Total Control Page 44

  preparations to perform a gunshot residue test, a GSR. However, time was running out: Samples optimally had to be collected within six hours of the gun having been fired, and Sawyer was afraid they were about to miss that deadline.

  The tech dipped a number of cotton swabs in a diluted nitric acid solution. Separate swabs were rubbed over the front and back of each corpse's hands. If any of them had fired a gun recently, then testing would reveal deposits of barium and antimony, primer charge components used in the manufacture of virtually all ammo. It wasn't conclusive. If a positive result came back, it wouldn't necessarily mean any of them had fired the murder weapon, only some firearm within the last six hours. In addition, they could have merely han died the firearm after it had been fired--for instance, in a struggle-and gotten the residue from the exterior of the weapon after it had just been fired. But a positive GSR result could conceivably help Sidney Archer's cause, Sawyer figured. Even though all the evidence seemingly pointed to her involvement in the homicides, Sawyer was dead certain she hadn't pulled the trigger.

  "One more favor?" Sawyer asked Detective Royce. Royce's eye brows shot up. "I'd like a copy of that tape."

  "Sure. Whatever."

  Sawyer rode the elevator back up to the lobby, walked to his car and phoned in for the FBI's forensics team. While he waited for them to arrive, one thought beat relentlessly through Sawyer's head.

  Where the hell was Sidney Archer?

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Usually eschewing any except the most modest makeup, Sidney now took great pains to stencil in her face with considerable detail, holding up her compact as she stood in the stall in the women's rest room at Penn Station. She had concluded that the man pursuing her wouldn't have figured her to come back here. She then put on a tan leather cowboy hat, pulling the brim down low over her forehead.

  With enough artificial color on her face to almost qualify for hooker status and her bloody clothes in a shopping bag destined for a Dumpster, she walked out of the rest room attired in an assortment of garments she had spent the better part of the day acquiring: tight stone-washed blue jeans, pointy beige cowboy boots, thick white cotton shirt and a heavily insulated black leather bomber jacket. She looked nothing like the conservative Washington, D.C., attorney she had recently been and whom the police would soon be hunting down for murder. She made certain the .32 was carefully hidden away in an inner pocket. New York's gun laws were among the stiffest in the country.

  A half-hour ride northeast on the commuter train took her to Stamford, Connecticut, one of a string of bedroom communities feeding the working New Yorker's desire to live outside the hyper-kinetic metropolis. A taxicab ride of twenty minutes took her to a lovely white brick home with black shutters nestled in a quiet neighborhood of similarly high-priced residences. The name PATTERSON was stenciled on the mailbox. Sidney paid the cabdriver, but instead of going to the front door she walked around back to the garage area. Next to the garage door hung a large, ornate wooden bird feeder. Sidney looked around and then stuck her hand into the feed, pushing through the rough particles until she got to the bottom of the feeder. She pulled out the set of keys buried there, went over to the back door, put a key in the lock and the door opened. Her brother, Kenny, and his family were in France. He was incredibly bright, ran a very successful independent publishing business, but was also absentminded as hell. He had locked himself out of every home he had ever owned, hence the keys in the bird feeder, a fact well known to every member of his family.

  The home was old, solidly built and beautifully decorated, with large rooms and comfortable furnishings. Sidney did not have time to enjoy the surroundings. She went into a small study. Against one wall was a large enclosed oak cabinet. Using another key from the key ring, Sidney opened the heavy double doors and viewed the contents of the cabinet: An impressive array of shotguns and pistols loomed in front of her. She settled on a Winchester 1300 Defender.

  The twelve-gauge shotgun was relatively light, weighing in under seven pounds. It chambered three-inch Magnum shells that would stop anything on two legs, and, perhaps most important, sported an eight-shot magazine. She put several boxes of Magnum shells into one of her brother's ammo bags she had pulled from a drawer in the cabinet. Next she looked over the pistols hanging on special hooks mounted into the wall of the cabinet next to the shotgun collection.

  She had little confidence in the stopping force of the .32. She picked up several of the pistols, testing them for weight and comfort. Then she smiled as her hand closed around an old familiar: a Smith & Wesson Slim Nine complete with unblemished grip. She grabbed the pistol and a box of 9mm ammo, stuffed it in the same bag with the shotgun loads and locked the cabinet back up. Snagging a pair of binoculars off another shelf, Sidney left the room.

  She ran upstairs to the master bedroom and spent several minutes going through her sister-in-law's clothing. Soon Sidney had assembled a suitcase full of warm clothing and footwear. A thought suddenly struck her. She switched on the small TV in the bedroom. She channel-surfed until she found an all-news station. The top story of the day was being recounted, and though she had been expecting it, her heart sank when her face appeared on the screen next to a picture of the limo. The news story was brief but devastating in portraying her inescapable guilt. Sidney received another shock as the screen split into two and she was joined by a photo of Jason. He looked tired in the photo, which she instantly recognized as the one on his Triton security badge. Apparently the media were finding the husband-wife master criminal angle an engaging one. Sidney studied her own face on the screen. She too looked tired, her hair plastered down on either side of her head. She and Jason looked...

  guilty, she concluded. Even if they weren't. But right now, most of the country would believe them to be villains, a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde.

  She rose on unsteady legs and on a sudden impulse went into the bathroom, where she stripped off her clothes and climbed in the shower. The sight of the limo had reminded her that she still carried vestiges on her person of those horrible few moments. She had closed and locked the bathroom door upon entering. Keeping the shower curtain wide open, she never left her back exposed to the door. The loaded .32 revolver lay within easy reach. The hot water took the chill off her bones. By accident she glimpsed her exhausted, gaunt face in the small mirror affixed to the shower wall and shuddered at the sight. She felt tired and old. Emotionally and mentally spent, her body was giving way on her. She could feel the physical decline inch by miserable inch. Then she gritted her teeth and slapped herself in the face. She couldn't give up now. She was an army of one, but a damned determined one. She had Amy. That was something no one would ever take away from her.

  Finished with her shower, she dressed warmly and raced to the mudroom, where she grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight off a hook. It had suddenly occurred to her that the police would be checking with all of her family and friends. She carried everything out to the garage, where she eyed the dark blue Land Rover Discovery, one of the sturdiest vehicles ever built. She put her hand under the left fender and pulled out a set of car keys. Her brother really was something.

  She turned off the sophisticated car security system by punching the tiny button on the car key, slightly wincing at the weird birdlike sound made by the deactivation. She was careful to place the shotgun on the floorboard of the backseat with a heavy blanket over it. The pistols were placed in the ammo bag, which was shoved under the front seat.

  The V-8 engine roared to life. Sidney hit the door opener that was clipped to the visor and backed the Land Rover out of the garage.

  Carefully searching the street for any people or vehicles and finding none, Sidney eased the two-ton truck out of the driveway and onto the road, rapidly gathering speed as she left the quiet Stamford neighborhood.

  Within twenty minutes she had reached Interstate 95. Traffic was heavy and it took her a while before she left Connecticut{ behind. She sliced her way through Rhode Island and made the loop around Bost
on by one in the morning. The Land Rover was equipped with a cellular phone; however, after her informative talk with Jeff Fisher, Sidney was reluctant to use it. Besides, who would she call? She stopped once, in New Hampshire, to grab some coffee and a candy bar and to fill the gas tank. The snow was now coming down full-tilt, but the Land Rover easily plowed through it, and the flapping sound of the windshield wipers at least was keeping her awake. By three in the morning, however, she was nodding off at the wheel so frequently that she had to pull over finally at a truck stop. She wedged the Land Rover in between two Peterbilt OTR semis, locked the doors, slid into the backseat, gripped the loaded 9mm with one hand and fell asleep. The sun was well up by the time she awoke. She grabbed a quick breakfast at the truck stop and within a few hours was well past Portsmouth, Maine. Two hours later she saw the exit she was seeking and turned off the highway. She was now on U.S. Route 1. At this time of year, Sidney had the road pretty much to herself.

  In the blur of heavy snow she passed the small sign announcing her arrival into the town of Bell Harbor, population !,650. While she was growing up, her family had spent many wonderful summers in the peaceful town: private, wide beaches, ice-cream sundaes and juicy sandwiches at the innumerable eateries in the resort town, a show at the town's very own playhouse, long bike rides and walks along Granite Point, where one could observe, up close, the ominous power of the Atlantic on a windy afternoon. She and Jason had planned one day to buy a beach house near her parents. They both had looked forward to spending summers up here, watching Amy run along the beach and dig pools in the sand much as Sidney had done twenty-five years before. It was a nice thought. She hoped it was still capable of becoming reality. Right now none of it seemed even remotely possible.

  Sidney made her way toward the ocean, finally turning south onto Beach Street, where she slowed down. Her parents' house was a large, two-story affair of gray weathered board with dormer windows and a deck running the Width of the house on both the upper-level ocean side and the street side. A garage occupied the basement level of the house. The ocean wind funneling in between the close-together beach houses managed to rock even the tanklike Land Rover. Sidney could not remember ever being in Maine at this time of year. The sky looked particularly unfriendly. When she glimpsed the endless darkness of the Atlantic, it occurred to her that she had never seen snow falling into the ocean before.

  She slowed down slightly as her parents' house came into view.

  All of the other beach homes on the street were uninhabited. In winter, Bell Harbor was akin to a ghost town. Added to that, the Bell Harbor Police Department numbered all of one during off-season months. If the man who had calmly killed in a stretch limo in Washington and tracked her to New York decided to come after her again, he would be more than a match for Bell Harbor's finest of one. She grabbed the ammo bag from under the seat and put a clip in her 9mm. She pulled into her parents' snow-covered drive and got out.

  There was no sign that her parents had arrived. They must have stopped along the way because of the weather. She pulled the Land Rover into the garage and shut the door. She unloaded it and carried the items up the interior stairs leading from the garage to the house.

  She had no way of knowing that the heavy snow had covered up very recent tire tracks in her parent's yard. Nor did she venture into the back bedroom, where numerous pieces of luggage were neatly stacked. As she entered the kitchen, she couldn't see the car passing slowly by the house and then continuing on.

  The interior of the FBI testing facility was going full steam. The white-coated FBI technician walked around the exterior of the limo, motioning Sawyer and Jackson to follow her. The left-side rear passenger door was open. Fortunately, the limo's recent occupants had been since transported to the morgue. Set up next to the limo was a PC with a screen a full twenty-one inches across. The tech stepped in front of it and began keying in commands as she was speaking.

  Wide of hip, with lovely olive skin and a mouth that showed many smile lines, Liz Martin was one of the bureau's best and hardest-working lab rats.

  "Before we physically removed any trace, we hit the entire interior, both front and back, with the Luma-lite, as you requested, Lee.

  We found some things of interest. We also videotaped the interior of the vehicle while we were conducting the exam and fed that video into the system. Makes it a lot easier for you to follow along." She handed each of the two agents a pair of goggles while she donned a pair herself. "Welcome to the theater; these are for your viewing pleasure." She smiled. "Actually, they block out different wavelengths that may have occurred during the exam and which may otherwise obscure what was captured on the film." As she spoke, the screen came alive. They were looking at the inside of the limo. It was very dark, the conditions under which a Luma-lite exam was conducted.

  Using a powerful laser of particularly high wattage, the test was designed to make a wide range of otherwise invisible items lurking at a crime scene visible.

  Liz manipulated a mouse connected to the PC and the two agents watched as a large white arrow made its way across the screen. "We started out using a single light source, no chemicals applied. We were looking for inherent fluorescence, then we moved on to a series of dyes and powders."

  "You said you found some items of interest, Liz?" Sawyer's tone was a touch impatient, his eyes glued to the screen even as he asked the question.

  "Hard not to in such a contained space as that, considering what happened there." Her eyes flickered briefly over at the limo. As her fingers expertly manipulated the mouse, the white arrow came to rest on what looked to be the rear seat of the limo. Liz hit some additional keys and the area was blocked off on a series of grids appearing on the screen and magnified until it was readily visible.

  However, being readily discernible to the human eye and being readily identifiable were not the same thing.

  Sawyer turned to Liz. "What the hell is that?" It looked like a string of some kind, but magnified and enlarged as it was, it had taken on the thickness of a pencil.

  "Simply speaking, a fiber." Liz pressed another key on the computer and the fiber took on a three-dimensional shape. "From the looks of it, I'd say wool, animal, the real thing, not synthetic, gray in color. Sound familiar to either of you?"

  Jackson snapped his fingers. "Sidney Archer was wearing a blazer that morning. It was gray."

  Sawyer was already nodding. "That's right."

  Liz looked back at the screen and nodded thoughtfully. "Wool blazer. That would fit the bill."

  "Where exactly did you find it, Liz?" Sawyer asked.

  "Left rear seat, more towards the middle really." Using the mouse, Liz drew a line across the screen measuring from the spot the fiber was found to the far left side of the rear seat. "Twenty-seven inches from the end of the left-side rear seat, seven inches up from the seat.

  With that location it would seem logical that it came from a coat.

  We also picked up some synthetic cloth fibers right next to the left-side door. They matched the clothing found on the deceased male sitting in that position."

  She turned back to the screen. "We didn't need the laser to find these next samples. They were plainly visible." The screen changed and Liz used the arrow to point out several single strands of hair.

  "Let me guess," Sawyer said. "Long and blond. Natural, not bleached. Found very near the fiber."

  "Very good, Lee, we'll make a scientist out of you yet." Liz smiled pleasantly. "Next we used leucocrystal violet to test for blood. Found a ton of it, as you can imagine. Spray patterns are pretty evident and actually very demonstrative in this case, again probably due to the tight parameters of the crime scene." They looked at the computer screen, where the interior of the limo was now glowing brightly in numerous places. For a moment it looked like they were deep in a mine and bits of gold blazed out at them from every nook and cranny. Liz marked several spots with the pointer. "My conclusion is that the gentleman found on the floor of the backseat was either si
tting facing the rear or with his face partially toward the right-hand side window. Gunshot wound was near the right temple. Blood, bone and tissue throw-off was considerable. You can see the rear seat is covered with the debris."

  "Yeah, but there's an evident gap there." Sawyer pointed to the left

  side of the rear seat.

  "Good eye, that's absolutely right," Liz said. She used her measuring device again. "We found samples pretty uniformly distributed on the rear seat. That's what makes me think the victim"--she glanced at some notes next to the computer--"Brophy, had turned away, toward his left. That would leave the area of the gunshot, the right temple, facing directly at the rear seat, which accounts for the considerable trace coverage on the rear seat."

  "Sort of like a cannon firing," Sawyer said dryly.

  "Not exactly a technical term, but not bad for a layman, Lee." Liz arched her eyebrows and then continued. "However, the left half of the rear seat is virtually absent of any trace, no blood, no tissue, no bone fragments for approximately forty-five inches, almost four feet.

  Why is that?" She looked at the two agents like a schoolmarm waiting for her students to start waving their hands.

  Sawyer answered. "We know one of the victims was sitting on the far left side: Philip Goldman. He was found there. But he was an average-size guy. There's no way he could account for that width.

  From the size of the gap, and the hair and fiber trace you already picked up, another person was sitting right next to Goldman."

  "That's how I read it," Liz answered. "Goldman's wound would have thrown off quite a bit of residue as well. Again, nothing on the seat next to him. That reinforces the conclusion that someone else was seated there and took the full brunt of it. Not a pleasant business, to say the least. I'd be soaking in a bath for a week if it had happened to me, knock on wood."

  "Wool coat, long, blond hair--" Jackson began.

  "And this," Liz broke in, and pointed at the screen. They all stared as the scene changed once more. It was the rear seat again.

  The leather had been torn in several spots. Three parallel jagged lines ran from front to back at a spot very near where Goldman had been found. In the middle of the damage a solitary object rested.

  The agents looked at Liz.

  "That's part of a fingernail. We haven't had time to run a DNA

  typing analysis, of course, but it's definitely female."

  "How do you know that?" Jackson asked.

  "It's not always so complicated, Ray. Long nail, professionally manicured, fingernail polish. Men rarely put themselves through that."

  "Oh."

  "The parallel lines on the leather--"

  "Scratches," Sawyer said. "She scratched the seat and broke a nail."

  "Right. She must've been really panicked," Liz noted.