Haycroft looked up as he heard Lefebvre approach, and seeing him, smiled. “Hello, Phil. Decided to take a little time away from the boy and help us solve murders, eh?”
“The thought has occurred to me, Paul,” Lefebvre said. “But actually, I need to see if I can come up with anything more on the Randolph case.”
Haycroft’s brows rose. “You don’t think we have enough to prosecute Dane?”
Lefebvre shrugged. “I would like to feel satisfied that we are doing our best to make sure the man who attacked Seth and his family is punished.”
Haycroft sighed. “I’m relieved to find someone else who feels that way. When we put Mr. Dane away, I’d like it to be for good. I suspect he is more clever than many of us believe. In fact — well, let me show you something.”
He put the photos away and rose from his desk. Lefebvre followed him as he went to the property room and signed for the box for the Randolph case. He took Lefebvre to a microscope with a video camera and monitor attached to it. Haycroft sat at the microscope itself and motioned Lefebvre to sit in front of the monitor. He found a labeled slide and set it up for viewing. After some minor adjustments, he said, “There. I’ve got it at about four hundred and fifty X.”
On the monitor, Lefebvre saw two thin parallel lines with a row of dark marks between them, the darker row looking somewhat like beads on an invisible string. “Hair or fiber?”
“Hair,” Haycroft said. “From the inside of the shoes — the bloodstained shoes we found on Dane’s boat.”
“Inside of the shoes, but not from the outside?”
“Right. This is just a sample, of course. Several of these were recovered from inside the shoes.”
“You found these hairs?”
He shook his head. “No, Dale Britton had the good sense to look for hair and fiber evidence. He was on the mobile crime scene unit that day, thank God. We found these inside the shoes. One of our trace evidence technicians did the identification work.”
“So is this hair Dane’s?”
Haycroft laughed. “Only if he is a cat.”
Lefebvre looked away from the monitor. “A cat?”
“Yes, among other indicators, that medulla pattern — the pattern of the material in the middle of the hair shaft — tells us this is from a cat.” He pointed to the row of dark marks on the monitor.
Lefebvre stared at Haycroft in disbelief. Reading his look, Haycroft said, “Yes, once we had identified it as cat hair, I asked Vince Adams if Dane had a cat. And he told me what I suspect you also know.”
“That Dane is highly allergic to cats.” Lefebvre paused, then asked, “Did Detective Adams have anything more to say about this?”
“Yes. He told me to keep my mouth shut.”
Lefebvre frowned. “But—”
“I told Al about it anyway.”
“Good. And what did Dr. Larson say?” Lefebvre was sure the lab’s director would be concerned.
“Al had two theories. One was that Dale or Vince — who found the shoes — contaminated the evidence. They both own cats, you see. For that matter, so does Dr. Larson. But he didn’t process the scene. Dale and Vince were there.”
“Locard’s Exchange,” Lefebvre said. “‘Whenever two objects come in contact with one another, there is always a transfer of material across the contact boundaries.’”
“Yes,” Haycroft said, pleased that Lefebvre could quote this tenet of forensic science.
“Because of static electricity in his clothing, Vince Adams picks up cat hairs on, say, his cuffs. He later touches the shoes on the Cygnet and the hairs transfer to them.”
“Something like that, yes. When I asked how he handled the shoes, he admitted that in order to preserve the blood evidence on the outside, he had carefully placed his hands on the inside of the shoes. He was wearing gloves, but still, he could have transferred hairs to the shoes.”
“You said Dr. Larson had two theories.”
“The second is that Dane intentionally placed cat hairs in the shoes to eliminate himself as a suspect.”
“A little far-fetched?”
“If it were anyone but Dane, I would think so.”
“Yes, I see what you mean.”
“In any case, don’t let the boss know I talked to you about this, all right? Or anyone else, for the time being. Al’s actually going to try to match the hairs up to Dale’s or Vince’s cat, but both of them are touchy about it.” Haycroft smiled. “Dale had to let Al comb his cat, of course — Al’s his boss. But he resented the implication that he was sloppy on an important case. Dale’s a little — well, lacking in physical coordination at times. He’ll trip over his own two feet. But when he’s concentrating on a case, that clumsiness disappears. He’s never careless when it comes to handling evidence.”
“And Vince?”
“Oh, Vince was so mad about it, he told Al he’ll have to get a court order to come anywhere near his cat.”
“Al?”
Dr. Al Larson, who had been staring into a microscope, gave a start. He looked up at Phil and said, “Oh! How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long. Can you spare a few moments?”
He hesitated slightly, then smiled and said, “Sure. I could use a break. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
They moved to a small break room, aglow with the light from a wall of vending machines. Lefebvre declined Larson’s offer of coffee, then waited while the other man got a cup for himself. As they sat down at one of the empty tables, Larson said, “What’s on your mind, Phil?”
“Trent Randolph.”
Larson’s smile disappeared. “I liked Trent Randolph very much,” he said quietly. “I can’t tell you how difficult it has been for me to work on this case. He was brilliant. And to have a scientist on the commission… a terrible loss.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Personally? Not well. After he was appointed to the commission, he spent a great deal of time here, though. So he was well acquainted with the lab and everyone who worked in it — he reviewed the whole lab and had wonderful suggestions — and resources. He even donated equipment.”
“Didn’t you resent that a little? Not the donations, but having some newcomer from the commission reviewing your work?”
Larson pushed the coffee cup away. “Not in the least. I invited him to do so. I knew what Michael Pickens was trying to do to this lab.”
“Commissioner Pickens wanted it shut down.”
“Yes,” he said. “Move everything to the county. I saw the chance to have an ally, someone who would be able to give an informed and respected opinion to the commission.”
“And Randolph was that ally?”
“Absolutely. Pickens is no scientist. Randolph was able to silence his objections quite easily. And he was able to help us acquire funding that we’ve needed for years. Until Randolph came on the scene, Pickens always made sure we were shortchanged. He kept us from obtaining new equipment, then complained that we weren’t able to do the job because our equipment was outdated.”
“Politicians,” Lefebvre said.
“Exactly! But Randolph outmaneuvered him. He got O’Connor from the Express — you know him?”
“I’ve met him once or twice,” Lefebvre said.
“Trent Randolph got that old man in our corner, and between the two of them, they put Pickens on the defensive for once. So the recommendations for the budget looked a little different than they had for the last few years — and we got our funding.”
“Is that funding secure without Randolph on the commission?”
Larson moved the paper coffee cup to the center of the small table, the coffee still untouched. “We’ll be fine this year, but who knows what will happen without Trent?” He frowned, then added, “I’ve only talked to you about the funding, but he was — he was more than that to us. He was a colleague. And a man of integrity.”