City Dark(22)

“They did,” Joe said. “And I did this job, so I know how it works.” He made eye contact with Mimi and Len in turn. “I thank you—on behalf of my brother also. But we’re really not the victims. My mother was. For us, she was gone a very, very long time ago.”





CHAPTER 19


Thursday, July 20, 2017

Sixtieth Precinct

Brooklyn

4:45 p.m.

“Hernandez,” Zochi said into the phone, taking a gulp of coffee. She was at her desk in the Six-Oh squad room, buzzing with the usual elevated summertime level of activity.

“Zochi, it’s Quinn.” As usual, he sounded hoarse, like he’d just woken up. Dr. Adam Quinn was a forensic pathologist at the OCME. He was in his midfifties, built like a fireplug, and Zochi’s image of a walking heart attack. He was thorough, though, and competent.

“Hey, Doc. You callin’ about that old lady? DeSantos?”

“Yeah. I’m curious—when you saw the bra, what did you think?”

“I didn’t think it killed her. ADA said the same thing.”

“Bingo,” he said with a chortle that turned into a cough. “Yeah, she wasn’t strangled.”

“More like someone wrenched her head back? Broke her neck?”

“You shoulda gone to med school. Yeah, that. Perp gave her a snap, then rotated the head back straight. Must have made a nasty sound.”

“So then what? He wrapped the bra around her neck anyway? Or maybe he was doing something else. Maybe he was gonna use it but then changed his mind?” Zochi was just thinking out loud; they weren’t questions that a medical examiner could answer.

“Don’t ask me,” he said. “They pay you to figure that out.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anyway, the bra was wrapped, right? Like a loose knot? From what we saw, the cups were behind her head, against the sand.”

“Yeah, that. Not clasped but sort of wrapped. Oh, and another thing: I don’t think that bra was hers.”

“Why not?”

“The size is just wrong. I know that homeless people wear what they can find, but I don’t think she was wearing this. It’s at least two sizes off.”

“Okay,” Zochi said, scribbling some notes. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna email you an image. You at your desk?”

“Yep.” She waited a few seconds, then an email popped up. “Okay, I see it. The bra strap?”

“Yeah, see the letters?” Zochi expanded the image on her laptop. She could see them now. There were six small block letters written out along the back left strap of the bra. They spelled out F-W-Y-D-T-M.

“Okay, yeah, I see them.”

“Do they mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing. Was there anything else unusual?”

“Nope. Nothing like it on any of the other clothing. Just that, whatever it is. I thought it was initials at first. You know, how people mark things, especially when they’re in and out of shelter environments. You don’t need six letters for that, though.”

“Yeah, and it doesn’t look like a name, right? Like, you can’t sound it out.”

“No. I mean, I’m not a linguist, but . . .”

“Neither am I,” Zochi said. “I’m with you, though. I just see a jumble of letters. I’ll make a note of it.”





CHAPTER 20


Friday, July 21, 2017

Office of the Chief Medical Examiner Manhattan

8:45 a.m.

Carole Miller, the young criminalist who had been assigned to examine the bra taken from Lois’s body after it had been autopsied, carefully removed it from the sealed brown bag in which Zochi had collected it as evidence. Carole placed it on her “workbench,” an immaculate white surface that looked more like an operating table. Wearing a surgical mask, goggles, long gloves, and a white gown, she moved her eyes and a penlight across the front of the bra, then the back. She studied the strange writing that the pathologist at the OCME had made a note of—FWYDTM along the back left strap. The letters had been handwritten with a black marker. They were small but easily legible block letters that fit inside the fabric space between the stitching at the top and bottom of the strap. It wasn’t fancy, but it wasn’t shaky or smeary either. To Carole, it looked like a person had taken care with the inscription.

She moved her eyes to the right strap. Along the same narrow stretch of fabric she encountered a rust-colored spot, maybe a quarter inch in diameter, about midway along the strap.

Blood.

Probably, but she wouldn’t jump to conclusions. The next step was a Kastle–Meyer, or KM, test of the spot. If the splotch she was looking at was composed of human blood, she would know soon enough.

Within a few hours, Carole had her answer. She had a blood stain and a good one for analysis—not a smear or thin spatter. More like a single healthy drop. She cocked her head and studied the spot under a magnifying glass. The edges were clean. Nice, she thought. Might not be a mixture.

Mixtures were common. They were splotches of blood containing the biological material of more than one bleeder. This happened when victims struggled with their attackers, or when there was an explosion or a car crash that smashed shattered bodies together. This neat single drop didn’t have that look. She marked the area, made a careful cutting of the affected part of the fabric, and prepped the swatch for DNA analysis. It would take time, but assuming that her instincts were correct, the dried blood spot would produce a singular genotype—the genetic blueprint of exactly one human being, far more distinctive than the most carefully captured fingerprint.