or something. One of the only
ways this hair could have gotten on the strange man would be if he had recently been at a yak farm — or, I thought dryly,
a petting zoo with yaks.

Now for the skull. Tearing a page from my forensic anthropology textbook, I got to work.

Pictures of the final work in our example ran in a newspaper in 1989. Someone recognized the once-unknown face as Karen Price
— and later, two men were charged with her murder.

Trying io rebuild a face from just a skull can be like reconstructing a piece of fruit from an apple core. It’s part art,
part science, and part guesswork. Hopefully, when you’re done, the face will look enough like the living person that an identification
can be made.

I reconstruct faces with clay. To do this, I’ve had to learn tons about human anatomy. Like the depth of flesh on the average
face — and the way the muscles, wrinkles, and fat can change someone’s appearance. The trickiest parts are soft tissue areas
like the eyes, nose, and mouth, where there aren’t any bones to help guide you.

As I worked, I thanked my lucky stars that this skull was a replica. I wouldn’t have to use maggots to clean the flesh from
the skull before starting work (like one of my professors made us do!). These bugs chow down the remaining tissue on a skull
and leave it sparkling clean — but a maggot is the one thing that can gross me out!

Some people I know use computer tomography (CT) scans instead of clay to build a face. The computer does lots of the work
for you by laying down different faces over a picture of the skull until it come across one that looks right. It’s not as
messy and won’t damage a skull. But the programmer still has to guess which faces to use and how to form soft tissue areas,
so I stick with clay —

WITH THE PEGS IN PLACE, I COULD START LAYING ON CLAY.

Click!

I froze at the sound. This “click” was something I had heard thousands of times since I moved into this house. It was the
sound of the front door closing. But very softly. As if someone were trying to stay undetected.

I realized with a jolt that I had forgotten to relock the front door. Anyone could have walked in—including the strange guy
who shouted gibberish and threw the human skull at me.

The silence of the house filled my ears until it was almost unbearably loud.

I was just starting to think that I had imagined the click when I heard a very quiet scuffle, like the soles of someone’s
shoes rubbing against the marble of the front hall.

There was definitely someone in the house.

Silently rubbing the clay off my hands, I thought about calling out to see if it was Dad … but why would he be sneaking around?
I glanced at the videophone. It was at the far side of the office away from the door.

If I darted for the phone, I’d be cornered up against the old garage door. I wouldn’t be able to escape if someone came into
the office.

Better to sprint out of the office and try to make it to the kitchen phone. There was a backdoor in the kitchen, so I wouldn’t
be trapped. Taking a deep breath, I bolted through the office door and sprinted toward the kitchen.

Heavy footsteps pounded down the hall behind me. I was being chased! Suddenly I felt my legs being swept out from under me.
It was an expert move—but I managed to stick out my hand and catch myself on the wall. I kept my balance.

But it was clear I wasn’t going to get away from the intruder. It was time to put some of Judge’s training to work. I executed
a quick turn and took a defensive stance.