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Scientists aren’t in total agreement as to how it works. One theory holds that the speedier basal layer of the epidermis is scrunched between its slower-growing counterparts in the epidermis above and the dermis below. Pressure from straining against its slower neighbors causes the skin to buckle into folds. Movement in the womb then throws in a few more twists. Whatever the process, the end result is a mind-boggling amount of variation.

Fingerprint ridging falls into one of three broad patterns: arches, loops, or whorls. Each ridge shows further individuality in the form of endings, bifurcations, and dots.

An ending is the place at which one ridge stops and another begins. A bifurcation is the place where a ridge splits, forming a Y-shaped pattern. A dot is a segment of ridge so small it appears as, well, a dot.

There are often hundreds of these “points” of identification on one finger. The relationship between each point and the surrounding ridge detail is so complex it is believed no two patterns are exactly alike.

Bottom line: Fingerprints kick ass for individual ID.

Not so for ME122-15. The little ovals on the print cards were solid black. No ridges. No dots. Not a single arch, loop, or whorl.

“Is the skin damaged?” I asked, fearful the acetone had been corrosive.

Hawkins shook his head. “Skin’s fine. Just no prints.”

“How can that be?” Inane. If I didn’t know, how could he?

Hawkins just gave me a long, solemn stare.

“Have you ever seen this before?”

“I’ve rolled fingers that make these look fresh as a pork belly, never failed to get at least one partial.”

“Could the prints have been intentionally removed?”

Hawkins stripped off his gloves, toed the lever on the biohazard pail, and tossed them in. “Anything’s possible since they transplanted that face.”

Having no clue to the meaning of his comment. “Should we give it one more try?”

“Waste of time.” The lid clanged shut.

“I suppose there’s no point submitting the cards.”

“Nope.”

Normally the prints would be sent to the Charlotte-Mecklenburg PD forensics lab to be scanned into AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Using digital-imaging technology, AFIS obtains, stores, and analyzes fingerprint data from all over the country. Originally created by the FBI, the database contains tens of millions of individual prints.

But the name is misleading. AFIS doesn’t identify, it searches. Using biometric pattern recognition software, the program compares an unknown print to those in the system, and returns information on possible matches, ranking them from most to least likely. A fingerprint analyst then compares the print he or she has submitted to the “candidates” suggested by the program. A final decision is made by a human being.

But that wouldn’t happen with ME122-15.

“Want these things back in the jar?” Hawkins jabbed a thumb toward the sink.

“I’ll take care of it.” Distracted. “Thanks.”

I stood a moment, running possibilities.

Had ME122-15 removed his or her own prints? To avoid the law? To escape a past life? Had a killer removed the prints postmortem? To mask the victim’s identity?

Was obliteration even possible? Or just a Hollywood Men in Black myth? I’d seen no evidence of scarring or chemical burning. Intentional mutilation seemed unlikely.

A pssst sounded somewhere deep in my memory banks. Something I’d heard or read. A research article? A conversation with a colleague?

The door opened then closed, breaking my concentration. But it was the age of Google. Speculation was obsolete.

After removing samples for possible DNA testing, I sealed the fingertips in a jar of formalin, the bones in their Ziploc, and placed both in the cooler. Then I hurried to my office.

It wasn’t as easy as I’d thought. But eventually I found an online publication in the Annals of Oncology. May 27, 2009.

A sixty-two-year-old man traveling from Singapore to the United States was detained by immigration officials after a routine fingerprint scan showed he had none. The man, identified only as Mr. S, had been undergoing treatment for head and neck cancer with a drug called capecitabine, brand name Xeloda. As a result of the therapy, Mr. S had developed a condition known as hand-foot syndrome, official name chemotherapy-induced acral erythema.

I dug deeper. Found an article in Actas dermo-sifiliográficas. May 2008. It was in Spanish and credited to nine authors. I learned the following.

Chemotherapy-induced acral erythema, also known as palmoplantar erythrodysesthesia, or hand-foot syndrome, is a reaction of the skin to a variety of cancer-treating agents. The symptoms include swelling, pain, and peeling on the palms and soles of the feet. And loss of fingerprints.

I did a few cyberloops on capecitabine. The drug was most commonly used in the treatment of head, neck, breast, stomach, and colorectal cancers.

A long shot, but a possible lead. Ramsey could contact physicians and hospitals to ask if any young adult cancer patient had suddenly stopped showing up for chemotherapy. Cora Teague was reported to have health issues. He could also run the question past her family.

I was reaching for the desk phone when it rang. It was the first in a string of calls that would trigger a case of fire-breathing heartburn.

As usual, Strike spent no time on pleasantries.

“What the hell kind of turncoat move was that?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Sharing my intel with an outsider.”

“Deputy Ramsey is hardly an outsider.”

“Is he you? Is he me?”

“His department has jurisdiction.” Questionable.

“He’s Avery County. We were in Burke.”

“You suspect the remains in my possession are those of Cora Teague,” I said firmly, but not all that patiently. “Should your theory prove true, that’s Ramsey’s watch.”

“What did you tell him about the audio?”

“I’m glad you brought that up. Given that this is now a formal investigation, I must ask that you turn the recording over to me.” A reach, but close enough.

“Not a chance in hell.”

“Then I shall have Deputy Ramsey request a warrant.”

There was a moment of flat silence. Then, “Foolish old woman. Somehow I’ve misplaced the damn thing.”

I have a flash-point temper. Which I know I must keep in check. Instead of blasting Strike, I remained diplomatic.

“I thought the goal of websleuthing was to solve cold cases.”

“Don’t mean I want to share what I got with the world.”

“Law enforcement is hardly the world.”

“That what you call that yahoo?”

“Deputy Ramsey is hardly a yahoo.”

“I’m sure a Harvard degree hangs on his wall.”

The first tiny flicker sparked in my gut.

“Mrs. Strike. Are you familiar with the term ‘obstruction of justice’?” Cool.

“I’ll look it up.”

“Why are you calling?”

“Wanted you to know I’m going back at the family.”

“That’s a bad idea.”

“Maybe. But it’s my idea.”

“Don’t—”

Three sharp beeps. She’d disconnected.

I kicked out at my desk. Hard enough that I had to remove my shoe to see what damage I’d done to my toe. Hurt like hell, but nothing was broken.

I was again reaching to punch digits on the landline when my mobile rang. After checking caller ID, I took a long, deep breath, clicked over to speaker, and laid the device on the blotter.

“Good morning, Mama.”

“Good morning, sweet pea. I hope you got a good night’s sleep. You sounded so tired when we talked.”

“I did.” I hadn’t, but what was the point?

“Did you speak with your deputy? What’s his name?”

“Ramsey. Not yet. I plan to call him shortly.”