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Authors: Jeffery Deaver
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specialist—about the card.”
“Good.”
Cooper examined the card for prints and found none. Nor was any helpful trace revealed.
“What else was in the bag?” Rhyme asked.
“Okay,” the tech replied, “we’ve got a brand-new roll of duct tape, a box cutter, Trojan condoms. Nothing traceable. And . . . bingo!” Cooper held up a little slip of paper. “A receipt.”
Rhyme wheeled closer and looked it over. There was no store name; the slip had been printed by an adding machine. The ink was faded.
“Won’t tell us very much,” Pulaski said then seemed to think he shouldn’t be talking.
What was he doing here? Rhyme wondered.
Oh, that’s right. Helping Sellitto.
“Sorry to differ,” Rhyme said stridently. “Tells us a lot. He bought all the items in the pack at one store—you can compare the receipt to the price tags—well, along with something else he bought for five ninety-five that wasn’t in the bag. Maybe the tarot deck. So we’ve got a store that sells duct tape, box cutters and condoms. Got to be a variety store or variety drugstore. We know it’s not a chain becausethere’s no logo on the bag or receipt. And it’s low-budget since it only has cash drawers, not computerized registers. Not to mention the cheap prices. And the sales tax tells us that the store is in . . . ” He squinted as he compared the subtotal on the receipt with the amount of tax. “Goddamnit, who knows math? What’s the percentage?”
Cooper said, “I’ve got a calculator.”
Geneva glanced at the receipt. “Eight point six two five.”
“How’d you do that?” Sachs asked.
“I just kind of can,” she said.
Rhyme repeated, “Eight point six two five. That’s the combined New York state and city sales tax. Puts the store in one of the five boroughs.” A glance at Pulaski. “So, Patrolman, still think it’s not very revealing?”
“Got it, sir.”
“I’m decommissioned. Sir isn’t necessary. All right. Print everything and let’s see what we can find.”
“Me?” the rookie asked uncertainly.
“No. Them.”
Cooper and Sachs used a variety of techniques to raise prints on the evidence: fluorescent powder, Ardrox spray and superglue fumes on slick surfaces, iodine vapor and ninhydrin on porous, some of which raised prints by themselves, while others displayed the results under an alternative light source.
Looking up at the team through his large orange goggles, the tech reported, “Prints on the receipt, prints on the merchandise. They’re all the same. Only, the thing is, they’re small, too small to be from a six-foot-tall man. A petite woman or a teenage girl, the clerk’s, I’d say. I see smudges too. I’d guess the unsub wiped his own off.”
While it was difficult to remove all the oils and residue left by human fingers, prints could be obliterated easily by a brief rubbing.
“Run what you’ve got through IAFIS.”
Cooper lifted copies of the prints and scanned them. Ten minutes later the FBI’s integrated automated fingerprint identification system had verified that the prints did not belong to anyone on file in the major databases, city, state and federal. Cooper also sent them to some of the local databases that weren’t linked to the FBI’s system.
“Shoes,” Rhyme announced.
Sachs produced the electrostatic print. The tread marks were worn, so the shoes were old.
“Size eleven,” Cooper announced.
There was a loose correlation between foot size and bone structure and height, though it was tenuous as circumstantial evidence in court. Still, the size suggested that Geneva had probably been right in her assessment that the man was around six feet tall.
“What about a brand?”
Cooper ran the image through the department’s shoe-tread database and came up with a match. “Bass-brand shoes, walkers. At least three years old. They discontinued this model that year.”
Rhyme said, “The tread wear tells us he has a slightly turned out right foot, but
“Good.”
Cooper examined the card for prints and found none. Nor was any helpful trace revealed.
“What else was in the bag?” Rhyme asked.
“Okay,” the tech replied, “we’ve got a brand-new roll of duct tape, a box cutter, Trojan condoms. Nothing traceable. And . . . bingo!” Cooper held up a little slip of paper. “A receipt.”
Rhyme wheeled closer and looked it over. There was no store name; the slip had been printed by an adding machine. The ink was faded.
“Won’t tell us very much,” Pulaski said then seemed to think he shouldn’t be talking.
What was he doing here? Rhyme wondered.
Oh, that’s right. Helping Sellitto.
“Sorry to differ,” Rhyme said stridently. “Tells us a lot. He bought all the items in the pack at one store—you can compare the receipt to the price tags—well, along with something else he bought for five ninety-five that wasn’t in the bag. Maybe the tarot deck. So we’ve got a store that sells duct tape, box cutters and condoms. Got to be a variety store or variety drugstore. We know it’s not a chain becausethere’s no logo on the bag or receipt. And it’s low-budget since it only has cash drawers, not computerized registers. Not to mention the cheap prices. And the sales tax tells us that the store is in . . . ” He squinted as he compared the subtotal on the receipt with the amount of tax. “Goddamnit, who knows math? What’s the percentage?”
Cooper said, “I’ve got a calculator.”
Geneva glanced at the receipt. “Eight point six two five.”
“How’d you do that?” Sachs asked.
“I just kind of can,” she said.
Rhyme repeated, “Eight point six two five. That’s the combined New York state and city sales tax. Puts the store in one of the five boroughs.” A glance at Pulaski. “So, Patrolman, still think it’s not very revealing?”
“Got it, sir.”
“I’m decommissioned. Sir isn’t necessary. All right. Print everything and let’s see what we can find.”
“Me?” the rookie asked uncertainly.
“No. Them.”
Cooper and Sachs used a variety of techniques to raise prints on the evidence: fluorescent powder, Ardrox spray and superglue fumes on slick surfaces, iodine vapor and ninhydrin on porous, some of which raised prints by themselves, while others displayed the results under an alternative light source.
Looking up at the team through his large orange goggles, the tech reported, “Prints on the receipt, prints on the merchandise. They’re all the same. Only, the thing is, they’re small, too small to be from a six-foot-tall man. A petite woman or a teenage girl, the clerk’s, I’d say. I see smudges too. I’d guess the unsub wiped his own off.”
While it was difficult to remove all the oils and residue left by human fingers, prints could be obliterated easily by a brief rubbing.
“Run what you’ve got through IAFIS.”
Cooper lifted copies of the prints and scanned them. Ten minutes later the FBI’s integrated automated fingerprint identification system had verified that the prints did not belong to anyone on file in the major databases, city, state and federal. Cooper also sent them to some of the local databases that weren’t linked to the FBI’s system.
“Shoes,” Rhyme announced.
Sachs produced the electrostatic print. The tread marks were worn, so the shoes were old.
“Size eleven,” Cooper announced.
There was a loose correlation between foot size and bone structure and height, though it was tenuous as circumstantial evidence in court. Still, the size suggested that Geneva had probably been right in her assessment that the man was around six feet tall.
“What about a brand?”
Cooper ran the image through the department’s shoe-tread database and came up with a match. “Bass-brand shoes, walkers. At least three years old. They discontinued this model that year.”
Rhyme said, “The tread wear tells us he has a slightly turned out right foot, but
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