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Pulaski was frowning. “What’s that?”
“He’s a dick.”
Cooper called, “I’ve got the shoes. Both’re size eleven. Smooth soles. No manufacturer’s ID.”
Naturally, one of the most common. And shoe size has onlya tangential correlation to height or build. “Wear patterns?” he called. Heels or tips worn down in certain ways can reveal professions.
“Gilligan’s’re worn more than the shooter’s, but neither of them tell us anything.”
Cooper, bent over the microscope again, called, “More trace from the mystery location. Fibers that have the cellular structure of horsehair. Like the rest of it, old.”
“The computer?” Rhyme asked. “It’s Gilligan’s for sure?”
Pulaski told him, “Yep. His name and number are on a label on the back. If found, please call et cetera. His prints too. Only his. And it’s his personal one, not PD issue.”
“How do you know?”
Pulaski said, “It’s a Core i7. With an Nvidia graphics card. Too expensive to be PD issue.”
“It’sgotto have something we can use. Please tell me it’s not locked.”
A few keystrokes. “Nope. Password.”
Pulaski said, “And it doesn’t have a fingerprint key to unlock it.” Print readers on electronics don’t optically read the ridges, furrows and whorls. They sense conductance—electric charges—in the ridges. Conductance quickly decreases after death, though. The computer would remain locked for the time being.
“I’ve got him on the deli video,” Pulaski called.
Rhyme was looking at a fish-eye high-definition scene of the interior of a diner. He couldn’t help but be impressed. The kid—no, the young man—had gone the extra step to drive to the restaurant and get a copy of the recording. What was significant about this was that he was mixing crime scene work with field investigation. That was unusual—and, some would say, against protocol. Usually a forensic officer handed off findings to a detective, who would then follow up. This two-step process often resulted in delays. Pulaski wasn’t having any of that. He wantedcrime scene leads followed up on immediately. And that meant doing it himself. He’d told Rhyme once about this theory he had—the forty-eight-minute rule in closing cases. The criminalist couldn’t disagree.
In the video they watched Andy Gilligan as he entered; the lighting was good. He was led to a table off to the side, where he sat with his back to the camera. He ordered a meal, a cup of coffee. He ate and drank quickly and made no calls and sent or received no texts.
“That’s odd,” Pulaski offered. “Nobody by themselves in a restaurant doesn’t hit the electronics. He’s just staring out the window.”
“Because he feels like a shit for what he did.” Rhyme added, “Or thinking of ways to spend whatever the shooter paid him.”
Then he fell silent and squinted. “There’s something …”
“What’s that, Linc?”
“I want to see it again. From the minute he enters. Regular speed.”
Pulaski manipulated the controls. “You have something?”
The answer was: not exactly. But the images had triggered a vague association.
A memory.
Was it the restaurant?
No, he’d never seen it before.
The view outside?
No, just any city street.
Maybe it was something about Gilligan himself …
After all, the man had spent some hours here in the parlor on the DSE break-in case. He’d been here just this morning.
