The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,73
of the violin. At the request of Joseph Jr.” She pointed toward the back of the room. “Can you lay them out on the other table?”
He nodded, took the folder without a word, and began to place the photographs on the table beside the whiteboard.
Amaia studied a cluster of images devoted to blood—drops, spatters, smears, and reddish-black pools. They were individually numbered. A ruler appeared next to each stain.
“They appear to have followed standard operating procedure to identify evidence, preserve it, and maintain the chain of custody,” Johnson commented. “Each sample was photographed, sealed in an envelope, and labeled.”
Johnson pointed to another group of photos. Odd shapes glowed against dark backgrounds.
“What are we looking at?” Charbou asked.
“Our Galveston friends were thorough. They used luminol reagents and a black light to search for hidden blood stains. Results were negative; there were no signs of an attempt to scrub away blood or any other substances.”
Amaia looked through photos of fingerprints and scanned the accompanying summary. “Every fingerprint they found was from a family member. They were meticulous about collecting and preserving textile fibers. All were later matched to the victims’ clothing.”
Dupree crossed the room and stood next to Johnson and Amaia. “In sum, this crime scene was professionally analyzed right down to the last detail. There’s nothing we can take exception to, as far as technique is concerned.”
“I can’t fault the work,” Amaia said.
“Okay, then,” Dupree said, “but why?”
Johnson and Amaia looked at one another. Johnson responded, “Why what?”
“The Galveston police already emailed us a copy of this stuff. We had the reports and digitized photos. We asked for photos of the violin. Why did the chief send two officers in a squad car to bring us the originals . . . with the hurricane bearing down?”
“I don’t know,” Johnson said. “Do you?”
“I have no idea,” Dupree admitted. “But something must have made Brad Nelson’s boss think it was urgent for us to have them.”
“Might be he knows what young Andrews has been going through,” Johnson suggested. “He could be having some regrets now that he’s heard we might reopen the case.”
Amaia took another slant. “Maybe he doesn’t entirely trust Detective Nelson’s claim that the job was done correctly.”
Johnson shrugged and gestured toward the material spread over every work surface. “As far as I can see, their methodology was above reproach.”
“And the violin?” Dupree went to the table where Jason Bull was standing. They followed.
“Same detail, same technically correct work,” Johnson reported. “Granted, a cleaning team had mopped things up by the time they examined the violin the second time, but the instrument’s clearly visible in the general views and the overheads. The photos show no marks, stains, or any dried liquids on its surface. We can make enlargements from the negatives, but honestly, given the quality of the work, I doubt the technicians overlooked anything.”
Jason Bull cleared his throat.
“Yes?” Amaia invited him to comment.
“Well, maybe it’s nothing at all. I’m no expert or anything, but . . .”
“Bull, did you see something?” Dupree pressed him.
“Maybe it’s nothing,” he said, pointing to one of the photos. “But this right here looks like writing.”
They leaned close and examined the photo, a shot of the violin lying on its side. They saw a curved line where the varnish appeared to have peeled away from the wood under the chin rest.
“Looks like a scratch,” Johnson said. “Like it was scraped against a harder surface.”
Dupree took the photo into his gloved hands and peered at it. “Could be it continues beyond the curve of the sound box. Is there a better view?”
They went through the images of the violin one by one, but none showed whether the mark extended beyond the curved surface.
Dupree sighed, annoyed.
“Let’s check the images of the full room, where the violin is leaning against the chiminea,” suggested Amaia. She led them back to the larger table. She went through those photos and chose two of them. “These capture the side of the instrument, but I can’t see how far the mark extends. We have the film negatives; we can make enlargements to see if we can get a clearer image.”
“Go ahead,” Dupree authorized her. “Do it.”
28
HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT
New Orleans, Louisiana
The rain had gotten heavier. Billowing sheets of falling water, ever more forceful, battered the windows so hard it sounded like an enraged madman was pelting them with fistfuls of rock. The wind howled. The National Hurricane Center reported that the storm covered the entire Gulf of Mexico and the eye of