Predator ks-14

by Patricia Cornwell

  What that produced was one visible print, a left thumbprint preserved in hard, whitish glue. He lifted it with black gel lifter, then photographed it.

  “The gang’s all here,” he is saying to Scarpetta over speakerphone. “Who wants to start?” he asks the people assembled around the examination table. “Randy?”

  DNA scientist Randy is an odd little man with a big nose and a lazy eye. Matthew has never liked him much, and is reminded why the instant Randy starts to talk.

  “Well what I was given were three potential sources of DNA,” Randy says in his typically pedantic way. “Two gloves and two earprints.”

  “That’s four,” Scarpetta’s voice enters the room.

  “Yes sir, I meant four. The hope, of course, was to get DNA from the outside of the one glove, and primarily that meant from the dried blood, and perhaps DNA from the inside of both gloves. I already got DNA from the earprints,” he reminds everybody, “which I managed to swab nondestructively by avoiding what might be considered individual variations or potentially characteristic features such as the inferior extension of the anthelix. As you know, we ran that profile in CODIS and came back empty-handed, but what we just found out is the DNA from the earprint matches the DNA inside one of the gloves.”

  “Just one?” Scarpetta’s voice asks.

  “The bloody one. I didn’t get anything off the other glove. I’m not sure it was ever worn.”

  “That’s peculiar,” Scarpetta’s puzzled voice says.

  “Of course, Matthew assisted because I’m not really up on ear anatomy, and prints of any type are his department more than mine,” Randy adds, as if it matters. “As I’ve just pointed out, we got the DNA from the earprints, specifically from the areas of the helix and the lobe. And it’s obviously from the same person who was wearing one of the gloves, so I suppose you could conjecture that whoever pressed their ear against the glass at the house where those people disappeared was the same individual who murdered Daggie Simister. Or at least was wearing at least one latex glove at her crime scene.”

  “How many times did you sharpen your damn pencil while you did all that?” Marino whispers.

  “What’s that?”

  “Wouldn’t want you to leave out even one fascinating little detail,” Marino says quietly, so Scarpetta can’t hear. “I bet you count the cracks in the sidewalk and set your timer when you have sex.”

  “Randy, please continue,” Scarpetta says. “And nothing in CODIS. That’s a shame.”

  He goes on in his long-winded, convoluted way to confirm yet again that a search of the Combined DNA Index system database known as CODIS was unsuccessful. Whoever left the DNA isn’t in the database, possibly suggesting that the person has never been arrested.

  “It also came up empty-handed with DNA from blood found in that beach shop in Las Olas. But some of those samples aren’t blood,” Randy says to the black telephone on the counter. “I don’t know what it is. Something that caused a false positive. Lucy mentioned the possibility it might be copper. She thinks what might be reacting to luminol is the fungicide that’s used down here to prevent the canker. You know, copper sprays.”

  “Based on?” Joe asks, and he’s another staff member Matthew can’t stand.

  “There was a lot of copper at the Simister scene, inside and out.”

  “Which samples, specifically, were human blood at Beach Bums?” Scarpetta’s voice asks.

  “The bathroom. Samples from the storage-area floor aren’t blood. May be copper. Also the trace from the station wagon. The carpet in the front seat driver’s side that reacted to luminol. Also not blood. Another false positive. Again, could be copper.”

  “Phil? You around?”

  “Right here,” Phil, the trace evidence examiner, says.

  “I’m really sorry about this,” Scarpetta’s voice then says and she sounds like she means it. “I want the labs in overdrive.”

  “I thought we already were. About to over-torque, in fact.” Joe couldn’t keep his mouth shut if he were drowning.

  “All biological samples that haven’t already been analyzed, I want them analyzed ASAP,” Scarpetta’s voice says and it’s sounding more adamant. “Including any potential sources of DNA taken from the house inHollywood, the one where the two boys and two women disappeared. Everything in CODIS. We’re going to treat everybody as if they’re dead.”

  The scientists, Joe and Marino look at each other. They’ve never heard Scarpetta say anything quite like that.

  “Now that’s optimism for you,” Joe remarks.

  “Phil, how about running the carpet sweepings, the trace from the Simister case and trace from the station wagon-trace from everything-through SEM-EDS,” Scarpetta’s voice says. “Let’s see if in fact it’s copper.”

  “It must be everywhere down here.”

  “No, it’s not,” Scarpetta’s voice says. “Not everybody uses it. Not everybody has citrus trees. But so far in the cases we’re dealing with, that is a common denominator.”

  “What about the beach shop? I wouldn’t think there are citrus trees around there.”

  “You’re right. Good point.”

  “Then let’s just say some of that trace is positive for copper…”

  “That will be significant,” Scarpetta’s voice says. “We have to ask why. Who tracked it into the storeroom. Who tracked it into the station wagon and now we’re going to have to go back to the house where the people disappeared, look for copper in there, too. Anything interesting about the red paint-like substance we found on the floor, the chunks of concrete we brought in?”

  “Alcohol-based, henna pigment, definitely not what you see in topcoats, wall paints,” Phil replies.

  “What about temporary tattoo or bodypaints?”

  “Certainly could be, but if it’s alcohol-based, we wouldn’t detect that. The ethanol or isopropanol would have evaporated by now.”

  “Interesting it would be back there, and appears to have been there for a while. Someone keep Lucy up on what we’re talking about. Where is she?”

  “Don’t know,” Marino says.

  “We need the DNA of Florrie Quincy and her daughter, Helen,” Scarpetta’s voice then says. “See if it’s their blood in the beach shop. Beach Bums.”

  “Single-donor blood in the bathroom,” Randy says. “Definitely not the blood of two people, and if there were, we could certainly tell if the two people were related. For instance, mother and daughter.”

  “I’ll get on it,” Phil says. “I mean the SEM part.”

  “Just how many cases are there?” Joe says. “And are you assuming they’re all connected? Is that why we’re supposed to treat everybody as if they’re dead?”

  “I’m not assuming everything’s connected,” Scarpetta’s voice answers. “But I’m worried it might be.”

  “Like I was saying about the Simister case, no dice with CODIS,” Randy resumes, “but the DNA from theinside of the bloody latex glove is different from the DNA of the blood on theoutside of it. Which isn’t surprising. The inside would have skin cells that were shed by the wearer. The blood on the outside would be from someone else, at least that’s what you might suppose,” he explains, and Matthew wonders how the man can be married.

  Who could live with him? Who could stand it?

  “Is the blood Daggie Simister’s?” Scarpetta bluntly asks.

  Like everybody else, she logically would suspect that the bloody glove found at the scene of Daggie Simister’s homicide would, no doubt, be covered with her blood.

  “Well, actually, the blood from the carpet is.”

  “He means the carpet by the window where we think she might have been hit on the head,” Joe says.

  “I’m talking about the blood on the glove. Is it Daggie Simister’s?” Scarpetta’s voice asks, and it is beginning to sound strained.

  “No sir.”

  Randy says “no sir” to everyone, regardless of the person’s gender.

  “That’s definitely
not her blood on that glove, which is curious,” Randy tediously explains. “Now, you would expect it to be her blood.”

  Oh God. Here he goes again, Matthew thinks.

  “Here are these latex gloves at the crime scene, and the blood’s on the outside of one but not on the inside.”

  “Why would blood be on the inside?” Marino scowls at him.

  “It’s not.”

  “I know it’s not, but why would it be?”

  “Well, for instance, if the perpetrator injured himself somehow, bled inside the glove, perhaps cut himself while he was wearing gloves. I’ve seen it before in stabbings. The perpetrator has on gloves, nicks himself and gets his blood inside a glove, which clearly didn’t happen in this case. Which brings me to the important question. If the blood is the killer’s in the Simister case, why would it be all over the outside of a glove? And why is that DNA different from the DNA I got from inside that same glove?”

  “I think we’re clear on the question,” Matthew says, because he can stand Randy’s supercilious sidewinding monologue maybe one minute longer.

  After a minute, Matthew will have to walk out of the lab, pretend he has to visit the men’s room, run an errand, eat poison.

  “The outside of the glove is where you’d expect blood to be if the perpetrator touched something bloody or someone bloody,” Randy says.

  They all know the answer, but Scarpetta doesn’t. Randy’s building up to the crescendo, playing it out, and no one can steal his thunder. DNA is his department.

  “Randy?” Scarpetta’s voice sounds.

  It’s the voice she uses when Randy is confusing and annoying everyone, including her.

  “Do we know whose blood it is on that glove?” she asks him.

  “Yes sir we do. Well, almost. It’s either Johnny Swift’s or his brother, Laurel. They’re identical twins,” he finally says it. “So their DNA’s the same.”

  “You still there?” Matthew asks Scarpetta after a long silence.

  Then Marino comments, “I just don’t see how it could beLaurel’s blood. He’s not the one whose blood was all over the living room when his brother’s head was blown off.”

  “Well, I forone amtotally baffled,” Mary, the toxicologist, joins in. “Johnny Swift got shot way back in November, so how does his blood suddenly show up some ten weeks later in a case that doesn’t appear to be related?”

  “How does his blood show up at the Daggie Simister murder scene at all?” Scarpetta’s voice fills the room.

  “It’s certainly within the realm of possibility that the gloves were planted,” Joe says.

  “Maybe you should state the damn obvious,” Marino snipes at him. “And what’s obvious is whoever blew that poor old lady’s head off is telling us he had something to do with Johnny Swift’s death. Someone’s fucking with us.”

  “He’d had recent surgery…”

  “Bullshit,” Marino snaps. “No way the damn gloves came from some carpal tunnel surgery. Jesus Christ. You’re looking for unicorns when there’s horses everywhere.”

  “What?”

  “I think the damn message is pretty damn clear,” Marino says again, pacing the lab, talking loudly, his face bright red. “Whoever killed her is saying he also killed Johnny Swift. And the gloves are to fuck with us.”

  “We can’t assume it’s notLaurel’s blood,” Scarpetta’s voice says.

  “If it is, that certainly might explain things,” Randy says.

  “It don’t explain shit. IfLaurelkilled Mrs. Simister, why the hell would he leave his DNA in the sink?” Marino retorts.

  “Maybe it’s Johnny Swift’s blood, then.”

  “Shut up, Randy. You’re curling my hair.”

  “You don’t have any hair, Pete,” Randy says seriously.

  “You want to tell me how the hell we’re going to figure out whether it’s Laurel or Johnny, since their DNA’s supposedly the same?” Marino exclaims. “This is so fucked up it isn’t even funny.”

  He looks accusingly at Randy, then at Matthew, then back at Randy. “You sure you didn’t get something mixed up when you did your tests?”

  He never cares who hears him when he impeaches a person’s credibility or is just plain nasty.

  “Like maybe one or the other of you got swabs mixed up or something,” Marino says.

  “No sir. Absolutely not,” Randy replies. “Matthew received the samples and I did the extractions and analyses and ran them in CODIS. There was no break in the chain of evidence, and Johnny Swift’s DNA is in the database, because everybody who’s autopsied these days goes in there, meaning Johnny Swift’s DNA was entered into CODIS last November. I believe I’m right about that? You still there?” he asks Scarpetta.

  “I’m still here…” she starts to say.

  “The policy as of last year is to enter all cases, whether it’s suicide, accident, homicide or even a natural death,” Joe pontificates, interrupting her as usual. “Just because someone’s a victim or his death is unrelated to crime doesn’t mean he might not have been involved in criminal activity at some point in his life. I’m assuming we’re sure the Swift brothers are identical twins.”

  “Look alike, talk alike, dress alike, fuck alike,” Marino whispers to him.

  “Marino?” Scarpetta’s voice resumes its presence. “Did the police submit a sample of Laurel Swift’s DNA at the time of his brother’s death?”

  “Nope. No reason to.”

  “Not even for exclusionary purposes?” Joe asks.

  “Excluded from what? DNA wasn’t relevant,” Marino says to him. “Laurel’s DNA would be all over that house. He lives there.”

  “It would be good if we could testLaurel’s DNA,” Scarpetta’s voice says. “Matthew? Did you use any chemicals on the bloody glove, the one from Daggie Simister’s scene? Anything that might cause a problem if we want to do further testing?”

  “Superglue,” Matthew says. “And by the way, I ran the one print I got. Nothing. Nothing in AFIS. Couldn’t match it up with the partial from the seat belt in the station wagon. Wasn’t enough minutiae.”

  “Mary? I want you to get samples of the blood on that glove.”

  “Superglue shouldn’t have made a difference since it reacts to the amino acids in skin oils, sweat, and not blood,” Joe feels compelled to explain. “We should be all right.”

  “I’ll be glad to get her a sample,” Matthew says to the black telephone. “There’s plenty of bloody latex left.”

  “Marino?” Scarpetta’s voice says. “I want you to go to the ME’s office and get Johnny Swift’s case file.”

  “I can do it,” Joe quickly says.

  “Marino?” she reiterates. “Inside the file should be his DNA cards. We always make more than one.”

  “You touch that case file, your teeth will end up in the back of your head,” Marino whispers to Joe.

  “You can place one of the cards inside an evidence envelope and receipt it to Mary,” Scarpetta’s voice is saying. “And Mary? Take a sample of the blood from that card and a sample from the glove.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following you,” Mary says, and Matthew doesn’t blame her.

  He can’t imagine what a toxicologist might be able to do with a drop of dried blood from a DNA card and an equally small amount of dried blood from a glove.

  “Maybe you mean Randy,” Mary suggests. “Are you talking about more DNA testing?”

  “No,” she says. “I want you to check for lithium.”

  Scarpetta rinsesa whole young chicken in the sink. Her Treo is in her pocket, the earpiece in her ear.

  “Because his blood wouldn’t have been screened for it at the time,” she is saying to Marino over the phone. “If he was still taking lithium, apparently his brother never bothered telling the police.”

  “They should have found a prescription bottle at the scene,” Marino replies. “What’s that noise?”

  “I’m opening cans of chicken broth. Too bad you’re not here. I don’t know
why they didn’t find any lithium,” she says, emptying the cans into a copper pot. “But it’s possible his brother collected any prescription bottles so the police wouldn’t find them.”

  “Why? It’s not like it’s cocaine or something.”

  “Johnny Swift was a prominent neurologist. He might not have wanted people to know he had a psychiatric disorder.”

  “I sure as hell wouldn’t want someone with mood swings screwing with my brain, now that you mention it.”

  She chops onions. “In reality, his bipolar disorder probably had no effect at all on his skills as a physician, but there are plenty of ignorant people in the world. Again, it’s possibleLaureldidn’t want the police or anybody else to know about his brother’s problem.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. If what he said is true, he ran from the house right after he found the body. Doesn’t sound to me like he wandered around collecting pill bottles.”

  “I guess you’re going to have to ask him.”

  “As soon as we get the lithium results. Rather go in when I know what’s what. And right now we’ve got a bigger problem,” he says.

  “I’m not sure how our problems could get much bigger,” she says, cutting up the chicken.

  “It’s about the shotgun shell,” Marino says. “The one NIBIN got a hit on up there in theWalden Pondcase.”

  “I didn’t want to say anything about it in front of everybody else,” Marino explains over the phone. “Someone on the inside, has to be. No other explanation.”

  He sits at his office desk, the door shut and locked.

  “Here’s what happened,” he goes on. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of everybody else, but earlier this morning I had a little chat with a buddy of mine at Hollywood PD who’s in charge of the evidence room. So he checked the computer. It took all of five minutes for him to access the info on the shotgun used in that convenience-store robbery-homicide from two years back. And guess where the shotgun’s supposed to be, Doc. Are you sitting down?”