“Hey, Michael. How does it feel to be a cop again?”

“Real good.”

“You have a home with us, buddy,” Decker said. “We’re ready. Lay it on.”

“I’m reading off my notes, so bear with me. Like I said, the process is called Rapid Prototyping. It’s used in industry to construct models. Let me give you the example like the tape did. Suppose Ford Motor Company designs an engine block on a computer? Now a computer image is a two-dimensional representation of something three-dimensional. But the company needs a three-dimensional object to work with. Say, for instance, using Ford Motor again, the company wants to place it in the hood of the car to see how much room it’s going to take up. That’s where Rapid Prototyping comes in. It’s a technology that makes a three-dimensional model off of the two-dimensional computer image.”

“Got it,” Marge said.

“This is how Wisconsin solved the problem. The first thing they did was to run the skull through a CT scan. I called up the coroner’s office. They don’t have a machine, but all hospitals do. Maybe we can ask county to borrow one. It’s not far from the Crypt. Anyway, once you have the machine, you’ll also need a technician to take serial cross-section X-rays of the entire skull. Are you two with me?”

“We are,” Marge said. “Go on.”

“Okay. Now each X-ray image from the CT scan is a one-millimeter cross section of the skull.”

There was a long pause. Marge said, “Mike, are you there?”

“Yeah, wait a sec…okay, here we go. Once you have the X-rays, you need someone to feed the shots into a computer that interfaces with this prototype machine. The computer tells the machine to laser-cut a piece of paper for every CT-scan X-ray you have. So each piece of paper represents a millimeter cross-sectional outline of skull. Not the inside part, obviously, just the perimeter. Am I making myself understandable? ’Cause it’s much easier once you see the tape.”

“I think I got what you’re saying,” Decker said. “You have a cross-sectional paper silhouette that’s one millimeter thick.”

“Exactly, except that each paper silhouette is only around one one-thousandth of an inch because the computer interpolates between the X-rays to make the model smoother.”

“Okay,” Decker said. “Go on.”

“So…where was I? Oh, here I am. The machine cuts out a paper silhouette about one-one-thousandth-inch thick and stacks it onto the previous paper silhouette. So in the end, you have a huge stack of paper silhouettes that represents the skull. Then another part of the machine squeezes the stack of paper silhouettes together until you have a three-dimensional representation of the original skull.”

Decker said, “Let me recap. The original skull is fed through a CT scan that takes cross sections of the skull about one millimeter thick. Then the CT-scan images are fed into a computer that’s attached to the prototyping machine. The prototyping machine cuts paper silhouettes of the computer model based on the CT-scan images. Each silhouette is about one-one-thousandth-inch thick. The paper silhouettes are stacked upon one another in order. Then another part of the machine compresses the paper so that the skull is basically reconstituted out of paper.”

“Exactly.” Hollander paused. “You’re pretty quick at this.”

“I’ve done some carpentry in my day,” Decker said. “Gluing layers of thin laminate on top of one another to get an odd shape. What you end up with is a skull that is in essence made out of wood.”

“Perfect!”

“And the forensic artist uses the wooden skull to construct a clay face onto.”

“One hundred percent. And here’s the best part, Deck. There’s legal precedent for doing this. The Wisconsin court ruled that the replica skull could be used for forensic purposes since the model was accurate with all its bony landmarks.”

“So let me get this straight,” Decker said. “We need to transport a very delicate skull to a CAT-scan machine. Once I do that, I need a CAT-scan technician to take a bunch of serial X-rays. Then I need to find a company who has access to a machine that does Rapid Prototyping. After we find the machine, we still need to find a programmer who can program the X-rays into the computer, and lastly, we need a technician to run the machine that produces the three-dimensional object.”

“It sounds like a lot, but I bet getting your hands on the machines isn’t as hard as it appears,” Hollander said. “We’ve got some automobile plants in the Valley.”

“You’re right. I’m not worried about finding the machinery. I am worried about finding the funding.”

There was a brief silence over the phone. Then Hollander said, “You see, that’s why I’m glad I retired. I liked the detective part of the job. It was the red tape that was always a bitch.”

THE RANCH HOUSE was in the same area as Raymond Holmes’s renovation project, similar in style but tired. The paint job was cracking in spots and the landscaping was patchy. There was a porch with several lawn chairs, and that’s where Marge and Decker waited for Leslie Bracco to make her appearance.

As the time crept toward six o’clock, Marge called up Will and asked him to push the dinner reservation off until nine. In a gallant act of chivalry, Will told her that he was off early and that he’d be happy to drive down south, saving her some time and aggravation. There were a number of great restaurants in San Jose and several of them were open late.

Leslie showed up at six-ten, a set of keys in her hand. She was small and compact, square in the shoulders, a woman in her late forties, with helmet-clipped black hair streaked with silver. Green eyes and thick lips sat in a round face with big, apple cheeks. She wore a dark brown pantsuit, the jacket hugging a dusty-rose-colored wool sweater. Her shoes were simple brown flats. “I’m so sorry I’m late. The meeting just went on forever. We’ve been doing a rock-bottom savings promotion to try to woo back customers and it’s been very successful. WestAir has agreed to keep it going.” She opened the front door. “Have you been waiting long?”

“Not too bad,” Decker said.

“You’re just being nice.” She walked into the house and began opening drapes and turning on lights. The detectives followed.

“It gave us a little time to catch up on our work.” Decker smiled and she smiled back with bleached white teeth. “I’m Detective Lieutenant Decker and I believe you’ve spoken to Detective Sergeant Dunn.”

“Hi.” Leslie shifted her purse from one arm to the other and held out her right hand. First to Marge then to Decker. “Sit anywhere you’d like. Sorry for the mess.”

The mess was a newspaper folded neatly on the coffee table. Other than that, the place was immaculate. The decor could have been lifted from a furniture ad-a traditional rose-patterned upholstered couch, matching love seat and armchair-with-ottoman arrangement. Sitting in the corner was a piano, the top obscured by family pictures. More photographs were hanging on the walls. The beige carpeting was thick ply and spotless.

Leslie threw her purse on the sofa. Then she looked at it and placed it upright on a walnut end table. “Can I get either of you coffee? I’m making decaf for myself, so it’s no bother.”

“That sounds fine.” Marge looked at the wall snapshots; most of them displayed Leslie, a husband, and three kids in the usual vacation backdrops. A more recent photograph appeared to be a skiing vacation-six young adults with four babies and toddlers. There was no husband in that picture, but there was a picture of a pale bald man holding a baby. He was wearing an old terry robe and had an ear-to-ear smile.

Leslie was a widow and her husband had probably succumbed to cancer.

The flight attendant caught Marge staring at the photograph. Her eyes welled up with tears. “That was Jack.” A forced smile. “It’s been three years and I still miss the hell out of him.”