Читать книгу Manhattan Serenade: A Novel - Joseph Sinopoli Steven - Страница 15

CHAPTER 8

Moran entered the elevator and pressed the tenth floor button to the NYPD’s Forensics’ Laboratory. While he rode up, he reached into his pocket and brought out the evidence bag that Chang had given him earlier. Moran gazed at the two bullets. Two different calibers, two different guns. But why? The two-gunmen theory didn’t make sense, especially when the shots were not what killed Myer. The case had taken a new twist.

Minutes later, Moran stepped into the lab and walked past its four long rows of technicians hunched over microscopes and other state-of-the-art equipment. Moran craned his head and spotted an emaciated-looking man in a white lab coat at the last station. The man was peering at a computer screen whose glow lit his bony features. The lieutenant recognized him as Manny Langdon, Chief of Forensics, a man in his mid-fifties. His thick, horn-rimmed glasses and spiky red hair made him seem like a heron standing in a marsh waiting for its prey to surface.

When Moran reached the chief, he noticed a network of branching vessels on the screen.

“Didn’t expect to find you here,” Moran said. “Where’s Maureen?”

“Called in sick. Some kind of bug,” Langdon replied in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. He didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

Moran pointed to it. “What is that?”

“Blood vessels.”

“You said on the phone there was something I should see,” Moran said.

Langdon raised his head and turned to Moran. “I did?”

Moran emitted a thin smile. Langdon was famous for accuracy and meticulousness, but short-term memory was not his strong suit. Then he said, “Ah, yes. Stay here, let me get the file.” He strode to his cubicle a few feet away. “Here,” he said when he returned, and lay a thick file on the countertop. He opened it, thumbed through a stack of reports, drew one out, and handed it to Moran who examined the two-page report.

When he read the last paragraph, Moran raised his eyes and shot Langdon a surprised look.

“You got all this despite the condition of the body?”

Langdon’s face brightened with pride. “That’s why we have all these toys.” He gestured to the elaborate equipment in the room. “Water can destroy a lot of things, but not everything. Oh, and there’s something else, come inside,” Langdon said.

He walked back to his office with Moran behind him. When they entered the Lilliputian space with its large steel desk littered with stacks of haphazardly strewn papers and reports, the chief motioned Moran to take a seat in front of the desk. Langdon lowered himself into his swivel chair, reached into a drawer, and brought out a small envelope.

“Here’s what we found imbedded in a minute crack between the heel and sole of Myer’s right shoe,” the chief said. His fingertips drew out two thin fibers about an eighth of an inch long—one red and the other black—and held them up. “They’re rug threads and the dye comes from a plant not found in the States. It’s mainly used in expensive Afghanistan and Iranian hand-crafted rugs. To get those threads imbedded, Myer had to dig his heels into the rug with tremendous force.”

“Which indicates there was a struggle,” Moran said. He leaned forward to scrutinize the fibers. He picked them up with his fingertips and held them close to his eyes.

Langdon said, “Microscope analysis exhibited signs of wear and tear on them, so we know the rug was old.”

“It’s a start,” Moran said as he set the threads back down on the desk.

“Don’t get too excited, lieutenant. The same threads with the same dye are also used in the cheaper versions made in China,” Langdon said. “I have one at home with these same colors.”

Moran slowly lifted himself out of the chair and bit his lower lip. “What about the particles of blood and skin tissue found under Myer’s fingernails that Chang sent over?”

Langdon slowly shook his head. “Not good. The sample is very tiny and in a deteriorated state,” the Forensics chief said. He leaned back in his chair, pulled a pack of Camels from the top pocket of his lab coat, shook out a cigarette, and lit it. Moran’s eyes went to the glowing ember and he moistened his lips. The words that he’d said to Newbury on the pier, ‘Finally kicked the habit,’ rang in his mind and he realized that he should have added, ‘Maybe.’