“Any idea who killed this young man?”
“A good one, yes.”
The morning after Julian Crist’s autopsy, Inspector Pierre entered the laboratory in Castries, where thecrime scene technicians had worked late into the previous night. Because the victim was American, and Pierre’s lead suspect was from the States, too, time was short.
“Anything?” Pierre asked.
“Much,” the lead tech said as he peered into a microscope. He swiveled his chair and brought his computer to life by shaking the mouse. A split-screen photo came into view. On the left was the shoeprint impression taken from the dirt just off the bluff on Gros Piton. Next to it was the sole of Grace Sebold’s running shoe, which they had bagged the previous day during the sweep of her room.
“It’s an exact match,” the technician said. “Visually it looks the same. Microscopically it’s identical. Database matched the tread in the impression to Nike Crosstrainers. TR 3 Flyknit. Women’s size seven. It’s the same shoe taken from the American’s room.”
“So our girl was on the bluff?”
“No doubt, sir. Also,” the tech said, swiveling his chair again. He grabbed a sheet of paper as it came off the printer and handed it to Pierre. “The analysis came back from the swabs collected in the American’s bathroom. What we smelled was correct. It’s positive for chlorine bleach. But she was sloppy. Must’ve been in a hurry, because there were traces of blood, too, mixed in with the bleach.”
“And the drain?” Pierre asked.
The tech nodded. “It was blood.”
“No bleach in the drain?”
“No, sir. She only bleached what she could see. The floor and the countertop. The rest of the blood went down the drain, and . . . what is the saying? Away from the eyes . . .”
“Out of sight, out of mind. Does the blood match Mr. Crist?”
“We’re testing it now. The lab is rushing the DNA analysis.”
“Her clothes?”
The technician shook his head. “No blood on her clothing. I tested them myself.”
Pierre shook his head, thinking of all he needed to do in a short window. The local media were already, just two days into his investigation, a heavy presence at the resort. Their calls to headquarters demanding updates had been incessant. And the American media, Pierre was sure, were on the way. He needed to get ahead of the wave. The only thing more spectacular than a dead tourist was an American accused of killing him.
“Good work. Let me know when the DNA comes back.” Pierre turned to leave.
“One more thing, sir.”
Pierre turned back and followed the technician over to the corner of the laboratory, where the evidence cabinets stood. All relevant materials were stored in secured lockers during the analysis portion of an investigation before police took formal custody. The technician opened one of the cabinets.
“Dr. Mundi delivered the victim’s clothes to us yesterday. We didn’t get to them until late. The blood on the shirt collar belonged to Mr. Crist, no other blood found.”
“Preserve the rest for DNA analysis.”
“Yes, sir. We have already done so. We’ll just need a sample to compare it against eventually.”
“I’m working on it,” Pierre said. He’d already spoken to the judge who rendered the search warrant. Fingerprints and mouth swabs would come only after an arrest. “Anything else?”
“Yes, sir.” The technician removed a sealed plastic bag from the locker and handed it to the inspector. “In the victim’s pocket, we found this.”
Pierre took the evidence bag and held it up. A small box was preserved inside. Gray felt covered the exterior.
“What is it?” Pierre said, holding the evidence bag higher, as if this would make its contents more easily recognizable. “A box?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What’s in it?”
“A ring.”
