“So let’s send our message and see what happens.”
CHAPTER 20
MONDAY, DECEMBER 14 — 4:19 P.M.
Bridger greets me with an unaccustomed smile, approaching through the lab in a white coat, eyes sparkling behind his rimless glasses. He has one hand behind his back.
“That’s not a knife,” he says, channeling Crocodile Dundee. “That’s a knife.”
He brings the hidden hand around to reveal a bowie knife bagged in plastic. I take the knife, hold it up to the light, and whistle. “It’s not what I expected.”
“That is not a cheap throwaway, March. It’s more like a trophy. The scales are made of stag, and the blade’s all wavy like that because it’s Damascus steel. And take a look at this. .” He motions for the knife and points to a small line of text stamped into the blade near the hilt. “Eric Castro pointed that out when he brought the knife over.”
I squint at the stamping.
It reads: 29 OF 50.
“A limited edition,” he says. “Tell me that’s not going to be easy to trace.”
“If I get a hit on those prints, it’ll save me the trouble. But yeah, I’m thinking it shouldn’t be too hard.” I can feel my mouth twisting into an involuntary smile. “He pretty much handed himself over on a silver platter.”
“I would assume this is his ritual weapon. As much care as he took to clean up the Simone Walker scene, I’m surprised he would hold on to the knife.”
“Is it the knife? You’re sure about that?”
“If you’ll follow me,” he says, heading back into the depths of the lab. We pause before a pair of microscopes and a bank of sterile-looking computer screens.
“The blade had been wiped down, but the crime lab pulled apart the handle and scraped some dried blood. They sent some results over, which I’ve just been verifying.”
With Bridger the answers never come easily. He considers these encounters to be teachable moments, forcing me to peer through microscopes and examine inscrutable charts on a variety of monitors, lecturing me all the while on blood type, blood cells, and the intricacies of nuclear and mitochondrial DNA. I nod my way through, waiting for the plain English explanation of his findings.
“You already know the prints on the handle aren’t Simone Walker’s,” he says.
“I didn’t know that. But why would they be?”
He ignores the question. “Do you talk to your crime lab people at all? I got the information from them.”
“Why would the prints on the knife belong to the victim?”
“They wouldn’t ordinarily,” he says. “But somebody in your fingerprint division floated the theory that the fingerprints belonged to a woman-something about the ridge density. So they were checked against Walker’s prints and didn’t match. You don’t know about this?”
“The man we took that knife from was trying to murder my wife with it. Pardon me for being a little preoccupied. Anyway, in case you haven’t heard, our fingerprint detail is under a cloud at the moment.”
“Maybe that’s why they’re turning this stuff around so fast. Trying to look efficient.”
An impatient nod. “Yes, yes, yes. Now, what about blood, Alan?”
“Look for yourself,” he says, pointing to a white-cased microscope with two black viewers jutting out at me.
“I already did. Can you please tell me?”
He chuckles. “The state of science education in this country-”
“I’m begging you.”
“Please don’t beg, March. Here’s the deal. We have blood from two separate sources. Based on the viscosity, I’m guessing one is older and the other is fresh. . as recent as a day or two. The older sample matches Simone Walker, so in my opinion-and this is backed up by your own people-this is the weapon used in her murder.”
“For certain?” I clench my fist and all but pump it in the air.
“I’ve double-checked Dr. Green’s measurements and they’re consistent with this blade. She did a great job on those estimations, by the way. I couldn’t have given you better.”
“So this is absolutely the murder weapon?”
“In my opinion, yes.”
“And what about the fresher sample? If it belongs to the killer-”
He shakes his head. “The second sample is from a woman, too. Your DNA section ran it through CODIS and came back with nothing, so whoever she is, she’s not in the database.”
“Maybe the prints are hers, then.” I can hear the disappointment in my own voice. A couple of days ago, finding a woman’s blood on the knife and being told that the ridge density of the prints might suggest a female, my mind would have raced to Joy Hill. But Carter didn’t wrestle the knife away from a fifty-something woman.
“You’ll have to wait and see. In the meantime, I would start checking on where the knife came from. If it’s some kind of custom piece, there are bound to be records of who bought it.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll get right on that.”
Apart from the number, the only word on the blade is SCHARF. An Internet search from Bridger’s desk pulls up a custom knife maker in California named Wade Scharf. The photos on his site look vaguely reminiscent of the murder weapon, but I can’t find any exact matches. I dial the phone number on his contact page and reach his wife. She informs me in a creaky elderly voice that Wade is out in the shop. After I identify myself, she volunteers to fetch him.
“A homicide?” he asks, like he’s unfamiliar with the term.
I describe the knife and answer a couple of his follow-ups.
“That sounds like one of my Old School Bowies. Does it have a coffin handle?”
“You’re gonna have to tell me what that is.”
“If you hold it with the point down, the handle swells toward the top and has diagonal steps on either side, like a coffin from the eighteen hundreds.”
“Then yes, I think it does.”
“All right. Let me get my paperwork.” Over the line I can hear him opening and closing metal filing cabinets, digging through papers. “That was a limited edition I did four or five years ago. Some of them were snapped up as preorders and some went to dealers. There’s a dealer in Houston I do a lot of business with, and I’m betting your knife is one of those.” He hums to himself while scanning a list, rattling names off under his breath. “Yep, I’m right. The dealer’s name is Sam Dearborn. Here’s his number if you’ve got a pen handy.”
I write Dearborn’s number down and thank Scharf for his help.
“This doesn’t sit too well with me,” he says. “People collect my work, you know. The prices are sky high. I’d bet most of my blades are never used at all-certainly not for something like this.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” I say.
Getting in touch with Sam Dearborn is a little harder. The number rings to a voicemail box informing me business hours end at five. I leave a message for him to call me back. Searching the computer again, I find Dearborn’s website, which also lists a mobile number. I dial and wait.
“Dearborn Gun and Blade,” he says.
I explain who I am and tell him Scharf pointed me in his direction. “You received some knives from a limited edition he did, some coffin-handled Old School Bowies. I’m trying to find out who bought number twenty-nine.”
“I’m not sure I can help you with that.”
“This is a murder investigation, Mr. Dearborn.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I want to help. But if I remember correctly, I had five of those and sold them at gun and knife shows. I move a lot of product through my booth that way. If they paid with a credit card, I might have a record, but a lot of guys will pay in cash. Not to mention, collectibles trade hands. I know a lot of people liquidating collections in this economy, so there’s no guarantee the person I sold it to is who you’re looking for. In fact, I’d go out on a limb and say he’s not. My customers are a pretty select group.”
“Can you check your records and get back to me? This is an urgent request.”