Read Online The Twelfth Card by Jeffery Deaver - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jeffery Deaver
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no noticeable limp and no serious bunions, ingrown nails or other malades des pieds. ”
“I didn’t know you spoke French, Lincoln,” Cooper said.
Only to the extent it helped an investigation. This particular phrase had come about when he was running the missing-right-shoes case and had spoken on a number of occasions to a French cop.
“What’s the trace situation?”
Cooper was poring over the evidence collection bags containing the tiny particles that had adhered to Sachs’s trace collector, which was a sticky roller, like the kind for removing lint and pet hair. Rollers had replaced DustBuster vacuum cleaners as the collector of choice for fiber, hair and dry residue.
Wearing the magnifiers again, the tech used fine tweezers to pick up materials. He prepared a slide and placed it under the microscope, then adjusted the magnification and focus. Simultaneously, the image popped up on several flat-screen computer monitors around the room. Rhyme turned his chair and examined the images closely. He could see flecks that appeared to be bits of dust, several fibers, white puffy objects, and what looked like tiny amber shells shed by insects—exoskeletons. When Cooper moved the stage of the scope, some small balls of spongy, off-white fibrous material were visible.
“Where did this come from?”
Sachs looked over the tag. “Two sources: the floor near the table where Geneva was sitting and beside the Dumpster where he was standing when he shot Barry.”
Trace evidence in a public place was often useless because there were so many chances for strangers unconnected to the crime to shed material. But similar trace being found in two separate locations where the perp had been suggested strongly that it had been left by him.
“Thank you, Lord,” Rhyme muttered, “for thy wisdom in creating deep-tread shoes.”
Sachs and Thom glanced at each other.
“Wondering about my good mood?” Rhyme asked, continuing to stare at the screen. “Was that the reason for the sidelong look? I can be cheerful sometimes, you know.”
“Blue moon,” the aide muttered.
“Cliché alert, Lon. You catch that one? Now, back to the trace. We know he shed it. What is it? And can it lead us to his den?”
Forensic scientists confront a pyramid-shaped task in analyzing evidence. The initial—and usually easiest—job is to identify a substance (finding that a brown stain, for instance, is blood and whether it’s human or animal, or that a piece of lead is a bullet fragment).
The second task is to classify that sample, that is, put it in a subcategory (like determining that the blood is O positive, that the bullet that shed the fragment was a .38). Learning that evidence falls into a particular class may have some value to police and prosecutors if the suspect can be linked to evidence in a similar class—his shirt has a type-O-positive bloodstain on it, he owns a .38—though that connection isn’t conclusive.
The final task, and the ultimate goal of all forensic scientists, is to individuate the evidence—unquestionably link this particular bit of evidence to a single location or human being (the DNA from the blood on the suspect’s shirt matches that of the victim, the bullet has a unique mark that could be made only by his gun).
The team was now low on this forensic pyramid. The strands, for instance, were fibers of some sort, they knew. But more than a thousand different fibers were made in the United States annually and over seven thousand different types of pigments were used to color them. Still, the team could narrow down the field. Cooper’s analysis revealed that the fibers shed by the killer were plant based—rather than animal or mineral—and they were thick.
“I’m betting it’s cotton rope,” Rhyme suggested.
Cooper nodded as he read through a database of vegetable-based fibers. “Yep, that’s it. Generic, though. No manufacturer.”
One fiber contained no pigments but the other had a staining agent
“I didn’t know you spoke French, Lincoln,” Cooper said.
Only to the extent it helped an investigation. This particular phrase had come about when he was running the missing-right-shoes case and had spoken on a number of occasions to a French cop.
“What’s the trace situation?”
Cooper was poring over the evidence collection bags containing the tiny particles that had adhered to Sachs’s trace collector, which was a sticky roller, like the kind for removing lint and pet hair. Rollers had replaced DustBuster vacuum cleaners as the collector of choice for fiber, hair and dry residue.
Wearing the magnifiers again, the tech used fine tweezers to pick up materials. He prepared a slide and placed it under the microscope, then adjusted the magnification and focus. Simultaneously, the image popped up on several flat-screen computer monitors around the room. Rhyme turned his chair and examined the images closely. He could see flecks that appeared to be bits of dust, several fibers, white puffy objects, and what looked like tiny amber shells shed by insects—exoskeletons. When Cooper moved the stage of the scope, some small balls of spongy, off-white fibrous material were visible.
“Where did this come from?”
Sachs looked over the tag. “Two sources: the floor near the table where Geneva was sitting and beside the Dumpster where he was standing when he shot Barry.”
Trace evidence in a public place was often useless because there were so many chances for strangers unconnected to the crime to shed material. But similar trace being found in two separate locations where the perp had been suggested strongly that it had been left by him.
“Thank you, Lord,” Rhyme muttered, “for thy wisdom in creating deep-tread shoes.”
Sachs and Thom glanced at each other.
“Wondering about my good mood?” Rhyme asked, continuing to stare at the screen. “Was that the reason for the sidelong look? I can be cheerful sometimes, you know.”
“Blue moon,” the aide muttered.
“Cliché alert, Lon. You catch that one? Now, back to the trace. We know he shed it. What is it? And can it lead us to his den?”
Forensic scientists confront a pyramid-shaped task in analyzing evidence. The initial—and usually easiest—job is to identify a substance (finding that a brown stain, for instance, is blood and whether it’s human or animal, or that a piece of lead is a bullet fragment).
The second task is to classify that sample, that is, put it in a subcategory (like determining that the blood is O positive, that the bullet that shed the fragment was a .38). Learning that evidence falls into a particular class may have some value to police and prosecutors if the suspect can be linked to evidence in a similar class—his shirt has a type-O-positive bloodstain on it, he owns a .38—though that connection isn’t conclusive.
The final task, and the ultimate goal of all forensic scientists, is to individuate the evidence—unquestionably link this particular bit of evidence to a single location or human being (the DNA from the blood on the suspect’s shirt matches that of the victim, the bullet has a unique mark that could be made only by his gun).
The team was now low on this forensic pyramid. The strands, for instance, were fibers of some sort, they knew. But more than a thousand different fibers were made in the United States annually and over seven thousand different types of pigments were used to color them. Still, the team could narrow down the field. Cooper’s analysis revealed that the fibers shed by the killer were plant based—rather than animal or mineral—and they were thick.
“I’m betting it’s cotton rope,” Rhyme suggested.
Cooper nodded as he read through a database of vegetable-based fibers. “Yep, that’s it. Generic, though. No manufacturer.”
One fiber contained no pigments but the other had a staining agent
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