Page 5 of The Midnight Lock (Lincoln Rhyme 14)

“Correct.”

“And state and federal records do not indicate that he owns or owned a Glock semiautomatic pistol?”

“Correct.”

“In fact the only forensic connection between the murder of Leon Murphy and my client is a few grains of sand on the ground where the victim was found.”

“Six,” Rhyme countered. “More than a few.”

Coughlin smiled—it was directed at the jury. “Sixgrains of sand.”

“Please explain again how that sand connects my client to the murder.”

“The sand was unusual in composition. It was made up of calcium sulfate dihydrate, with silicon dioxide, along with the presence of another substance, C12H24, about three quarters saturated hydrocarbons and one quarter aromatic hydrocarbons.”

“About that other substance, as you call it. Could you translate for us, please?”

“It’s a particular grade of diesel fuel.”

“But why does this connect my client to the scene?”

“Because samples were taken from the street in front of his driveway in Forest Hills, Queens, and similar sand was found there. Control samples taken from where the body was found revealed no such sand.”

“Did the sand taken from my client’s home match that at the scene where Leon Murphy was murdered?”

Rhyme hesitated. “The word ‘match’ in forensic science means identical. Fingerprints match. DNA matches. There are some chemical mixtures that are so complex that they could be said to match.In forensics, barring those situations, we use the word ‘associated.’ You could also say very, very similar to.”

Coughlin repeated, “‘Very, very …’ I see. So then you can’t testify that the grains of sand at my client’s home matched the grains of sand at the crime scene.”

“I just said—”

The attorney snapped, “Can you say the grains of sand from my client’s housematchedthe six grains of sand discovered at the crime scene?”

After a long moment, Rhyme said, “No, I cannot.”

Coughlin brushed a hand through his sturdy hair. “Almost done, Mr. Rhyme. But before you leave, I’d like to ask you just a few more questions.” A fast look to the jury, then back. “And these are about you.”

3

Will it be murder or not?

Will I be watching a human being’s bloody end?

The clearing is surrounded by lush greenery and, beyond, sandy fields. In the hazy distance are hills like camel humps. A jetliner’s contrail slices the sky, high, high, in the air. A voluptuous storm cloud looms and there will be rain soon.

I stretch and observe closely, looking at two men, both sinewy, dark complected, black hair, Latinx features. They are wearing gray slacks and T-shirts with images and type.

I myself am dressed similarly, though my slacks are beige and my T-shirt black, with no markings.

All of us wear running shoes.

The man with the knife is in an AC/DC T-shirt. The man standing in front of him, his hands bound behind his back, is wearing a faded yellow and green shirt. I think there was a sports team logo on the breast but washing has removed it. Brazil soccer, maybe.

AC/DC is speaking loudly, in Spanish. The knife moves but notthreateningly. The man is simply gesturing. Making points, emphasizing. His body language suggests he’s worked up. The strident words spew from the wiry man in staccato bursts.

The man with his hands bound with long and sloppily tied rope is looking as bewildered as afraid.

The lecturer raises the knife in the air. It has a smooth edge on the bottom of the blade, a serrated one on the top.

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