doesn’t mean a damned thing.” She could tell the veteran cop’s impulse was to go all Tom Hanks on her, inform her sternly that there was no crying in policing, but Velske refrained.
He and Remington headed back down the hall. Lieutenant Merl joined them at the open doorway of the victim’s bedroom.
“Too many people in there,” Remington said.
Velske nodded. “What I was thinking.”
“Well, you’re one of them. Do you really have to be here?”
“I was securing the scene.”
“Uh-huh, from bedside,” Remington responded. “Who’s the undercover guy?”
She meant the scruffy dude who had joined the party late. Lieutenant Merl glanced over. “You don’t know Sam Brasov?”
“Detective from Region Two field operations,” Velske told her.
Remington shook her head. “Yeah, well, we’re a long way from South Bay, aren’t we?”
“You want to take over as officer in charge?” Lieutenant Merl asked. “You rank, and believe me, this is one I’d give up without any problem.”
“Plus the mother asked for you,” Velske repeated.
“Don’t keep saying that.” Remington paused. “The way I read it, the mom’s away at the task-force event, an intruder enters the house and deposits the body.”
Velske gave her a “No shit, Sherlock” kind of look.
Remington ignored him. “That means the bedroom, the whole house, the yard, everything is active. I want it processed inch by inch.”
“You think maybe clear it and start over?” Merl asked.
The punk police guy from Region II appeared beside them. “It could have been intruders, plural. Or, you know, another way to go would be that the runaway girl comes back home, tail between her legs, Mom chokes off her own daughter in a rage, puts her to sleep in her own bed, then waits a few days to call it in.”
Remington, Merl and Velske all stared at the guy as if he had come out of left field, which he had.
“I’m sorry,” Remington said. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
The guy—what was his name? Basoff?—smelled heavily of tobacco. “I was close by, yeah? So, you know, here I am.” He gave a crooked grin and a slight mock bow. “But as a discoverer of dead girls, I yield to you, Detective Remington.”
“Get dispatch,” Remington told Merl. “I want a log of all personnel present. And shoo everyone out who doesn’t have to be in there.”
The lieutenant nodded. “I guess that means—”
“Remington is taking over the case,” Velske said, completing Lieutenant Merl’s sentence and giving the words a theatrical flavor.
“Unless and until she gets told otherwise,” Sam Brasov put in.
“No, it’s mine,” Remington said. “I’m not going to let them steal another one away from me.”
Chapter 5
A long, moonless night. A whole battalion of forensic techs now swarmed over the scene. The coroner’s body collector had been by. Emergency-service personnel transported a distraught Brandi Henegar to Kaiser Hospital for overnight observation.
Remington stepped outside, taking the thin concrete sidewalk around the exterior of the house to the back patio. The CAU hadn’t waited for the break of day. They had set up floodlights and were already processing the backyard. Remington thought of archaeological digs, where the fossil hunters went at it with fine tools, whisk brooms, dental picks, toothbrush-size implements. That kind of patient attack was required here.
Nobody gets away clean. Transference was as much a foundational principle in crime-scene processing as it was in psychotherapy. The idea had been pounded into Remington’s brain at the academy: criminals always left something of themselves behind at the scene, and took something with them when they left. The transfer medium might be microscopic, it might even be molecular, but it was unavoidable.
Forensic science—that is, science designed to be presented in a court of law—views human beings as constantly sloughing off evidence. Fingerprints and footprints,
He and Remington headed back down the hall. Lieutenant Merl joined them at the open doorway of the victim’s bedroom.
“Too many people in there,” Remington said.
Velske nodded. “What I was thinking.”
“Well, you’re one of them. Do you really have to be here?”
“I was securing the scene.”
“Uh-huh, from bedside,” Remington responded. “Who’s the undercover guy?”
She meant the scruffy dude who had joined the party late. Lieutenant Merl glanced over. “You don’t know Sam Brasov?”
“Detective from Region Two field operations,” Velske told her.
Remington shook her head. “Yeah, well, we’re a long way from South Bay, aren’t we?”
“You want to take over as officer in charge?” Lieutenant Merl asked. “You rank, and believe me, this is one I’d give up without any problem.”
“Plus the mother asked for you,” Velske repeated.
“Don’t keep saying that.” Remington paused. “The way I read it, the mom’s away at the task-force event, an intruder enters the house and deposits the body.”
Velske gave her a “No shit, Sherlock” kind of look.
Remington ignored him. “That means the bedroom, the whole house, the yard, everything is active. I want it processed inch by inch.”
“You think maybe clear it and start over?” Merl asked.
The punk police guy from Region II appeared beside them. “It could have been intruders, plural. Or, you know, another way to go would be that the runaway girl comes back home, tail between her legs, Mom chokes off her own daughter in a rage, puts her to sleep in her own bed, then waits a few days to call it in.”
Remington, Merl and Velske all stared at the guy as if he had come out of left field, which he had.
“I’m sorry,” Remington said. “Who are you? Why are you here?”
The guy—what was his name? Basoff?—smelled heavily of tobacco. “I was close by, yeah? So, you know, here I am.” He gave a crooked grin and a slight mock bow. “But as a discoverer of dead girls, I yield to you, Detective Remington.”
“Get dispatch,” Remington told Merl. “I want a log of all personnel present. And shoo everyone out who doesn’t have to be in there.”
The lieutenant nodded. “I guess that means—”
“Remington is taking over the case,” Velske said, completing Lieutenant Merl’s sentence and giving the words a theatrical flavor.
“Unless and until she gets told otherwise,” Sam Brasov put in.
“No, it’s mine,” Remington said. “I’m not going to let them steal another one away from me.”
Chapter 5
A long, moonless night. A whole battalion of forensic techs now swarmed over the scene. The coroner’s body collector had been by. Emergency-service personnel transported a distraught Brandi Henegar to Kaiser Hospital for overnight observation.
Remington stepped outside, taking the thin concrete sidewalk around the exterior of the house to the back patio. The CAU hadn’t waited for the break of day. They had set up floodlights and were already processing the backyard. Remington thought of archaeological digs, where the fossil hunters went at it with fine tools, whisk brooms, dental picks, toothbrush-size implements. That kind of patient attack was required here.
Nobody gets away clean. Transference was as much a foundational principle in crime-scene processing as it was in psychotherapy. The idea had been pounded into Remington’s brain at the academy: criminals always left something of themselves behind at the scene, and took something with them when they left. The transfer medium might be microscopic, it might even be molecular, but it was unavoidable.
Forensic science—that is, science designed to be presented in a court of law—views human beings as constantly sloughing off evidence. Fingerprints and footprints,
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