Chapter~14~Just the facts please.

Harley~

'His name is Nick, and don't accept that I believe he will come back for us.'

'I wouldn't have him if he came back!'

'Sure, you're right, Ms. Patty Pillowcase.'

My phone rings as I put the car in reverse; it's Belinda, and she tells me that my presence is required as soon as possible.

'Rae, I am going to need your help; the faster we finish this, the faster we can move on.'

'I promise to try; you owe me big time when this is over, and no excuses either. I'm gonna need some RAE time; no humans, no stalkers, no dead guys! And we are going to see Melinda!'

'I'll call her; can you please be a good little wolf? You're gonna get us gutted, cleaned, and mounted nicely on some rich eccentric asswholes' wall.'

The beep as I scan my badge to enter the lab sends a chill down my spine. Belinda's place is always damp and cold, with a pungent smell of death. She has obviously become immune to the stench, but it's fair to say the lab gives me the heebie-jeebies every time I set foot in it.

The protocol I've found most helpful is to keep my eyes facing front; there is nothing I want to see here! As quickly as possible, I move past the former human who is now Belinda's freaky ass, life-size wind chime. The memory of her face, the year I dressed Bones McGee up as Santa, sent a smile to my face.

"Good morning, Detective," Belinda said. "I've good news and bad news; the good news is that the glove had sufficient DNA to analyze. The bad news is that I have run the results through Cotus, but I haven't gotten any hits yet. Just like the others, it's as if he doesn't exist, not even a parking ticket. However, the glove itself may have more to tell."

She steps over to the computer in her lab. I follow her, looking over her shoulder. "Like what?" I asked.

"The manufacturer uses the dot peening process to mark the latex used to make their gloves. Through it, I found the distributor." She hands me a file and taps on the keyboard.

I opened the file. "The Hempfort Corp, why does that name sound familiar?"

"Probably because it's one of the nation's biggest medical suppliers." She draws my attention back to the computer screen. "Plastic surgeons mainly use this glove, and it is only available through Hempfort."

Belinda stands up, puts on gloves, hands me a pair, and leads me back into the exam room, where she pulls back the sheet covering the body. My brain throws me for a loop, and I close my eyes against the pain that shoots through my head. When I can refocus, I remember where I'd seen the name. The third victim had a business card with the big-ass H logo on it stuffed in his shirt pocket.

Not thinking anything of it, I put the card into evidence and moved on. It may not be much, but it's my first piece of linking evidence. If I could put a name to his face, I could give his family some closure. Since I don't believe in coincidences, I know where the stalker got the glove. Belinda's voice draws me out of my head.

"Detective?" she said, and I refocused on her. "I can give you a better profile now that he's dried out a little. He's Caucasian, I'd say between 35 and 40 years old." She lifted one of his hands for me to look at. "His well-manicured nails suggest he hasn't done a lot of hard labor."

"He was a pencil pusher, just like the others."

"Yes, I believe the two misfits were dockhands just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"So if you had the box that the glove came from, you could make a match?"

She nodded. "Most definitely, you find the box, and I can tie it to whoever killed this man." She prepares her tools. "I am about to open him up. Want to give me a hand?"

"No, thank you!" I almost heaved at the thought.

As quickly as possible, I left the mortuary and went straight to the evidence room in search of the box containing the dead man's effects. It must be my lucky day, as I tore open the box and found the card, and saw there was a local office.

A long drive across town in mid-morning traffic leads me to the Hempfort headquarters. I enter the massive glass doors of the Hempfort enterprise building and hear the air pull behind me. At least the AC works so that it will be cool inside.

As many times as I have driven past this building and thought that they were doing too much from the outside, the inside was just as extravagant. I step into the lobby and cross over the embroidered rug, proclaiming who owns the building.

Rae sneezes when the host of chemicals inside hits her nose. With all the COVID-19 protocols, I know they have to follow them, but dammit, so much bleach in one place should be illegal. At the reception desk, I flash my badge and ask to speak with the office manager.

There are at least 25 office doors arranged in a large semicircle, with hallways running between them. Most of the doors are closed, and I can't help but wonder what the suits are doing inside. A few moments later, a middle-aged, heavy-set fellow comes out to greet me.

His voice pulls me off my train.

"Detective, what can I do for you?" He asked.

I place the file on the desk, open it, and show him a picture of victim number three. "Do you know this man? Mr.....?"

"My name is Piolt, and yes, his name is Joswa Cervantes. They fired him about a week ago."

"Terminated? Why?"

"He was one of our best delivery drivers, but Hempfort has a strict no-call, no-show, no-job policy. Cervantes stopped showing up for his shifts, and upper management considered that to be as good as two weeks."

"He didn't quit, Mr. Piolt; he's dead. I am going to need all the information you have about him."