Free White Tombs by Christopher Valen

’80s, Novak’s once chiseled frame had softened and expanded. He had a computer and printer on the desk along with a framed photograph of his wife and two teenage sons and two books held up with metal bookends. One was entitled the Manual of Fingerprint Development Techniques and the other Scene of Crime Handbook of Fingerprint Development Techniques . On the wall above the desk was a framed certificate from the International Association for Identification and a framed black and white photo of a handsome young Novak as a middleweight, before he had gotten his nose broken a few times and put on the extra pounds.
    “Hey, John,” Novak called when he saw Santana.
    I SEE DUMB PEOPLE was stitched in large white letters across the front of a black T-shirt Novak wore underneath his open, white lab coat. He got off his stool and came toward Santana, moving lightly on his feet, as though he were still bouncing around the ring.
    “I’d like you to take a look at the photo Gamboni found in Mendoza’s loft, Tony.”
    Santana took the photo out of the evidence envelope and showed it to Novak. “I want to know if there is anything we can use to identify the guy on his knees.”
    “What about the guy standing?”
    “Look closely. He’s got what appears to be an appendectomy scar.”
    Novak’s mustache and short curly hair were both gray, and as he tilted his head forward to look down at the photo, Santana could see the small, round bald spot on the crown of his head.
    “That’s what it looks like to me. Fairly recent, I’d say. Although this isn’t a real clear photo,” Novak said, pushing his heavy black frame glasses back up to the bridge of his wide nose. “Let me guess. You need to know soon.”
    “Very. Along with the results of the ballistics test on the .22 Córdova had on him the night he was killed. I just put the bullet Tanabe removed from Julio Pérez in a temporary locker.”
    “You think they’ll match?”
    “I’d bet on it.”
    “We still on for the Chandler fight on the twenty-seventh?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Well,” Novak said with a shrug, “I don’t know when I’ll be able to get to this, John. I’m really backed up here.”
    “So you’re not going to help me out if I don’t go to the fight with you?”
    “Did I say that?”
    Santana let out a sigh. “Okay. You’re on.”
    “Great,” Novak said with a big grin. He headed back to the microscope he had been looking through when Santana entered the lab. “We’ll stop at Mancini’s for dinner first. You can buy.”
    “Eat a big lunch,” Santana said.
    He found another stool at the counter. He spent the next twenty minutes paging through the spiral notebook Córdova used for his interviews until he reached the last page dated two days ago. If Córdova had talked with Mendoza, he had not taken any notes.
    S now was still falling. The flakes were smaller than before, but more numerous. Santana brushed off the windows of his Crown Vic before driving to the offices of El Día, which were located in a small, one level brick building on the West Side of St. Paul. The chairs in the reception area were vinyl-padded and had aluminum legs, as did the Formica topped coffee table. On the table were two copies of the latest edition of the paper and on the walls were framed certificates recognizing it as a member of the National Federation of Hispanic Newspapers and the Minnesota Newspaper Association.
    Santana spent two hours interviewing the staff that consisted of a receptionist, a marketing and sales manager, an art director, a photographer and two contributing writers. Everyone appeared upset by Julio Pérez’s murder and seemed to have concrete alibis for the day and approximate time of his death. Santana made a note to check out each alibi. Then he moved on to Pérez’s office where he went through the dead man’s desk, date book and papers. Nothing he looked at seemed important or offered clues to Pérez’s murder, so he walked down the hall