“Is there a place where we could sit down and talk?” Ballard asked.
“Sure, I’ve got an office,” Higgs said. “Follow me.”
Higgs led the way through a series of interconnecting labs within the general lab and into a small and cluttered office big enough for a desk and single visitor’s chair. They sat down and Ballard asked him to tell the story of his interaction with Chastain from the start.
“You mean, go back to the first case?” he asked.
“I guess so,” Ballard said. “What was the first case?”
“Well, the first time I ever spoke to Detective Chastain was when he called me up about two years ago. He said he had read about VMD in the Journal of Forensic Sciences or some other journal—I can’t remember which one—and he wanted to know if the process could raise fingerprints on a basketball.”
Higgs’s story was already ringing true for Ballard. She knew from her years as Chastain’s partner that he prided himself on staying up on advances and techniques in forensics, interrogation, and legal protocol. Some of the other detectives even nicknamed him “The Scholar” because of his extracurricular reading. It would not have been unusual for Chastain to pick up the phone and call a scientist directly when he had a question about evidence.
“Did he say what the case was?” Ballard asked.
“Yeah, it was a shooting on a playground,” Higgs said. “A kid got into an argument during a one-on-one game, and the other kid grabbed a gun out of his backpack at the side of the court and shot him. So Detective Chastain thought the shooter had to have left prints on the ball because he had been playing with it, you know? But the police lab said they couldn’t do it because the ball was rubber and had a dimpled and porous surface. He asked me to give it a try.”
“And what happened?”
“I like a challenge. I told him to bring it down here, and we tried but we couldn’t pull anything up that was usable. I mean, we got some ridges here and there but nothing that he could take back and put through the latent print archives.”
“So, then what?”
“Well, that was sort of it. Until he called me last week and asked if he could send me something he wanted to try to get a print off of.”
“What was it?”
“He called it a thumb button.”
“When exactly was this call?”
“Early Friday. I was in the car, heading here, and he called my cell. I can check my phone log if you want the exact time.”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Sure.”
Higgs pulled the phone out of his pocket and went into the call list. He scrolled through the listing of calls going back to early Friday morning.
“This is it,” he said. “Came in at seven-forty-one a.m. Friday.”
“Can I see the number?” Ballard asked.
Higgs held the phone out across the desk, and Ballard leaned forward to read the screen. The number was 213-972-2971, and Ballard knew it wasn’t Chastain’s cell. It was the general number at Hollywood Station. Chastain had used a landline in the property room to call Higgs at the same time he was going through the evidence bag containing Cynthia Haddel’s property.
“What exactly did he ask you when he called?” Ballard asked.
“He said he was dealing with emergency circumstances on a big case,” Higgs said. “And he wanted to know if I could VMD something as small as a dime and get a print off it.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Well, I first asked what material we were talking about, and he said it was a metal button that had an uneven surface because of an imprint. I told him all I could do was try. I told him that once, I actually got a print off a dime, right off of Roosevelt’s jaw. So he said he would send it down and that I should only talk to him about it.”
It was clear to Ballard that by 7:41 a.m. Friday morning, less than eight hours after the massacre at the Dancers, Chastain already knew or was at least suspicious that there was police involvement. He took measures to hide his suspicions and protect himself—using the station’s phone instead of his own to call Higgs and leaving behind the evidence bag containing his business card with Higgs’s name written on the back.
“So he mailed it to you or delivered it?” she asked.
“Mailed it. It came Saturday by certified mail,” Higgs said.
“Do you by any chance still have that packaging?”
Ballard was thinking in terms of being able to document the chain of custody of the evidence. It could become important if there was a trial. Higgs thought for a moment and then shook his head.
“No, it’s trashed. The cleaners come through here on Saturday night.”
“And where is the button?”
“Let me go get it. I’ll be right back.”
Higgs got up and left the office. Ballard waited. She heard a drawer in the lab open and close and then the professor came back. He handed her a small plastic evidence bag containing what looked like a small black cap that was threaded on the inside of its edges.
Ballard was sure it was the bag and object that she had glimpsed Chastain with at the crime scene early Friday morning. Chastain had obviously recognized what it was and knew its significance.
She turned the bag to study the object. It was actually slightly smaller than a dime, with a flat head and a word stamped across it.
Lawmaster
It was a word familiar to Ballard but she couldn’t immediately place it. She pulled her phone so she could plug the word into a search engine.
“It came with a note,” Higgs said. “In the package. It said, if something happens, trust Renée Ballard. So when you called—”
“Do you still have that note?” Ballard asked.
“Uh, I believe I do. Somewhere around here. I’ll have to find it but I know I didn’t toss it.”
“If you could, I’d like to see it.”
Ballard pressed the search button and got two hits on the word. Lawmaster was the name of a motorcycle used by Judge Dredd in a series of comic books and movies. It was also a company that made leather equipment belts and holsters geared toward the law enforcement community.
Ballard clicked on the link to the company’s website as she remembered the brand. Lawmaster specialized in leather holsters, particularly the kind of shoulder holsters favored by the gunslingers in the department—the testosterone-enhanced hard chargers who put form over function and were willing to take the discomfort of having leather straps crisscross their backs over the simple ease and comfort of a far less macho hip holster.