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Designed Intent

Chapter 7

Friday

The previous afternoon, shortly after the little boy arrived, Frances Goren had fallen asleep and the little boy wandered away. Now, Sylvia was jabbering on about something and Frances did not hear a word. She struggled up from her chair and was shuffling to the bathroom when she saw the child peeking from behind the drape on the window. "Oh, there's my little one! You wait right there for Gramma, ok? I will be right back. Don't you go away; I'll be right back now."

"What? Who you talking to this time, Frannie?" Sylvia said to Frances's back as the bathroom door closed. Sylvia looked toward the drapes and saw drapes hanging at the window. "She is one nutty woman," she said to no one in particular, "I guess she'll never be lonely, though, all those folks tucked away in her head to talk to. Never did see one of 'em, though, never did see one. Guess now, Frannie's seeing someone. Well, good on her for finally making one of them real. Still, though, pretty weird if you ask me. Well, no one ever does ask me. Not about anything. No one really cares what I think, I guess. Not that I would have any idea about anything. Never did have any chance to learn much, being tossed out of school for being weird like I was. I guess I am weird, guess so." And so began Sylvia's downward spiral. She had had a good long run of feeling good this last stretch and it was about time for the sadness to creep in around the edges.

Frances Goren emerged from the bathroom and noticed that Sylvia had stopped talking out loud. Thank goodness, she thought. A little peace and quiet for a while.

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"The analysis of the paper came back," Eames said to Bobby when he returned to his desk.

"Is it like I thought?" he asked.

"Actually, no, look at this," she offered him the report. Bobby took it, read it and frowned.

"Huh. This is common art paper, twenty-four pound, one hundred percent cotton rag paper. It's been aged in a solution of pannis root, linseed oil and saline." He looked over at his partner and continued, "Pannis root is found in heavily wooded areas, damp places. Wherever you see wild fern, you find pannis root. The linseed oil . . . that is interesting. I would not have considered it as a dilution mixture for use on paper."

Eames looked at Bobby expectantly, with raised eyebrows, knowing he was not finished with his explanation. She was not disappointed, "Uh, well, the linseed oil is an, is an oil," Bobby's hands were busily dancing, illustrating his point, "I would imagine that the oil would leave a residue, you know, greasiness on the paper. " Eames watched him think, his hands continuing to follow his thinking, "So, the paper must have undergone some kind of treatment to remove the oiliness."

"A drying process, maybe?" she offered.

"Something like that; or an absorption, or a wringing process. You know, pressing the damp paper to suction out or push out the moisture. This was pretty involved."

"How much of this stuff would someone need to fake three hundred pages? Where would you get that much paper?" Eames asked.

"It depends on the printing method," Bobby continued to read and then said, "It says here, the printing process was authentic to the time." He looked up and continued, "They used a printing press. That is a big piece of equipment. They'd need a warehouse facility."

"What about the paper?"

"The counterfeiter probably had access to an entire roll or he ripped individual pages from sketch pads. Either way, that's a lot of paper to acquire and dye."

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Gleason finished her Wednesday and Friday morning class, went to her office, gathered up the things she would need for the weekend, said good bye to the student receptionist and headed to her car. It was a glorious day, and she was feeling so much better after that spell walking to campus Tuesday morning.

She wanted to get busy, and get caught up – maybe even get ahead. In her mind, she began to construct a list of things to do. Bobby was always making lists, but not for the grocery. He said you never knew what you were hungry for until you go to where the food was. He called it being nutritionally spontaneous. Gleason smiled thinking of him.

As she drove the short distance from campus to her apartment, Gleason felt mildly conflicted. She was eager to get all this work done and so was glad for the weekend to work. She felt a little guilty about being glad to be away from Bobby. And, the next few days promised to be lovely, perfect for walking around campus, shopping in Chicago, making love. They would talk often this weekend, she told herself. She was looking forward to the time available to her.

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"Malcolm, you need to take him this weekend," Maeve spoke steadily to her soon to be ex-husband. He had stopped by early on his way to campus to drop off the check.

Malcolm stopped, turned and said, "I'll pick him up here at six. Where do you want to pick him up on Sunday?"

Maeve was steaming, she was so angry with him. "Listen, Angus is your son; do not make him suffer because of your infidelity. This is hard enough on him already. I'll meet you at the hot dog place on Carter at six."

"Six is too late. We'll be there at two."

"Malcolm! Spend some time with your son. Be his father. For goodness sake, be something for once."

"Four o'clock. Pick him up at four. All right? Four." With that, Malcolm grabbed his jacket and walked toward the front door. Angus was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs that led to the second floor of their house; it had not been a home in a long while. The child had heard everything. He might have been almost four years old, but he understood that he was a burden to his mother and his father would be happier without him.

Malcolm reached to pull open the front door and caught sight of his young son; he knew immediately that the boy had heard it all. Angus looked at his father with complete innocence.

"Hey, laddie."

Angus did not move.

Malcolm crossed the short space and stood before the boy. He saw the hurt behind the child's blue eyes, eyes the color of his own. "Can I sit with ye for a bit?" Angus scooted to the right, making room for his father. Malcolm hung his jacket over the newel post and sat. Neither said anything.

"Angus, did ye hear your mum and me talking?" He knew his son had heard every word. Angus said nothing.

"I know ye did, lad." Malcolm was unsure of what to say next. "How about we go to a movie this weekend, eh? That will be fun, won't it?" Malcolm looked down at his boy. Angus looked up and said nothing. "What would you like to do, Gus? We can do whatever you like. Eh? What do you want to do?"

Angus still said nothing. Suddenly, he stood and ran up the stairs. Malcolm watched him turn at the top and heard him run down the hall to his room. Malcolm shook his head, took his jacket and left.

Less than a minute later, Angus Conway came thumping down the steps holding the picture he had made for his dad at school. He stepped off the bottom stair and looked left into the parlor, he looked right into the dining room. Slowly, Angus walked down the hall to the kitchen.

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"Anything new on anything?" Deakins asked as he walked over.

"The counterfeit books – the report on the paper came back," Eames offered. "It just opens up a slew of questions."

"Well questions lead to answers. Get some answers so we can close this one. Anything new on the jewelry heist?"

"Not a thing. That one is really cooling off," Eames reported.

Deakins rubbed his forehead and said with some tone, "Upstairs is getting antsy for a solve. You have two open cases – that jewelry heist with the collector's missing necklace and this counterfeit book thing; Sledge and Bishop have two, Perkins and Sullivan have one, and I don't know how many Logan and Wheeler have. Let's get going on these." With that, Deakins headed to his office.

"Ok, how should we proceed?" Eames asked her partner.

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Bobby and Eames walked up the steps to the Culver Hall, home to most of the physical and Earth science labs.

"Dr. Pennelli is expecting us," Eames said to the student staffing the receptionist's desk.

"He's in his office, room 2314, fifth door on the left. Go on down, he's waiting."

Eames nodded and led her partner down the hallway to the office; the door was open.

"Dr. Pennelli?" Eames said.

The professor looked up, stood and met the pair at the door. "Come in, please. Have a seat. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you," Eames replied. Bobby shook his head. "Uh, I'm Detective Eames, this is Detective Goren. I spoke with you on the phone. Thank you for seeing us."

"Certainly," Pennelli returned to his desk and Eames took one of the guest chairs. Bobby stood with two hands clutching his portfolio in front of his crotch. He took one step and was at the bookcase and Pennelli eyed him. "I, uh, I have to tell you, I've never spoken to the police before, not even a traffic cop, certainly never detectives." Pennelli seemed nervous.

"Well, since it's your first time, we promise to be gentle," Eames answered. Bobby turned and glanced back at this partner with a slight smile, catching the subtle joke.

"How can I help you?"

Eames proceeded to inquire after pannis root. Where it might be found, in the wild and commercially; its uses, and how it is processed. Bobby might as well have been mute.

Pennelli was forthright, complete and seemed to relax as he endeavored to share what he knew of the root. After about fifteen minutes, Eames looked at Bobby standing by the door and Bobby said, "Thank you Dr. Pennelli. If we need your expertise again, we'll give you a call." Bobby and the scientist shook hands, as did Eames, and the detectives left.

Pennelli watched the pair head down the hall and he shut his office door. He returned to his desk, lifted the phone and dialed. "You said to call if anyone asked about pannis root."

Bobby and Eames headed to the car. "Why didn't you sit down?" she asked him, "There wasn't that much to look at."

"Exactly. Why are professor's offices so small?" he shivered dramatically and continued, "Small spaces give me the creeps."

Eames drove and then asked, "What vibe did you get from Pennelli?"

"Him? Oh, he's in on it, for sure."

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"All right, my Sweet Pea," Frances said as she sat back in her chair. "You were going to tell me what your name is. So, what is your name?" Frances Goren looked at the child at her knee and leaned forward, expectantly.

"My, my daddy would call me Chris and my mommy would call me Tian," the boy answered.

Frances looked at the little boy, trying to make sense of what he was saying. "Why do you have two names?"

"Cause my daddy would call me Chris and my mommy would call me Tian," he smiled at Gramma. She's silly, he thought.

"Ok, Sweet Pea. I love you, Chris Tian."

"I love you, too, Gramma."

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