“Neither do we. Even after we went over the area with leucocrystal violet.”
Which confirmed my feeling that the young lady was killed somewhere else. And cleaned up afterward. “Firearms?”
“No indication.”
“Forensic entomology? Botany? Zoology?”
“Possible they’ll turn up something. But so far, no.”
“Hair and fiber evidence?”
“Nope.”
“How could the guy bring a corpse all the way out here without leaving something behind?”
“By being very careful.”
And that in itself was telling.
I searched for, spotted, then approached Crenshaw. He was crouched on the ground, going over the metal floor of the plane with a small brush. Beside him was his fingerprint examiner’s field kit, a five-level tool chest filled with everything he might possibly need-powders, lifting tape, ink, flashlights, petri dishes, baggies, tweezers, distilled water, and a lot of other stuff I couldn’t identify. “How’s it hanging, Tony? Seen any exciting friction ridges lately?”
He smiled a little. “Are you working this case?”
“Strange but true. Got any identifiable prints?”
“Not yet, but I’m still working. I’ll have to take some of this stuff back to the lab before I can be sure.”
“I would’ve thought the killer would get his paws all over the place, dragging a heavy corpse into the plane.”
“I would, too, but he didn’t. We found nothing inside the plane-except for one little smudge. On the body.” He pointed down at the corpse with which I was now altogether too familiar. “Probably touched her before he transported her. Possibly even before he killed her. Maybe when he undressed her.”
“Could the print belong to someone other than the killer?”
“Anything’s possible, but I got it off her back, so it isn’t her own. If she’s been captive for a while, it almost has to be the killer’s.”
“What is it? Index finger?”
“Unfortunately, it doesn’t appear to be a finger at all. I can get a print off any section of volar skin-fingers, soles, lips, ears. This is a palm. It could be worse-some courts won’t admit non-hand or -foot prints. But it could be better, too. Although palms are just as unique in pattern as fingerprints, no one is databasing them.”
“So even if your print pays out, we won’t be able to run it through VICAP.”
“Right. We might use it to verify a suspect-once you have one. But that’s it.”
I nodded. “Keep looking.”
“Will do.”
I wandered around a bit longer till I found the impression examiner, a woman about my age named Amelia Escavez. She’d joined the force maybe six months before.
“Whattaya got?” I asked, crouching at her side. God, this felt good. Back in the swing of things. Doing what I did well.
“Tire print.” She tended to be succinct when she spoke to me. Perhaps if I’d ever asked her out to dinner, made a friend of her, she’d be more forthcoming. But of course I hadn’t.
“The killer?”
“Possible. He must’ve used some kind of vehicle to get the body to that plane. Since he couldn’t get through the locked gate, he presumably needed something sturdy enough to make it down that steep off-road slope. And the airport officials tell us none of their personnel has had any reason to be out here recently. So…”
She reached into her field kit, took out a fixative, and began stabilizing the impression. She’d use dental-stone casting or some similar material to transfer the print. I noted that her kit was even bigger than Fielder’s. She seemed ready for anything we might throw at her-evidence vacuum, envelopes, bottles, boxes, cutting implements, disposable filters, glass slides, measuring tools, bindle paper, lifters, acetate covers, lifting tape, even an infrared spectrophotometer. Left the electron microscope in the car, I supposed. Looked cool, though, I had to admit. Maybe I should get a kit. What would I put in mine? Rorschach ink blots, multiphasic personality tests, a copy of The Silence of the Lambs…
“It’s a small print,” she explained. “There was a spot of oil, still somewhat damp, on the pavement. That’s what caught it.”
“Just the one?”
“ ’Fraid so. I looked for a matching opposite-side impression but didn’t get one. This concrete isn’t a very good surface for that sort of thing, absent the oil.”
“Can you identify the tread?”
“I don’t have enough to do it by sight, but once I get it into my computer, I may be able to give you a brand or even make. The FBI has a huge tire tread database.”
“I need anything you can give me now. Can you at least put me in the neighborhood?”
She hesitated. I could see she was reluctant to make an unverified guess that might come back to haunt her if it turned out to be wrong, especially since she didn’t have any reason to trust me. But she did it anyway. Good woman. “Looks like a pickup to me.”
I nodded. Yes, that seemed right. Would make it easier to transport the body, and you could get it down that sharp slope.
“Any footprints?”
“I wish. Sorry, no.”
“You’ll get me a copy of that print?”
“Sure.”
“Lifting material?”
“Thought I’d use overlapping tape affixed to white card stock. Soon as it dries a little more.”
“Sounds like a winner. Thanks.”
I stayed another hour or so, chatting up the techs, the ones who would talk to me, and trying to learn whatever I could. For the most part, I just absorbed. The place, the victim, the whole scenario. Tried to get inside the killer’s head. What was he playing at? What made him do the things he did? I don’t like to admit it, but I was more than a little creeped out. Maybe it was just the effect of being hung over on a body that was already in poor condition, but I couldn’t shake this ominous feeling. I mean, I’ve worked some horrible crimes in my time, but that business with the teeth-who would be capable of that?
At the edge of the crime scene, I saw O’Bannon motioning to me.
“I’m on my way back to HQ,” he explained. “Will I see you there when you finish up here?”
“Sure.”
“I’d like it if you could drop by my house tonight. Maybe around nine-thirty.”
My eyes narrowed a bit. “May I ask why?”
“Well, I’m not coming on to you, if that’s what you’re thinking. Bring a chaperone, if you like.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“I want to review the case. Get your preliminary thoughts. You know the press is going to be all over this case. I want to be ready to tell them something.”
“And it couldn’t wait until tomorrow morning?” I looked him straight in the eyes. “You don’t want to hear my thoughts on the case. You want to make sure I’m not drunk.”
“I’m trying to help you, Susan.”
“You think if I’m alone tonight, I’ll drink. Do you know how offensive, how utterly-”
He cut me off with a harsh glare. “Don’t be stupid, Susan. When people offer you help, take it.”
“I don’t need help!”
“See you at nine-thirty,” he said curtly. He waved to Granger, and together the two of them left the scene.
When I got back to headquarters, I was in for a few surprises. The temporary office set up for me was a desk, an old crappy one, wedged into an alcove just a few feet from the men’s room. This not only guaranteed that I would be constantly bombarded with manly odors, but also ensured that every guy in the building would trip over me at least twice a day.
Fine. Let O’Bannon play his little games. I was going to solve his case.
First thing I did was call that pettifogger of mine and tell him I was gainfully employed.
“So how much are you going to make as an LVPD consultant?” Delacourt asked.
“I’m a little fuzzy on that.”
“Not as much as your previous salary.”
“Probably not.”
“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Man was damn hard to please. “Look, I got you a hearing. Two weeks from yesterday.”
“Two weeks? Why so long?”
“In case you haven’t heard, Susan, the Las Vegas family courts are swamped, and there was no emergency.”