Dellray had alluded to, since he’d taken the time to pick up the spent shell casings from the balcony; automatics eject the used brass.
Unfortunately the bullets were too shattered to reveal anything about the lands and grooves — the rifling in the barrel — which could in turn help identify the type of pistol the killer had used. The medical examiner might find some intact slugs during the autopsy, but Rhyme doubted it; bone will easily shatter fragile bullets like these.
“Friction ridges?” The technical term for fingerprints.
“Zip. Some latex glove marks on the window. Looks like he wiped some dirt away to get a better shot.”
Rhyme grunted in frustration. “Shoe tread marks?”
“None on the balcony. And in the garden at the foot of the rope? He obliterated his prints before he left.”
The grappling hook was a CMI brand with epoxy-coated tines. They’d been wrapped in strips of gray and blue flannel, cut, as Sachs speculated, from an old shirt — no identifying label, of course.
The knotted rope was Mil-Spec 550 chute cord, black, with a nylon braided shroud over seven inner lines.
Cooper, who’d gone online to get a profile of the rope, looked up from the computer and reported, “Sold all over the country. And it’s cheap. He’d’ve paid cash for it.”
It was far better to have expensive evidence, bought with traceable credit cards.
Sachs handed a small plastic envelope to Mel Cooper. “I found this near the grappling hook.”
“What is it?” he asked, looking at the small fleck inside.
“Lint, I think. Might be from his pockets. I figured he pulled out his weapon as soon as he climbed over the railing.”
“I’ll burn a sample,” Cooper said and turned to a large machine sitting in the corner of the lab, switching it on.
“How about trace?” Rhyme asked.
“Nothing in the garden or the wall he scaled to get into the backyard. On the balcony, we’ve got a few things. Dirt from the garden. Then sand and some other dirt that doesn’t match what’s in the garden or the planters. A bit of rubber — maybe from the sole of a boot or shoe. Two hairs — black and curly. No bulb attached.”
This meant that there could be no DNA analysis; you need the root of the hair for that. Still, the strands had most likely come from the killer. Ron Larkin had pure gray hair and his wife was a redhead.
Mel Cooper looked up from the computer screen of the gas chromatograph mass spectrometer, which had run an analysis of the lint. “He’s a bodybuilder, I’d guess. Dianabol. Steroid used by athletes.”
“What kind of sports?” Rhyme asked.
“You’re asking the wrong person, Lincoln. I don’t do a performance-enhanced foxtrot or waltz. But if he’s got traces in his pocket lint I think it’s safe to say he’s serious about it.”
“And then this…” Sachs held up another plastic bag. At first glance, it appeared empty. But with his magnifying glasses on, Cooper found and extracted a small brown fiber. He held it up for Rhyme to see.
“Good catch, Sachs,” Rhyme said, straining his head closer. “Nothing gets by you. What is it?”
Cooper put the fiber under an optical stereo microscope and bent over the twin eyepieces. He then turned to a computer and typed with lightning-fast fingers. “I think…” He looked back to the microscope. “It’s coir fiber.”
“Which is?”
“I’m finding out.” Cooper read for a moment then reported: “Used for ropes mostly. Also rugs, runners, coasters, decorative nicknacks.”
“But not the rope he rode in on?” Rhyme asked.
“No. That’s pure nylon. This is something else. Coir comes from coconut. The biggest producers are in Malaysia, Indonesia and Africa.”
“Doesn’t exactly point directly to his front door now, does it? What else do we have?”
“That’s it.”
“Check the sand and dirt. GC ’em.”
A gas chromatograph test revealed that the trace contained significant levels of diesel fuel and saltwater.
“But a special kind of fuel,” he said, reading the screen of the nearby computer. “It’s got microbiocides in it. With the saltwater that means its probably marine fuel. Diesel fuel in ships often gets contaminated with microorganisms. The manufacturers put in an additive to prevent that.”
Sachs said, “So, he’s got a boat. Or lives near a dock.”
“Or came ashore by boat,” Rhyme said. Vessels were still the most untraceable way to get into the country on the Eastern Seaboard — and also one of the best ways to avoid roadblocks and surveillance if you wanted to travel around the New York area.
“Let’s add it all to a chart. Thom! If you’d be… Thom?”
“Yes?” The aide walked into the parlor. Like Sachs and Cooper he was wearing gloves but his were yellow and had the name
“Could you jot down our findings to date?” Rhyme nodded toward the whiteboard and Thom stripped off the gloves and wrote what his boss dictated.
RONALD LARKIN HOMICIDE
• Coir fiber.
• Dirt from garden below the balcony.
• Dark hairs, curly. No bulb attached.
• Bit of rubber, black, possibly from sole of shoe.
• Dirt and sand with traces of marine diesel fuel, saltwater.
• No friction ridges, tread marks, tool marks.
• Lint containing traces of Dianabol steroid. Athlete?
• .32 caliber automatic, sound suppressor, fragmentation bullets.
• CMI grappling hook, wrapped in strips of old flannel shirt.
• Mil-Spec 550 rope, knotted. Black.
Suspect:
• U.S. citizen, other passports?
• trained in Europe.
• mercenary with African, Middle East connections.
• no motive.
• high fee.
• employer unknown.
Rhyme scanned the list. His eyes fixed on one item.
“The rope,” Rhyme said.
“Well… “Sachs looked at Cooper. “I thought—”
“I
Sachs shook her head. “I give.”
“The knots. They’ve been compressed ever since he tied them.”
Cooper said, “Still don’t get it, Lincoln.”
He smiled. “Look at them like little surprise packages of evidence. I wonder what’s inside, don’t you? Let’s open them up.”
“You mean me, right?” Cooper said.
“I’d love to help, Mel. But…” Rhyme gave a smile.
The tech picked up the rope in his gloved hands. He started to untie a knot. “Like iron.”
