stuff. She was an expert latent fingerprint examiner. She also had two degrees in forensic science and was about to get her PhD. She was qualified by the courts to give expert testimony on forensic matters. So? What does the expert say now? Cataldo challenged herself as she resumed studying her evidence inventory lists, test results, crime-scene photos, notes, and the autopsy report.
All puzzle pieces.
She was going to pull it together.
The scene had refused to give up anything useful. The guys at the Washington State Patrol crime lab offered to lend Kay’s team a hand. They were taking a shot at the partial shoe impressions. The quality was terrible—practically a write-off; she bit her bottom lip, thinking she’d have to get back to them.
Maybe WSP would find something?
Cataldo’s small, overworked crew had been going full bore without sleep since the call out to the homicide. They hadn’t had much luck collecting trace, fiber, DNA, anything, for them to go on. They’d dusted and scoped the apartment, town house, everywhere and everything for latents. Nothing. The suspect must’ve worn gloves. Stabbings are intimate crimes where the killer is often cut in the struggle as the weapon becomes blood-slicked and difficult to control.
Not the case here.
Absolutely no indication of a struggle, no defense wounds. No indication of sexual assault, or other trauma. The only blood in evidence at the scene was Sister Anne’s type: O positive. These facts alone would suggest either a come-from-behind lay-in-wait attack, or, a sudden full-frontal blitz attack, from someone she knew.
Go to the weapon.
The knife tossed among the shrubs in the alley. It had been washed, but while testing failed to yield any useable latents, washing failed to remove the traces of O-positive blood. Sister Anne’s. And the fatal wound was consistent with the knife.
Cataldo scrutinized the knife then reread the report on the weapon.
It was a steak knife manufactured by a Swiss company. It had a six-inch blade made of forged stainless steel, containing 20 percent chromium. It was attached to a maple handle secured with three rivets. At the hilt, Cataldo noted a tiny insignia engraved into the blade.
A stylized maple leaf among the Alps.
The knife was not among the inventory of the cutlery in the nun’s town house.
Cataldo’s phone rang with the call she’d been waiting for.
“Kay, better get down here. I think we’ve got something.”
“On my way, Gail.”
Cataldo took a parting glance at the gruesome array of items on the board and dispatched a message to Sister Anne’s killer.
“We’re gaining on you.”
Cataldo’s van roared from the support facility at Airport Way South and she made good time before she arrived in the kitchen of the Compassionate Heart of Mercy Shelter. Her partner, Gail Genert, a senior Seattle police criminalist, was standing with two men.
“This is Sailor and Reggie Longbow. Gentlemen, this is Kay Cataldo, the investigator I told you about. Kay, Sailor and Reggie are in charge of the kitchen.”
The two men nodded to the stainless-steel counter where the entire inventory of cutlery was spread. There were mismatches, different styles of flatware, plastic handled, wooden handled, all steel types. All sets had been neatly grouped. Genert and Cataldo each had crisp, full-scale photos of the murder weapon and placed them next to a group of steak knives matching the one in the pictures.
Sailor unfolded his large tattooed arms and placed his hands on the counter. His voice sounded like it was churning in a cement mixer.
“All of our knives, forks, spoons, and whatnot have been donated over the years. From estates, people moving, hotels, schools, we get all kinds. That knife group is part of an eight-piece set.” Cataldo had bent over to scrutinize the steak knives. The maple leaf/Alps insignia was identical to the one on the murder weapon.
“Go on,” she told Sailor.
“Reggie’s in charge of
All puzzle pieces.
She was going to pull it together.
The scene had refused to give up anything useful. The guys at the Washington State Patrol crime lab offered to lend Kay’s team a hand. They were taking a shot at the partial shoe impressions. The quality was terrible—practically a write-off; she bit her bottom lip, thinking she’d have to get back to them.
Maybe WSP would find something?
Cataldo’s small, overworked crew had been going full bore without sleep since the call out to the homicide. They hadn’t had much luck collecting trace, fiber, DNA, anything, for them to go on. They’d dusted and scoped the apartment, town house, everywhere and everything for latents. Nothing. The suspect must’ve worn gloves. Stabbings are intimate crimes where the killer is often cut in the struggle as the weapon becomes blood-slicked and difficult to control.
Not the case here.
Absolutely no indication of a struggle, no defense wounds. No indication of sexual assault, or other trauma. The only blood in evidence at the scene was Sister Anne’s type: O positive. These facts alone would suggest either a come-from-behind lay-in-wait attack, or, a sudden full-frontal blitz attack, from someone she knew.
Go to the weapon.
The knife tossed among the shrubs in the alley. It had been washed, but while testing failed to yield any useable latents, washing failed to remove the traces of O-positive blood. Sister Anne’s. And the fatal wound was consistent with the knife.
Cataldo scrutinized the knife then reread the report on the weapon.
It was a steak knife manufactured by a Swiss company. It had a six-inch blade made of forged stainless steel, containing 20 percent chromium. It was attached to a maple handle secured with three rivets. At the hilt, Cataldo noted a tiny insignia engraved into the blade.
A stylized maple leaf among the Alps.
The knife was not among the inventory of the cutlery in the nun’s town house.
Cataldo’s phone rang with the call she’d been waiting for.
“Kay, better get down here. I think we’ve got something.”
“On my way, Gail.”
Cataldo took a parting glance at the gruesome array of items on the board and dispatched a message to Sister Anne’s killer.
“We’re gaining on you.”
Cataldo’s van roared from the support facility at Airport Way South and she made good time before she arrived in the kitchen of the Compassionate Heart of Mercy Shelter. Her partner, Gail Genert, a senior Seattle police criminalist, was standing with two men.
“This is Sailor and Reggie Longbow. Gentlemen, this is Kay Cataldo, the investigator I told you about. Kay, Sailor and Reggie are in charge of the kitchen.”
The two men nodded to the stainless-steel counter where the entire inventory of cutlery was spread. There were mismatches, different styles of flatware, plastic handled, wooden handled, all steel types. All sets had been neatly grouped. Genert and Cataldo each had crisp, full-scale photos of the murder weapon and placed them next to a group of steak knives matching the one in the pictures.
Sailor unfolded his large tattooed arms and placed his hands on the counter. His voice sounded like it was churning in a cement mixer.
“All of our knives, forks, spoons, and whatnot have been donated over the years. From estates, people moving, hotels, schools, we get all kinds. That knife group is part of an eight-piece set.” Cataldo had bent over to scrutinize the steak knives. The maple leaf/Alps insignia was identical to the one on the murder weapon.
“Go on,” she told Sailor.
“Reggie’s in charge of
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