The next photo was of the wooden floor. Torres pointed out three faint marks on the dusty surface, each about the size of a dime, positioned about three feet from each other, the corners of an imaginary triangle.
“See those little impressions?” said Torres. “Their positions correspond exactly to the positions of the feet of the tripod we found in the river. The height of the tripod placed in that spot would have provided a direct line of fire to the impact location.”
“You mean the back of John Steele’s head?” said Gurney.
“Yes. That’s correct.”
Torres proceeded to the next photo—a small bathroom containing a shower stall, a dirty washbasin, and a toilet. That was followed by two close-ups—the chrome handle on the toilet tank, then the inside of the toilet bowl. A crumpled ball of colored paper and a discolored Band-Aid were submerged in the water.
“We got lucky here,” said Torres. “We got a good thumbprint on the flush handle, and the items in the bowl not only have prints on them but even some DNA material. The paper is a fast-food wrapper with an oily surface that preserved three good prints. The Band-Aid has a trace amount of blood.”
Kline was energized. “You’ve run the prints? Any hits?”
“Nothing at the local or state level. We’re waiting on IAFIS. Washington has over a hundred million print records, so we’re hopeful. Worst case is that the shooter has never been arrested, never been printed for any reason. But even then, once we zero in on the right guy, we’ve got overwhelming evidence tying him to the apartment, the casing, the tripod. And there’s one more piece I haven’t mentioned—a security camera out on Bridge Street recorded a side view of the shooter’s vehicle, with a dark image of the driver visible through the side window. It’s unreadable in its current condition, but the computer lab in Albany has some powerful enhancement software. So we’re hopeful.”
His statement was punctuated by the muted
“A facial ID would be damn near game-over,” said Kline.
Torres looked around the table. “Any questions?”
Beckert appeared preoccupied with the message on his phone.
The sheriff was smiling unpleasantly. “If our other inquiries ID the user of Devalon’s vehicle, Albany’s enhancement abracadabra could nail the boy to the wall. A photo is a beautiful thing. Very convincing to a jury.”
“Mr. Kline?” said Torres.
“No questions at the moment.”
“Detective Gurney?”
“Just wondering . . . how deep was the water?”
Torres looked puzzled. “In the toilet?”
“In the river.”
“Where we found the tripod? Roughly three feet.”
“Any prints on the window sash or sill?”
“Some very old and faded ones, nothing new.”
“Apartment door?”
“Same.”
“Bathroom door and basin faucets?”
“Same.”
“Were you able to find anyone in the building who heard the shot?”
“We spoke to a couple of tenants who thought they might have heard something like a shot. They were pretty vague about it. It’s not the kind of neighborhood where people talk to the police or want to admit being witnesses to anything.” He turned up his palms in a gesture of resignation. “Any other questions?”
“Not from me. Thank you, Mark. Good work.”
The young detective allowed himself a small look of satisfaction. He reminded Gurney of Kyle, his twenty-seven-year-old son from his first marriage. Which in turn reminded him that he owed him a call. Kyle had inherited his own tendency toward isolation, so their communications, though enjoyable when they occurred, were sporadic. He promised himself he’d make the call that day. Perhaps after dinner.
Beckert’s voice brought him back to the present.
“This would be a good time to transition to our progress on the Jordan and Tooker homicides. We had a breakthrough this morning in that investigation, and we expect another development within the next half hour. So this would be a reasonable time to take a short break.” He glanced at his phone. “We’ll reconvene at twelve forty-five. In the meantime, please remain in the building. Goodson, do you need any assistance?”
“I do not.” He ran the polished nail of his forefinger along the length of the white cane that lay across the table in front of him.
The meeting was reconvened at precisely 12:45. It made Gurney wonder if Beckert ever deviated from his strict notions of order and procedure—and what his reaction might be if someone disrupted his plans.
Beckert had brought a laptop with him, which he placed on the conference table. He chose as usual the chair in which he was framed by the room’s window and the landscape of prison architecture beyond it.
After syncing his computer with the wall monitor, he indicated that all was ready.
