It’s the worst part of my job: keeping up the charade. I’m convinced that good lying is something you’re either born with or not. I’m in the not category and it’s usually Jimmy who has to come to the rescue with a good lie.
Still, I’ve gotten pretty good at the tracking lie because I don’t have to say much, just look at the ground, shine a flashlight, outline a heel print with my finger, and generally pretend that I know what I’m doing. It helps that I’ve gotten better at real tracking skills. I try to incorporate them into each search as much as possible, but it’s still the shine that shows me the way.
That doesn’t get me any closer to answering Terry Palmer’s question, though.
Looking down the hall to the front door, then to the kitchen, then down at the single red drop of abundant DNA, I race for the lie … only to be rescued by the truth.
It just pops into my head.
I don’t know why I didn’t realize it before.
“After killing Chas,” I say without missing a beat, “Sad Face went into the kitchen. You found evidence of blood in the sink, right?”
“We did.”
“Probably from him cleaning up; he had to have blood on his hands, maybe on his shirt, on his face—”
“—in his hair,” Jimmy adds.
“He made a bloody mess of Chas and some of that had to transfer.” I rest my hands on my hips and nod toward the kitchen. “So he’s at the sink cleaning up, and after he’s done he wipes everything down so there’s no DNA to work with, no evidence of blood.”
“He used bleach to wash everything down,” Terry confirms. “You can smell it when you get close. It’s everywhere.”
I know.
“And why would he use bleach if all the blood came from Chas?” I press.
Terry pauses, confounded. After a moment, he says the obvious: “He wouldn’t. He must have cut himself during the struggle.”
“Or Chas cut him. Either way, he’s now worried about leaving his DNA behind. Which means his DNA profile is already in the system.”
“Or he thinks it’s in the system,” Jimmy adds.
I give Jimmy a nod and continue. “I’m guessing he didn’t dump bleach on the carpet because it’s one big blood spot and the chance of his DNA being pulled from a random, cross-contaminated sample is almost beyond calculation.” It’s starting to make more sense now. “He was worried about dripping blood across the kitchen floor, though, and in and around the sink, hence the bleach.”
Taking a step backward, I gesture at the hall table. “Take a look at the blood drop. What side of the leg is it on?”
Terry frowns. “The side facing the kitchen.”
“Right. So after cleaning up it only makes sense that he’d leave the kitchen, come down this hall—”
“—and out the front door,” Terry finishes, “flinging a single drop from his hand, or maybe his forearm, as he passed the table. But that doesn’t mean the blood belongs to the killer,” he adds quickly. “He could have had some of Chas’s blood on a sleeve or elsewhere that he just missed.”
“He just finished cleaning every speck of blood from the kitchen sink and counter, then wiped it all down with bleach; do you really think he was careless enough to miss wet blood on his sleeve or arm?”
“It’s possible. He’d be in a hurry, more likely to make a mistake.”
I shake my head, now confident in my theory. “No. He bloodied his knuckles, or maybe Chas got a few blows in before he was subdued. Maybe a scratch, a torn fingernail, a bite; there are a thousand ways to draw blood in a fight, especially when you’re fighting for your life.”
Terry’s still skeptical.
“So he does a big cleanup job to hide his DNA but doesn’t realize he’s still bleeding all over the place?”
“Not all over the place,” I correct. “It’s just one drop; just one. I’ve checked the rest of the hall, the entry, and the kitchen: nothing. Just the one drop.”
Terry screws his mouth up, pushing his lips off to the left, then off to the right. After a few seconds he says, “All right.” Retrieving a cotton swab, he dampens it and kneels next to the leg of the table, gently rehydrating the blood and gathering it in the cotton fibers.
“I’d like to send that sample to the FBI lab, if you don’t mind,” Jimmy says.
Terry snorts. “Be my guest. The state lab is so overloaded it’d take months to get a response, and that’s if we’re given priority status.”
“We’re seeing the same thing everywhere,” Jimmy says. “Too much DNA, not enough qualified lab techs.”
“What makes you think the FBI lab will get it done quicker? I heard you guys are backed up worse than the state labs.”
“We are,” Jimmy replies. “But the STU gets priority processing.” Jimmy scratches down an address and hands the paper to Terry. “I wrote it down, but make sure you include the words ‘STU Priority’ and send it to the attention of Janet Burlingame.”
“STU Priority … Burlingame,” Terry says, glancing over the note. “And the results go to this Diane person?”
“Diane Parker. She’s our intelligence analyst. I’ll have her shoot you the original after she’s finished with it.”
“Roger that.”
As Jimmy and I make our way to the front door, Terry calls out, “A hundred bucks says it’s the victim’s blood.”
Jimmy and I stop instantly, like two bugs smacking the same windshield.
See, in law enforcement, a statement like that is the same as a double-dog dare. You’re saying the results are going to be this way, the forensic guy is saying it’s going to be that way.
As one, we turn in our shoes: two slow cogs on the same gear. Terry shoots us a big grin and then winks. The wink just makes it worse. I’m thinking that Jimmy and I are on the same page, which is to accept the bet and take the cocky bastard’s bill.
Apparently I’m mistaken.
Instead of hearing, You’re on, or We’ll take that bet, Jimmy simply shrugs and says, “Professional courtesy. I can’t steal your money.”
Terry chuckles. “Yeah, you know I’m right.”
Ooooo! Sometimes I could just smack Jimmy. Come to think of it, sometimes I do smack Jimmy.
*