specifically?” Mel Cooper wondered aloud.
“Look at the cell structure. I’m betting it’s excremental.”
“Whatsat?” Sellitto asked. “Excrement? Like shit?”
“Excrement, like silk. It comes from the digestive tract of worms. Dyed gray. Processed to a matte finish. What’s on the other slides, Mel?”
He ran these through the scope too and found they were identical fibers.
“Was the perp wearing gray?”
“No,” Sellitto reported.
“The vic wasn’t either,” Sachs said.
More mysteries.
“Ah,” Cooper said, peering into the eyepiece, “might have a hair here.”
On the screen a long strand of brown hair came into focus.
“Human hair,” Rhyme called out, noting hundreds of scales. An animal hair would have at most dozens. “But it’s fake.”
“Fake?” Sellitto asked.
“Well,” he said impatiently, “it’s real hair but it’s from a wig. Obviously. Look—at the end. That’s not a bulb. It’s glue. Might not be his, of course, but it’s worth putting on the chart.”
“That he’s not brown-haired?” Thom asked.
“The facts,” Rhyme said tersely, “are all we care about. Write that the unsub is possibly wearing a brown wig.”
“Okay, bwana.”
Cooper continued his examination and found that two of the adhesive squares revealed a minuscule bit of dirt and some plant material.
“Scope the plant first, Mel.”
In analyzing crime scenes in New York, Lincoln Rhyme had always placed great importance on geologic, plant and animal evidence because only one-eighth of the city is actually on the North American mainland; the rest is situated on islands. This means that minerals, flora and fauna tend to be more or less common to particular boroughs and even neighborhoods within them, making it easier to trace substances to specific locations.
A moment later a rather artistic image of a reddish twig and a bit of leaf appeared on the screen.
“Good,” Rhyme announced.
“What’s good about it?” Thom asked.
“It’s good because it’s rare. It’s a red pignut hickory. You hardly ever find them in the city. The only place I know of are Central and Riverside Parks. And . . . oh, look at that. That little blue-green mass?”
“Where?” Sachs asked.
“Can’t you see it? It’s right there!” Feeling painfully frustrated that he couldn’t leap from his chair and tap the screen. “Lower right-hand corner. If the twig’s Italy then the mass is Sicily.”
“Got it.”
“What do you think, Mel? Lichen, right? And I’d vote for Parmelia conspersa. ”
“Could be,” the tech said cautiously. “But there’re a lot of lichens.”
“But there aren’t a lot of blue-green and gray lichens,” Rhyme replied dryly. “In fact, hardly any. And this one is most abundant in Central Park. . . . We’ve got two links to the park. Good. Now let’s look at the dirt.”
Cooper mounted another slide. The image in the microscope—grains of dirt like asteroids—wasn’t forensically revealing and Rhyme said, “Run a sample through the GC/MS.”
The gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer is a marriage of two chemical analysis instruments, the first of which breaks down an unknown substance into its component parts with the second determining what each of those parts is. White powder that appears uniform, for instance, might be a dozen different chemicals: baking soda, arsenic, baby powder, phenol and cocaine. The chromatograph has been compared to ahorse race: the substances start out moving through the instrument together but they progress at different rates, becoming separated. At the “finish line” the mass spectrometer compares each one with a huge database of known substances to identify it.
The results of Cooper’s analysis showed that the dirt Sachs had recovered was impregnated with an oil. The database, though, reported only that it was mineral based—not plant or animal—and couldn’t identify it specifically.
Rhyme commanded, “Send it to the
“Look at the cell structure. I’m betting it’s excremental.”
“Whatsat?” Sellitto asked. “Excrement? Like shit?”
“Excrement, like silk. It comes from the digestive tract of worms. Dyed gray. Processed to a matte finish. What’s on the other slides, Mel?”
He ran these through the scope too and found they were identical fibers.
“Was the perp wearing gray?”
“No,” Sellitto reported.
“The vic wasn’t either,” Sachs said.
More mysteries.
“Ah,” Cooper said, peering into the eyepiece, “might have a hair here.”
On the screen a long strand of brown hair came into focus.
“Human hair,” Rhyme called out, noting hundreds of scales. An animal hair would have at most dozens. “But it’s fake.”
“Fake?” Sellitto asked.
“Well,” he said impatiently, “it’s real hair but it’s from a wig. Obviously. Look—at the end. That’s not a bulb. It’s glue. Might not be his, of course, but it’s worth putting on the chart.”
“That he’s not brown-haired?” Thom asked.
“The facts,” Rhyme said tersely, “are all we care about. Write that the unsub is possibly wearing a brown wig.”
“Okay, bwana.”
Cooper continued his examination and found that two of the adhesive squares revealed a minuscule bit of dirt and some plant material.
“Scope the plant first, Mel.”
In analyzing crime scenes in New York, Lincoln Rhyme had always placed great importance on geologic, plant and animal evidence because only one-eighth of the city is actually on the North American mainland; the rest is situated on islands. This means that minerals, flora and fauna tend to be more or less common to particular boroughs and even neighborhoods within them, making it easier to trace substances to specific locations.
A moment later a rather artistic image of a reddish twig and a bit of leaf appeared on the screen.
“Good,” Rhyme announced.
“What’s good about it?” Thom asked.
“It’s good because it’s rare. It’s a red pignut hickory. You hardly ever find them in the city. The only place I know of are Central and Riverside Parks. And . . . oh, look at that. That little blue-green mass?”
“Where?” Sachs asked.
“Can’t you see it? It’s right there!” Feeling painfully frustrated that he couldn’t leap from his chair and tap the screen. “Lower right-hand corner. If the twig’s Italy then the mass is Sicily.”
“Got it.”
“What do you think, Mel? Lichen, right? And I’d vote for Parmelia conspersa. ”
“Could be,” the tech said cautiously. “But there’re a lot of lichens.”
“But there aren’t a lot of blue-green and gray lichens,” Rhyme replied dryly. “In fact, hardly any. And this one is most abundant in Central Park. . . . We’ve got two links to the park. Good. Now let’s look at the dirt.”
Cooper mounted another slide. The image in the microscope—grains of dirt like asteroids—wasn’t forensically revealing and Rhyme said, “Run a sample through the GC/MS.”
The gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer is a marriage of two chemical analysis instruments, the first of which breaks down an unknown substance into its component parts with the second determining what each of those parts is. White powder that appears uniform, for instance, might be a dozen different chemicals: baking soda, arsenic, baby powder, phenol and cocaine. The chromatograph has been compared to ahorse race: the substances start out moving through the instrument together but they progress at different rates, becoming separated. At the “finish line” the mass spectrometer compares each one with a huge database of known substances to identify it.
The results of Cooper’s analysis showed that the dirt Sachs had recovered was impregnated with an oil. The database, though, reported only that it was mineral based—not plant or animal—and couldn’t identify it specifically.
Rhyme commanded, “Send it to the
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