pillow, and the second on the glass near the greenhouse door. Both are smudged and the one on the rock is pretty much unreadable.”
“I know your CSR guys are the best, Joe, but have you thought of getting the FBI to . . .”
“The two prints are down at Quantico as we speak. I called Susan Leigh and she is gonna make sure they get the full treatment. Our guys lifted them with the latest technology—glue fuming, photometric stereo imaging and so on—so in the very least, the FBI lab guys have the best raw materials available.”
David knew of these two techniques. Glue, or cyanoacrylate, fuming was a process whereby the fumes from heated glue are directed onto a surface using a fuming chamber and a small fan. Fingerprint powder is then applied to make the prints visible. The technique worked on most smooth surfaces, including human skin and glass.
The photometric stereo imaging would have been used on the rock because it was a superior method for lifting prints off rough surfaces. From what David could remember, it used different angles of light to enhance the recovery of the print by reducing the variations in the background surface.
“Anything else?” David went on.
“A partial shoe print, which appears to be a size eleven and have the Nike logo in its tread. It doesn’t match any of the family member’s or gardener’s shoes but it’s a basic trainer print, most likely from an average sized man, which narrows my search down to roughly one quarter of the male population in Boston.”
“You holding anything back?” asked David, referring to an old homicide cop’s trick of keeping some small detail from the press in an effort to flush out perps who accidentally “flip” on said detail, not realizing it had been kept under wraps.
“Two things, actually,” said Joe. “The first is, well, we haven’t even told the family, so . . .”
“I understand,” said David, knowing when not to push.
“As for the second,” Joe continued, “the perp took her shoes.”
“Hmmm,” said David. He had heard of “trophy” killings where murderers took some of the victim’s possessions as mementos, but in cases such as these, the stealth of clothing usually went hand in hand with some kind of sexual assault. But according to what David had read, the Nagoshi girl had not been raped. He turned to Joe.
“There was no evidence of sexual assault, right?”
“None.”
“Then the shoe thing is kind of . . .”
“Weird, I know,” said Joe, signaling for two more lagers. “I rang Simba and asked if we could put a profiler on it. See if it means anything.”
“Simba” was the nickname of the FBI’s Boston Field Office Special Agent in Charge, Leo King—a brown-haired, wide-eyed investigative genius and, better still, a good and trusted friend.
David nodded as he accepted the fresh drink from the now satisfied bartender and took a long sip. He noticed the brew was softening with practice, or maybe they were just getting a little drunk.
“That it?” he asked after a while.
“Pretty much,” said Joe. “We’ve been through the girl’s room and college locker and found nothing untoward. She was a straight-A student, on the university lacrosse team and pretty good at the art stuff. She liked to draw—sketch things. In fact . . .”
Joe bent down to his worn leather briefcase and pulled out what appeared to be a large sketch pad in a plastic evidence bag from one of the many inside flaps. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a pair of plastic evidence gloves, slipping them on in seconds—a practice he no doubt could do in his sleep, considering his daily dealings with death.
“What did she draw?” asked David, pulling his stool a little closer to get a look at Jessica Nagoshi’s work.
“Portraits, nature scenes, stuff like that. She was studying French Impressionism and from what her art teacher told us, had a thing for . . . um . . .” Joe dove back into his briefcase to fish out his
“I know your CSR guys are the best, Joe, but have you thought of getting the FBI to . . .”
“The two prints are down at Quantico as we speak. I called Susan Leigh and she is gonna make sure they get the full treatment. Our guys lifted them with the latest technology—glue fuming, photometric stereo imaging and so on—so in the very least, the FBI lab guys have the best raw materials available.”
David knew of these two techniques. Glue, or cyanoacrylate, fuming was a process whereby the fumes from heated glue are directed onto a surface using a fuming chamber and a small fan. Fingerprint powder is then applied to make the prints visible. The technique worked on most smooth surfaces, including human skin and glass.
The photometric stereo imaging would have been used on the rock because it was a superior method for lifting prints off rough surfaces. From what David could remember, it used different angles of light to enhance the recovery of the print by reducing the variations in the background surface.
“Anything else?” David went on.
“A partial shoe print, which appears to be a size eleven and have the Nike logo in its tread. It doesn’t match any of the family member’s or gardener’s shoes but it’s a basic trainer print, most likely from an average sized man, which narrows my search down to roughly one quarter of the male population in Boston.”
“You holding anything back?” asked David, referring to an old homicide cop’s trick of keeping some small detail from the press in an effort to flush out perps who accidentally “flip” on said detail, not realizing it had been kept under wraps.
“Two things, actually,” said Joe. “The first is, well, we haven’t even told the family, so . . .”
“I understand,” said David, knowing when not to push.
“As for the second,” Joe continued, “the perp took her shoes.”
“Hmmm,” said David. He had heard of “trophy” killings where murderers took some of the victim’s possessions as mementos, but in cases such as these, the stealth of clothing usually went hand in hand with some kind of sexual assault. But according to what David had read, the Nagoshi girl had not been raped. He turned to Joe.
“There was no evidence of sexual assault, right?”
“None.”
“Then the shoe thing is kind of . . .”
“Weird, I know,” said Joe, signaling for two more lagers. “I rang Simba and asked if we could put a profiler on it. See if it means anything.”
“Simba” was the nickname of the FBI’s Boston Field Office Special Agent in Charge, Leo King—a brown-haired, wide-eyed investigative genius and, better still, a good and trusted friend.
David nodded as he accepted the fresh drink from the now satisfied bartender and took a long sip. He noticed the brew was softening with practice, or maybe they were just getting a little drunk.
“That it?” he asked after a while.
“Pretty much,” said Joe. “We’ve been through the girl’s room and college locker and found nothing untoward. She was a straight-A student, on the university lacrosse team and pretty good at the art stuff. She liked to draw—sketch things. In fact . . .”
Joe bent down to his worn leather briefcase and pulled out what appeared to be a large sketch pad in a plastic evidence bag from one of the many inside flaps. He reached into his pocket and retrieved a pair of plastic evidence gloves, slipping them on in seconds—a practice he no doubt could do in his sleep, considering his daily dealings with death.
“What did she draw?” asked David, pulling his stool a little closer to get a look at Jessica Nagoshi’s work.
“Portraits, nature scenes, stuff like that. She was studying French Impressionism and from what her art teacher told us, had a thing for . . . um . . .” Joe dove back into his briefcase to fish out his
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