was a practical impossibility.
Except, if a print could be obtained with many “good” points, that could be point classified.
J. Richard Candelle, Philadelphia’s fingerprint expert, had just not been able to detect enough points on the single index finger print he had to offer even a slight chance of matching it with a print in the files.
“Fuck, that’s not good enough,” Harris said, bitterly.
“I will elect not to consider that a personal criticism, and under these circumstances forgive your vulgarity.” Candelle, whose forensic laboratory skills were legendary, was a dignified man, befitting his part-time status as an adjunct professor of chemistry at Temple University.
“It wasn’t a shot at you, Dick, and you know it,” Harris said.
Candelle waited until he saw what he thought was a genuine look of regret on Harris’s face, and then went on:
“I was here all fucking night, Tony. I had two fucking doughnuts for breakfast, my fucking feet hurt, and I have had every fucking white shirt in the Roundhouse in here making sure I was really doing my fucking best.”
Harris looked at him.
“Well, in that case, you fucking overworked old fart, I guess I better buy you some fucking lunch before you fucking expire of starvation, old age, and self-pity right here in the fucking lab.”
“I think that would be an appropriate gesture of your gratitude, ” Candelle replied, smiled, and started to replace his laboratory coat with a sports coat.
Using tweezers, Candelle picked up the crownless visor cap the doer had left behind in the Roy Rogers and replaced it in the plastic evidence bag.
“You want me to hang on to this, Tony?”
“No. Give it to me. Maybe I’ll take it to a psychic.”
Candelle chuckled.
“I really am sorry, Tony,” he said.
Harris punched him affectionately on the arm.
“We both are, Dick,” he said. “What do you feel like eating? ”
They went to DiNic’s in the Reading Terminal Market on Twelfth Street and sat on stools at a counter. Both ordered roast pork sandwiches with sharp provolone cheese and roasted hot peppers and washed them down with beer.
“I hate to reopen a wound,” Candelle said, “but I just had another unpleasant thought.”
“Which is?”
“It’s really a shame Luther Stecker retired.”
“Who’s he?”
“The State Police guy, in Harrisburg. Lieutenant.”
“Oh, yeah. I don’t think he could have done anything you couldn’t,” Harris said. “I hadn’t heard he’d retired.”
Candelle looked at his watch.
“Today,” he said. “I was invited to his retirement party. Tonight. I decided Harrisburg was too far to drive for free beer.”
“What makes you think he could have helped?”
“He’s got a new machine, AFIS. It stands for Automated Fingerprint Identification System.”
“And?”
“It’s supposed to be able to get points off a week-old print on a dry falling leaf in a high wind.”
“You’re serious?”
Candelle nodded.
“Harrisburg, here I come,” Tony said.
“I told you, Stecker’s retiring today.”
“Well, there ought to be somebody else out there who knows how to operate this wonder machine.”
“Tony, if I thought there was, I’d suggest you go out there.”
“Well, won’t the FBI have one?” Harris asked. “As a last desperate move, I’m going to send the goddamn hat to them.”
“They probably have a half-dozen of them. But whether they have anybody who knows how to use one, get all that it is capable of from it, is another question.” He paused, then added, “There’s a question of experience, even art, in this.”
“So we’re dead, huh?”
Candelle shrugged.
“It looks that way. I’m sorry. So what are you going to do now?”
“We’re down to showing the artist’s sketches to everybody again. And we both know that’s not going to work. Everybody in the place saw somebody else.”
“At the risk of repeating myself, Tony, I’m really sorry I couldn’t do more. Maybe the FBI’ll be able to.”
“You’re sure nobody in the State Police could do us any good? Who’s taking Stecker’s place?”
“I met the gentleman,” Candelle said. “He left me with the impression he would have trouble finding his posterior with both hands.”
“Great!”
Harris drove his Crown Victoria to the rear door of the Roundhouse.
“You’re not coming in?” Candelle asked.
“No. I’m going to go somewhere to try to figure out what to tell the Black Buddha,” he said.
“I’ll do that for you, Tony,” Candelle said, “before I go home. I don’t want him calling me at the house to have one more shot at it.”
“ ‘Turn over the stone under the stone’?”
“We’re out of stones on this hat, Tony,” Candelle said. “And I think the Black Buddha’s more likely to accept that from me than you.”
“Good luck!” Harris said. He held out his hand to Candelle. “Thanks a lot, Dick. I really appreciate all the effort.”
“I’m just sorry it didn’t get us anywhere,” Candelle said, nodded, closed the car door, and walked toward the Roundhouse entrance.
Tony started to drive out of the parking lot, but at the last moment pulled into a vacant space, took out his cellular telephone, and punched the key that automatically dialed directory information.
“What city, please?”
“Fuck it,” Tony said, and punched the End key.
He backed out of the parking space, then left the parking lot, wondering what was the best way to get onto Interstate 76 this time of day.
“Jason,” he said, aloud, “if you want the last goddamn stone under the stone turned over, I’ll damned well turn the sonofabitch over.”
Ten minutes later, just as he turned onto I-76 West, his cellular buzzed.
“Harris.”
“Presumably you are aware of Professor Candelle’s-” Lieutenant Jason Washington’s unmistakable dulcet voice said.
“I was there.”
“And what are your plans now?”
“I’m thinking, Jason.”
“And may I inquire about what?”
“No. Not now.”
“May I dare to hope that when you feel comfortable in telling me, you will call?”
“Don’t hold your breath, Jason. This is probably one more blind alley.”
“Sometimes at the end of a blind alley, one finds a stone,” Washington began.
“Thank you for sharing that with me, Lieutenant,” Tony interrupted. “I’ll write it down so that I won’t forget it.”
“Good afternoon, Detective Harris,” Washington said, and the hiss that followed told Harris Washington had
