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toilet seat and bowl.
"Hal thinks the killer finished in the bathroom what he started in the
bedroom. Masturbated here and then wiped the toilet bowl to clean off anything
that would leave a trace of DNA. Ever seen that before?"
"No."
"Well, Hal has. There was a case in Queens last October. Perp had only been
out of jail a week, paroled on an old sex offense. Did a push-in burglary in
Astoria and when he couldn't get it up to complete the rape, he went into the
bathroom and played with himself."
"And the Mr. Clean routine?"
"Just before his release from prison he'd been swabbed, by law, to put his
profile in the convicted offender data bank. He knew that was a surefire way
to identify him in the new venture, so he scoured away the DNA."
"All that tells me is that Emily's killer was smart enough to eliminate any
traces of himself. It doesn't help to figure out whether or not he's our East
Side rapist."
"Damn, you're stubborn. Mr. Silk Stockings didn't complete the assault on
Annika Jelt, did he? I'm sure he wasn't even aware you'd be able to connect
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the cigarette outside on the stoop to that crime. Maybe Emily's killer is keen
to the fact that if you don't match him to the old cases, you can't identify
him or even link the two series. Maybe this is a leopard who actually has
changed his spots."
"No other DNA in Emily's apartment?" Mercer asked.
"Oh, did I neglect to mention that? Coop's pal, Teddy Kroon. His prints are-"
"That's the first thing he told us last night," I said. "Of course they're
everywhere. He found the body of his best friend and tried to see if there was
anything he could do to save her."
"You know how you hate to be interrupted? Same goes for me. The prints don't
surprise me too much-that's exactly what I was going to say. And neither does
his DNA on a wineglass. Maybe it's a little tacky that he sat there swilling
her lukewarm Chianti while he waited for the men in blue, but it's not a
crime. On the other hand, it makes me wonder whether he was in the apartment
earlier than he admitted to us-maybe even drinking there while he waited for
Emily to come home."
"But the messages he left on the answering machine, from the bar they were
supposed to meet in?"
"It's the oddest thing, Coop. Somebody erased them. I didn't want to say it
in front of Teddy, but there were no recordings on it by the time I responded
the other morning. And Teddy's got one more thing to explain."
"What's that?" Mercer asked.
"Why his DNA was all over the computer mouse on Emily's desk."
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"How'd they get a genetic profile from a computer mouse?" Battaglia asked.
"This guy drool on it?"
"Skin cells, Paul. They slough off with ordinary use. It probably means that
Teddy Kroon was holding on to the mouse for several minutes, long enough to be
opening files or surfing the Web without realizing he was leaving his own DNA
fingerprint on it."
The scientific methodology of DNA had changed so radically since its forensic
introduction in the last twenty years that it was not only possible to develop
identifying evidence from minute samples of genetic material, but also to work
from trace evidence, not just blood, semen, and saliva. Sweatbands inside
baseball caps, tearstained clothing, and steering columns on stolen cars that
had been handled by thieves to get them started could yield enough data to
amplify and match to suspects or convicted offenders.
"What was he looking for?"
I was trying to brief Battaglia on the latest developments in the Upshaw case
before he called in the media to give them news of our innovative John Doe
strategy. As usual, he was asking questions to which I did not yet have
answers. The computer forensics cops would have been livid if any of us at the
scene tried to open the files.
"I don't know. We have to get him back in, boss. He never mentioned anything
about the computer. I didn't think to ask him about it at the time."
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Battaglia scowled and kept reading the remarks that Brenda had outlined for
him. "How come it's only the house press?"
He liked it better when all the major networks covered his releases. This one
would just be attended by the stringers assigned to the courthouse from each
of the daily newspapers and the crime reporters from the local TV stations.
"Short notice. Brenda didn't contact them until this morning."
The district attorney walked to the conference table at the far end of the
room. He didn't need to tell me the rules again, but he always liked to do it.
"I'll give them the story and take questions. If I need you to fill in any
blanks, I'll just look over at you and you'll know you can answer. Tell Rose
to let them in." He seated himself in a high-backed green leather chair,
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