Die Again (Rizzoli & Isles, #11)(47)

She clicked to the next page. Scanned down the list of trace evidence that had been turned over to the crime lab and saw the usual fingernail clippings, combed pubic hairs, orifice swabs. Then she focused on the items at the bottom of the page.

Three hair strands, white/gray, possibly animal, approximately three to four centimeters long. Collected from victim’s bathrobe, near hem.



Possibly animal.

Jane thought of Jodi’s stark wood floors and sleek Swedish furniture, trying to recall seeing any signs that a house pet lived there. A cat, perhaps, who’d brushed up against that blue velour bathrobe. She picked up the phone and called Jodi’s sister.

“She loved animals, but she didn’t have any pets, unless you count that goldfish who died a few months ago,” Sarah said.

“She never had a dog or a cat?” Jane said.

“She couldn’t. She was so allergic that if she just got near a cat, she’d start to wheeze.” Sarah gave a sad laugh. “When she was a kid, she dreamed of being a veterinarian and she volunteered at the local animal hospital. That’s when she got her first asthma attack.”

“Did she own any fur coats? Maybe something with rabbit or mink?”

“Not a chance. Jodi belonged to PETA.”

Jane hung up and stared at the words on her computer. Three hairs, possibly animal.

And she thought: Leon Gott had cats.

“THESE THREE HAIR STRANDS present an interesting puzzle,” said Erin Volchko. A veteran Boston PD criminalist specializing in hair and fibers, Erin had tutored dozens of detectives over the years, guiding them through the intricate analysis of carpet fibers and hair strands, pointing out the differences between wool versus cotton, synthetic versus natural, plucked hair versus cut. Although Jane had peered into the microscope many times, examining strands from countless crime scenes, she would never have Erin’s knack for distinguishing one strand from another; all blond hairs looked alike to Jane.

“I’ve got one of the hairs under the scope now,” said Erin. “Have a seat and I’ll show you my problem.”

Jane settled on the lab stool and looked into the double-headed teaching microscope. Through the eyepieces, she saw a strand that stretched diagonally across the field of view.

“This is Strand Number One collected from Ms. Underwood’s blue bathrobe,” said Erin, looking through the other pair of eyepieces. “Color: white. Curvature: straight. Length: three centimeters. You can see the cuticle, cortex, and medulla very clearly. Focus first on the color. See how it’s not quite uniform? It seems to get paler as you reach the tip, a feature that’s called banding. Natural human hair tends to be of uniform color throughout the entire strand, so this is the first clue we’re dealing with something that’s not human. Now look at the medulla, the central pipeline running through the length of the strand. This medulla is wider than in human hair.”

“So what kind of hair is this?”

“The outer layer of cuticle gives us a pretty good idea. I’ve taken photomicrographs. Let me show you.” Erin swiveled around to the computer on her desk and tapped on the keyboard. A magnified image of the hair appeared on-screen. The surface of the strand was covered with slender triangular scales, layered like armor.

“I’d describe these scales as spinous,” said Erin. “See how they lift up slightly, as if about to peel away, like little petals? I love how intricate everything looks under high magnification. A whole new universe that we can’t see with the naked eye.” Erin smiled at the screen as if viewing a foreign city she wished she could visit. Trapped all day in this windowless room, her crime beat was these microscopic landscapes of keratin and protein.

“So what does it mean?” asked Jane. “The fact it’s got spinous scales?”

“It confirms my first impression that it’s not human. As for species, this scale shape is characteristic of mink, seals, and house cats.”

“Common things are common. So I’m guessing this is from a house cat.”

Erin nodded. “I can’t say it with one hundred percent certainty, but a cat is the most likely source. A single cat sheds hundreds of thousands of hairs in a single year.”

“Holy cow. That’s a lot of vacuuming.”

“And if you’ve got more than one cat in the house, or dozens of them like some of those cat hoarders, imagine how many hairs that adds up to.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I saw one forensic study that showed it’s impossible to enter a residence where a cat lives without picking up some of its hair. Most American households have at least one cat or dog, so who knows how this particular hair got transferred to the victim’s bathrobe? If she didn’t have a cat herself, she could have been around a friend’s cat.”

“Her sister says the victim was severely allergic and avoided animals. I’m wondering if she picked up these hairs from a secondary source. The killer.”

“And you think this killer transferred them from the Leon Gott crime scene.”

“Gott had two cats and a dog, so his house was like a fur factory. I got covered in cat hair just walking through the place. The killer would have picked up hairs, too. If I collected a few hairs from Gott’s cats, can you run DNA comparisons with these three strands?”

Erin sighed and slid her glasses up on her head. “I’m afraid DNA would present a bit of a problem. All three of these strands from Jodi Underwood’s bathrobe were shed during the animals’ telogen phase. These hairs have no root tags, ergo no nuclear DNA.”