'This is a tremendous opportunity,' Chadzynski said. 'You'll be the first forensic technician in the history of the department to be placed in an investigative position.'
'Yes, I realize that.'
'So why do I sense some hesitation?'
'If you really felt this way, why did you reject my application?'
'After your… encounter with Traveler, the department offered you counselling and you refused it.'
'I didn't see the need.'
'And why is that?'
Darby folded her hands on her lap. She didn't answer.
'You survived a traumatic event,' Chadzynski said. 'Some people think -'
'With all due respect, Commissioner, I don't care what other people think.'
Chadzynski's smile was polite. 'You caught Traveler. He was on the run for three decades. The FBI's top profilers couldn't find him, but you did. I could use your experience here.'
'I'll need access to all the information – murder book, autopsy records and pictures.'
'Tim will have copies delivered to you today.'
'Have you discussed this with him?'
'I have. His ego is bruised, but he'll be fine. You know how men are.' A conspiratorial grin now. 'I also think these two cases could benefit from a fresh look at the evidence, what little of it we have. Who would you recommend from the lab?'
'Coop and Keith Woodbury,' Darby said.
'Coop… Do you mean Jackson Cooper, your lab partner?'
'Yes.' Jackson Cooper, known around the station as 'Coop', was, in addition to being Darby's friend, the closest thing she had to family since her mother died. 'Coop was involved with the Traveler case. I could use his help here.'
'I don't know Mr Woodbury.'
'Keith's only been with us for a few months – he's our new forensic chemist.' Darby had worked with him on a recent shooting case. Woodbury was thorough and, without a doubt, one of the brightest people she had met.
'Then let's bring them in so I can welcome them aboard,' Chadzynski said.
'Coop's off today, and Keith's at a seminar in Washington.'
'Then I'll let you deliver the good news.' Chadzynski, using a gold fountain pen, wrote on the back of a business card.
'I may need additional lab resources,' Darby said.
'You'll have them. I discussed the matter with Leland. You have his full support.'
Chadzynski slid the card across the desk. 'The top number is my cell phone. Tim's numbers are below it. He's expecting your phone call. Do you have any other questions for me?'
'Not at the moment.'
'Then I'll let you get to it.' The commissioner picked up the phone and started dialling.
2
Darby left voicemail messages for Coop and Keith Woodbury. Tim Bryson didn't answer at any of his numbers. She left a message at his cell phone number asking him to call and then checked out Emma Hale's forensic file.
From the evidence locker, Darby checked out Emma Hale's clothing and carried the sealed evidence bags to the back benches in Serology, where she would have plenty of space to spread out.
Darby placed the file on the bench but didn't read it. She wanted to examine the clothing herself and see if her analysis matched the report compiled by Paula Washow, the forensic technician assigned to CSU.
Emma Hale's clothes, caked with dried mud and algae and stained with blood, were ripped and torn in several places from the weeks she spent bumping up against rocks, sticks and whatever debris lined the bed of the Charles River.
Lying on the sheets of butcher paper were a Dolce amp; Gabbana cocktail dress, size 2; a camel-hair winter topcoat by Prada; and a single pair of Jimmy Choo high-heel pumps, size 6, the heel broken. The lacy black thong and matching bra were imprinted with the name of a high-end lingerie boutique on Newbury Street – Boston's equivalent to Rodeo Drive.
Darby owned only one designer treasure: a heavily discounted black Diane von Furstenberg dress she'd accidentally discovered on a clearance rack. Emma Hale had spent an extraordinary amount on this outfit – the lingerie alone was a few hundred dollars.
The Harvard student's body was discovered by a local pit bull off its leash, buried underneath two inches of frozen snow. Hale was brought to the morgue and photographed. Darby studied the photos.
Hale's coat belt was tied and knotted around her waist. One of her shoes was missing, the other hanging on to her ankle by a single strap. Her hands and feet, Darby noticed, weren't bound.
Dried bloodstains, diluted from Emma Hale's time in the water, were visible on the back of the coat. Blood had soaked through the coat's fabric. The flow pattern suggested that, after she was shot in the back of the head, Emma had lain on her back for a period of time, the blood seeping through her jacket and onto her dress. The drag patterns indicated she had been moved.
Had Emma simply landed on her back after she was shot, or had her killer rolled her over to allow her to bleed out before moving her? With no crime scene to analyse, no blood splatter patterns to interpret, it was impossible to know. Either Emma was shot near the dump site – maybe even at the dump site – or she was shot at another location and then transported to the place where she was dropped into the water.
If Emma had been shot outside, how had her abductor managed to keep her calm? Did he tell Emma she was going home and make her change into her old clothing? Wearing her old clothes, Emma would feel comfortable. She might take him at his word. Did he blindfold her? If Emma wasn't gagged, she might scream. If she wasn't bound, she might run. Someone might hear the gunshot and call the police. Someone might see him and call the police. If Emma was killed outside, in a public spot, and then dragged or rolled off something like a bridge, blood would be left behind. Someone might stumble across it and decide to call the police.
And when did her killer sew the statue in her dress pocket? Did he do it when she was alive or after she was dead? Would he take the time to sew the pocket shut outside where he might be seen? Doubtful.
The more likely scenario was that Emma Hale was killed at the place where she had been kept for several months. Her abductor would have privacy and control over his environment. After she was dead, he could take his time sewing the statue inside the dress pocket. He could let her bleed out. Then he could move her body to his vehicle and drive to the dump site. Darby wondered if Emma's body had been wrapped in something like a plastic tarp.
Darby took her own set of pictures of the clothes and then, using the light magnifier, began the long, painstaking hunt across the fabrics looking for any overlooked evidence. Small, rectangular-shaped cuts were visible on the clothes – the places where Washow had collected bloodstain samples for DNA testing.
As she worked, her thoughts kept drifting to Judith Chen's parents. They had flown up from Pennsylvania and for the past three months lived in a shabby hotel waiting for the phone to ring with news of their youngest daughter. The Boston press followed their every move.
Darby finished her initial review shortly before 11:30 a.m. Next, she examined the clothes using various light sources and checked the blood patterns and tears under a stereo microscope. She found no other trace evidence – no fibres, threads, hairs, glass or any biological fluids.
From the last evidence bag, she removed the five-inch ceramic statue of the Virgin Mary. The Blessed Mother, dressed in a blue robe, stood in the classic pose Darby remembered from church and catechism books – hands outstretched in a loving embrace and head titled slightly to the side as she looked downward, the woman's expression frozen with eternal sorrow.
The man who shot Emma held this same statue in his hands. He placed it in her dress pocket and then sewed
