“What did you tell your people about my coming here?”
Morgan ran his tongue across his lips, his gaze fixed on the dashboard. “Basically, I told them that you’re a former NYPD homicide detective, a very successful one, retired, teaching investigative techniques at the academy. And since most of your police experience was in the city, it would be interesting for you to observe how an upstate department like ours approaches a major crime.”
“That’s what you told them?”
“It’s essentially true.”
“You mean, it’s not totally untrue.”
Morgan shrugged off the distinction. His aptitude for using true statements to create misleading impressions had always been one of his dubious talents. In fact, it was a significant ingredient in Gurney’s mixed feelings about getting involved.
“Okay,” he said, “let’s start with a walk around the perimeter.”
6
Since the evidence team had not yet completed their examination of the site, Gurney and Morgan donned regulation sets of white Tyvek coveralls, shoe covers, and nitrile gloves before entering the restricted area.
Gurney, with Morgan following, began his examination on the right side of the huge house, where a lawn sloped away from daffodil beds toward a line of shrubbery at the edge of the natural woodland beyond. He could hear the chirping of birds and the distant ratatatat of a woodpecker. The morning sun was turning the ground-floor windows of the house into gleaming rectangles of light.
A movement at the bottom of one of the windows caught Gurney’s eye. There was a window box full of red tulips, and he thought they might have swayed in a passing breeze. Then he realized what he’d seen moving was actually inside one of the large glass panes. A black cat on the sill had raised its head and was watching him through narrowed amber eyes.
He moved on, seeing nothing unusual on that side of the house, apart from the fact that it looked more like a grand museum than a private home. The back was equally impressive. That was where the conservatory was appended to the main part of the building. Nearly the full height and width of the house, it consisted of an ornate dome-like structure of glass panels set in a framework of intricate arches. A verdigris patina on the metalwork, along with the overall design, gave it a distinctly Victorian look.
Double lines of yellow police tape extended in a widening pattern from the sides of the conservatory out to the woods at least a hundred yards away, enclosing a broad fan-shaped area of the lawn. Lengths of string were laid out in a crisscross search pattern within the enclosure. Two figures in crime-scene coveralls, heads down, were making their way along the outer edge.
Morgan lifted the tape for Gurney to pass under, then followed him. Gurney saw two other Tyvek-suited individuals just inside the glass door—a short, stocky, ruddy-faced man and a tall, dark-skinned woman, engaged in a discussion. The man’s gestures appeared argumentative.
Morgan gestured for them to come outside.
The man came first. His reddish hair was cut in the prevalent law-enforcement style—shaved on the sides, close-cropped on top. His bull neck made his round, cheeky face look small. He acknowledged Morgan in a terse military style. “Sir.”
The woman followed, looking lean and athletic even in her coveralls. Her expression was mildly questioning.
Morgan introduced them. “Brad Slovak, Kyra Barstow . . . Dave Gurney.”
“Sir,” said Slovak again, this time with a deferential nod.
Barstow extended her hand. Gurney shook it. Her grip was strong.
“Any developments?” asked Morgan.
Slovak ran his hand back through the sandy-red stubble on the top of his head and glanced at Barstow before answering. “We’ve been trying to get to the bottom of the problem with the fingerprints.”
Barstow shot a sideways glance at him. “There is no problem with the prints.” There was a West Indian lilt in her voice.
Slovak tilted his head from side to side, the movement of someone trying to loosen tight neck muscles. “The suggestion that the prints in the bedroom belong to Billy Tate?” He shook his head. “There has to be another—”
She cut him off. “The man’s prints are the man’s prints. A fact. Not a suggestion. They’re clear, clean, and recent. And there’s the AFIS ID—”
Now he cut her off. “The system isn’t perfect. Mistakes are made. Human error. AFIS has been known to screw up. Their search algorithms depend on human judgment. Nothing in the system is perfect. Point is, everyone we’ve spoken to says Tate was never in the house—and that Angus would have put a bullet in him if he even set foot on the property. Plus, coming anywhere near Angus would have violated the terms of his parole—”
“I’ve been doing this for a long time,” interrupted Barstow. “Nineteen years. Thousands of prints, thousands of IDs. Never has there been the kind of screwup you’re talking about. Not by me. Not by AFIS.”
A timely ratatatat from the woodpecker in the forest punctuated her assertion.
Slovak repeated his neck-stretching exercise. “I’m just saying—”
Morgan spoke over him, to Gurney. “You were always fascinated by odd little discrepancies. This one make any sense to you?”
“Not yet. But it could be significant.”
“Why?” Slovak’s tone was more curious than challenging.
“Things that make no sense at first often tell you the most in the end.”
Morgan asked Barstow if she had run the prints through the system a second time.
“I did.”
“Same result?”
“The same.”
“Anything come back yet on the bloodstained scalpel?”
“We should hear momentarily if the prints on it are of any use. And maybe get data on the blood by noon.”
“Bloodwork being done at the college lab?”
“With a sample to Albany for confirmation.”
“How about the dog?”
“Dr. Fallow found a piece of fabric in its mouth.”
“That fabric,” interjected Slovak, “could be a major break. The dog probably got his teeth into the intruder’s sleeve or pants leg before getting whacked on the head. Good chance of recovering his DNA from it.”
“Or her DNA,” added Barstow.
Morgan nodded with a tense smile and turned to Gurney. “As long as we’re here at the attacker’s entry point, do you want to go inside and see the murder site?”
“Might as well.”
As they headed for the conservatory door, Morgan’s phone rang. He peered at the screen, grimaced, and took a few steps away. After saying something into the phone—Gurney thought he heard the name “Chandler”—Morgan looked back at Slovak.
“Take Dave through the house. I’ll catch up with you.”
“Yes, sir.” Slovak sounded pleased with the assignment. He strode over to the conservatory door, gesturing to Gurney to join him. He pointed to where a glass pane had been smashed out of its frame. Pulverized remnants were strewn on the concrete floor. Gurney recognized the distinctive shatter pattern of break-resistant glass.
“Was the security system activated?”
“Actually, sir, there isn’t any security system.”
“On an estate like this? Nothing at all?”
“Strange, right?”
Strange indeed, thought Gurney, as he examined the metal frame by the door handle. Every bit of the pane had been pounded out of it.
“Very thorough,” he said, as much to himself as to Slovak. “Almost obsessively so.”