footwear impressions and uploading the files to a computer, but I know she is listening to Lloyd’s lesson. “Hey, we don’t call him FIG for nothing,” she says.
“That’s right,” Lloyd says. “Other things you can look for include materials that can get trapped on the sole of a shoe. For example, nails or wadded-up chewing gum,” he explains.
Nathaniel nods. “I once heard my dad say that one of the first thing cops do when they stop a suspect is make them hand over their shoes. Now I know why.”
“Exactly,” Lloyd says. “You don’t want to give a suspect time to change his or her shoes.”
Samantha has projected the images of our footwear impressions onto the screen. “Let’s zoom in for a closer look,” she tells us.
Samantha clicks past one or two blurry images, stopping when she gets to a sharp photograph of Mason’s footwear impressions. “Look carefully,” she says. “What do you see?”
“The Nike swish. I mean swash. I mean swoosh!” Nico calls out.
Muriel gives him a whack. “That’s not even a little bit funny,” she tells him, and Nico makes a pouty face.
“Nico’s right about the swoosh though,” Lloyd says. “We can match Mason’s footwear impressions with the information in our database—and then we should be able to determine exactly which model of Nikes he was wearing. Footwear impressions can also reveal a person’s shoe size.”
Stacey clicks her Department of Forensic Science pen. “Does that mean we can identify someone from their footwear impressions the way we can from their fingerprints?” she asks.
“No way,” Nathaniel says. “Shoes aren’t one of a kind.”
“That’s right,” Lloyd says. “Think of the thousands of pairs of runners Nike sells every year. Footwear impressions are not what we call individualizing, the way fingerprints are. Hey, have you guys ever heard of Theodore Kaczynski?”
I start to raise my hand, but then I stop myself. I have to remember that this is camp, not school. “You mean the Unabomber?” I say. “The guy who produced sixteen bombs, which injured twenty-three people and killed three others?” The Junior Encyclopedia of Forensic Science has a long entry about Theodore Kaczynski.
“Exactly. Kaczynski attached smaller soles to the bottom of his shoes as a way to confuse investigators,” Lloyd tells us.
Nathaniel nods. That makes twice in one day that Nathaniel has been impressed.
TEN
It is a short walk to the university’s athletic complex. The air is so hot and humid, it’s hard to imagine there could ever be winter in Montreal. Even though we are walking on the shady side of the street, under a canopy of maple trees, I feel the sweat trickling down my back and making my T-shirt sticky. I can’t wait to jump into the swimming pool.
“I don’t need swimming lessons,” I hear Nathaniel tell Mason. “I’ve been swimming since I was six months old, and I’ve already passed Red Cross Level 10. I can do every stroke.”
“Even the butterfly?” Mason asks. “I can’t do the butterfly. To be honest, I’m not the greatest swimmer.”
“The butterfly’s not that hard,” Nathaniel tells him, “once you get the kick.”
We are wearing our bathing suits under our regular clothes, so it doesn’t take long to change. I can smell the chlorine—even from inside the change room.
“I was hoping they’d have a saltwater pool,” Stacey says. “In its artificial form, chlorine depletes the ozone layer and contributes to global warming. I’m going to start a list of things the university could do to green this campus.”
Stacey and I are barefoot. Muriel’s flip-flops slap against the tile deck. The counselors are waiting outside the locker rooms. Lloyd has a whistle hanging from a rope around his neck. Samantha is carrying a clipboard. How did she tuck all that hair into a bathing cap?
Of course, Mason is the last one out. He is humming the way he sometimes does when he gets nervous. His Batman
“That’s right,” Lloyd says. “Other things you can look for include materials that can get trapped on the sole of a shoe. For example, nails or wadded-up chewing gum,” he explains.
Nathaniel nods. “I once heard my dad say that one of the first thing cops do when they stop a suspect is make them hand over their shoes. Now I know why.”
“Exactly,” Lloyd says. “You don’t want to give a suspect time to change his or her shoes.”
Samantha has projected the images of our footwear impressions onto the screen. “Let’s zoom in for a closer look,” she tells us.
Samantha clicks past one or two blurry images, stopping when she gets to a sharp photograph of Mason’s footwear impressions. “Look carefully,” she says. “What do you see?”
“The Nike swish. I mean swash. I mean swoosh!” Nico calls out.
Muriel gives him a whack. “That’s not even a little bit funny,” she tells him, and Nico makes a pouty face.
“Nico’s right about the swoosh though,” Lloyd says. “We can match Mason’s footwear impressions with the information in our database—and then we should be able to determine exactly which model of Nikes he was wearing. Footwear impressions can also reveal a person’s shoe size.”
Stacey clicks her Department of Forensic Science pen. “Does that mean we can identify someone from their footwear impressions the way we can from their fingerprints?” she asks.
“No way,” Nathaniel says. “Shoes aren’t one of a kind.”
“That’s right,” Lloyd says. “Think of the thousands of pairs of runners Nike sells every year. Footwear impressions are not what we call individualizing, the way fingerprints are. Hey, have you guys ever heard of Theodore Kaczynski?”
I start to raise my hand, but then I stop myself. I have to remember that this is camp, not school. “You mean the Unabomber?” I say. “The guy who produced sixteen bombs, which injured twenty-three people and killed three others?” The Junior Encyclopedia of Forensic Science has a long entry about Theodore Kaczynski.
“Exactly. Kaczynski attached smaller soles to the bottom of his shoes as a way to confuse investigators,” Lloyd tells us.
Nathaniel nods. That makes twice in one day that Nathaniel has been impressed.
TEN
It is a short walk to the university’s athletic complex. The air is so hot and humid, it’s hard to imagine there could ever be winter in Montreal. Even though we are walking on the shady side of the street, under a canopy of maple trees, I feel the sweat trickling down my back and making my T-shirt sticky. I can’t wait to jump into the swimming pool.
“I don’t need swimming lessons,” I hear Nathaniel tell Mason. “I’ve been swimming since I was six months old, and I’ve already passed Red Cross Level 10. I can do every stroke.”
“Even the butterfly?” Mason asks. “I can’t do the butterfly. To be honest, I’m not the greatest swimmer.”
“The butterfly’s not that hard,” Nathaniel tells him, “once you get the kick.”
We are wearing our bathing suits under our regular clothes, so it doesn’t take long to change. I can smell the chlorine—even from inside the change room.
“I was hoping they’d have a saltwater pool,” Stacey says. “In its artificial form, chlorine depletes the ozone layer and contributes to global warming. I’m going to start a list of things the university could do to green this campus.”
Stacey and I are barefoot. Muriel’s flip-flops slap against the tile deck. The counselors are waiting outside the locker rooms. Lloyd has a whistle hanging from a rope around his neck. Samantha is carrying a clipboard. How did she tuck all that hair into a bathing cap?
Of course, Mason is the last one out. He is humming the way he sometimes does when he gets nervous. His Batman
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