On Harrow Hill

Slovak tilted his head from side to side, the movement of someone trying to loosen tight neck muscles. “The suggestion that the prints in the bedroom belong to Billy Tate?” He shook his head. “There has to be another—”

She cut him off. “The man’s prints are the man’s prints. A fact. Not a suggestion. They’re clear, clean, and recent. And there’s the AFIS ID—”

Now he cut her off. “The system isn’t perfect. Mistakes are made. Human error. AFIS has been known to screw up. Their search algorithms depend on human judgment. Nothing in the system is perfect. Point is, everyone we’ve spoken to says Tate was never in the house—and that Angus would have put a bullet in him if he even set foot on the property. Plus, coming anywhere near Angus would have violated the terms of his parole—”

“I’ve been doing this for a long time,” interrupted Barstow. “Nineteen years. Thousands of prints, thousands of IDs. Never has there been the kind of screwup you’re talking about. Not by me. Not by AFIS.”

A timely ratatatat from the woodpecker in the forest punctuated her assertion.

Slovak repeated his neck-stretching exercise. “I’m just saying—”

Morgan spoke over him, to Gurney. “You were always fascinated by odd little discrepancies. This one make any sense to you?”

“Not yet. But it could be significant.”

“Why?” Slovak’s tone was more curious than challenging.

“Things that make no sense at first often tell you the most in the end.”

Morgan asked Barstow if she had run the prints through the system a second time.

“I did.”

“Same result?”

“The same.”

“Anything come back yet on the bloodstained scalpel?”

“We should hear momentarily if the prints on it are of any use. And maybe get data on the blood by noon.”

“Bloodwork being done at the college lab?”

“With a sample to Albany for confirmation.”

“How about the dog?”

“Dr. Fallow found a piece of fabric in its mouth.”

“That fabric,” interjected Slovak, “could be a major break. The dog probably got his teeth into the intruder’s sleeve or pants leg before getting whacked on the head. Good chance of recovering his DNA from it.”

“Or her DNA,” added Barstow.

Morgan nodded with a tense smile and turned to Gurney. “As long as we’re here at the attacker’s entry point, do you want to go inside and see the murder site?”

“Might as well.”

As they headed for the conservatory door, Morgan’s phone rang. He peered at the screen, grimaced, and took a few steps away. After saying something into the phone—Gurney thought he heard the name “Chandler”—Morgan looked back at Slovak.

“Take Dave through the house. I’ll catch up with you.”

“Yes, sir.” Slovak sounded pleased with the assignment. He strode over to the conservatory door, gesturing to Gurney to join him. He pointed to where a glass pane had been smashed out of its frame. Pulverized remnants were strewn on the concrete floor. Gurney recognized the distinctive shatter pattern of break-resistant glass.

“Was the security system activated?”

“Actually, sir, there isn’t any security system.”

“On an estate like this? Nothing at all?”

“Strange, right?”

Strange indeed, thought Gurney, as he examined the metal frame by the door handle. Every bit of the pane had been pounded out of it.

“Very thorough,” he said, as much to himself as to Slovak. “Almost obsessively so.”

“And well planned,” said Barstow, who had joined them.

“I don’t know about planning,” said Slovak, giving her a testy look, “but this isn’t the work of a burglar with a brick. According to the housekeeper, nothing’s been disturbed and nothing’s missing.”

“Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing,” said Barstow, pointing at the glass on the conservatory floor. “I’d say that shatter pattern resulted from the use of just the right kind of tool for that kind of glass.”

That got Gurney’s attention. “Describe it.”

“A heavy hammer with a small head to concentrate the impact. The injury to the dog’s head looks to have been caused by the same kind of implement.”

Slovak shifted impatiently on his feet. “We’ll get the real answer from Dr. Fallow.”

Barstow’s gaze remained on Gurney. “Unless there’s anything else you want from me, I need to catch up with my team and see how the second perimeter search is going.”

“The second?”

“I like to go through a crime scene at least twice. If you have any questions about on-site evidence, you can reach me anytime through Chief Morgan.” She exchanged nods with Gurney, ignored Slovak, and headed with long elegant strides across the lawn toward the two Tyvek-clad figures at the edge of the woods.

“Okay!” said Slovak with the irritation of a man delayed at a traffic light that had finally turned green. “Let’s get started.”

7

Gurney had been in botanical-garden conservatories before, but never in anything quite like this. A tropical world of trees, shrubs, and flowers was cosseted in the decor of a grand English manor. The planting bed enclosures resembled fine furniture. The little pathways winding among them were of polished yellow stone, edged with satin-finished hardwood.