Fairstein, Linda - Final Jeopardy by Final Jeopardy (v1.1) [html] Page B
Authors: Final Jeopardy (v1.1) [html]
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Daggett and Nashaquitsa ponds meet. Over the years I had added border gardens along the stone walls, filled with day lilies and nicotiana, astilbe and asters, and had replaced an acre of untamed weed with a wildflower field that threw up a colorful sea of poppies, loosestrife, and cosmos. Indestructible lilacs rooted beside my front door as they had for more than a century, and impatiens a flower perfectly suited to my temperament lined the sides of the original foundation and bloomed till the first fall frost.
But it was the view beyond that took my breath away every time I came back to it, so I watched with delight as Mike tried to take it all in.
“What direction are we facing?
What body of water is that?“
”You’re looking north over the pond. There’s a tiny fishing village there called Menemsha, then beyond that is Vineyard Sound. Another strip of land the Elizabeth Islands and off in the distance is America.
Cape Cod.“ The combination of dozens of subtle shadings of blue and green was endless today, as the sun danced on the water and the sweeping scope of almost three hundred degrees gave us the illusion of being, literally, on top of the world.
Wally and Luther pulled in behind us and drew me back to the real purpose of our visit. It was a strange and uncomfortable feeling to see Luther walk to the front door of the house and hold it open for me.
I had never met him until one hour ago and yet he had already been inside and knew his way around my home, without ever having had an invitation.
“Why don’t you walk us through, Alex, from room to room. Perhaps your eye will catch some detail we’ve overlooked. And if you recognize any objects that belong to Miss Lascar, or that don’t belong to you, point them out for us, will you?”
“Of course.” I hadn’t been to the house since Labor Day, not quite a month earlier, but no one else had been there since, except my caretaker, and then Isabella.
“Does it matter if we touch things now, Luther?”
“Well, I’m afraid you’re going to see that my team has, uh, dusted quite a few items for prints already. Obvious things.
Drinking glasses in the kitchen and bathroom, mirrors and metal surfaces ..
My stomach churned. Another thing I hadn’t focused on, despite all my professional experience. The police and agents would have been looking for clues inside the house, especially if they thought Isabella had been killed or set up by her traveling companion. Hundreds of victims in cases I’d worked on had described to me the painful intrusion caused by their well-intentioned investigators, rifling through drawers and brushing black powder on possessions to see whether the oils from someone’s fingers had left latent prints prints not visible to the naked eye that could link an assailant to a crime scene.
Waldron continued, “We got some lifts, Alex, so we’ll have to do a set of eliminations before you leave. I directed the coroner to get Miss Lascar’s prints, too. Sorry about the mess that black powder is terrible. You’ll need someone to clean it up after we’re out of here.”
It was routine for the cops to take prints of anyone who had legitimate access to the location, to eliminate them from the latent prints found.
It would be expected to encounter my fingerprints as well as Isabella’s on some of the surfaces.
And once we were eliminated, the inquiry would tighten to find the source of the unidentified whorls and ridges that might be hiding on glassware, porcelain fixtures, and cabinet doors throughout the rooms.
I stepped through the front door into the tiny hallway central to most colonial farmhouses, with its staircase leading up to the guest bedrooms. I led the solemn troupe past that to the left, into the living room, its crisp Pierre Deux upholstery and clean lace curtains looking just as I had left them.
“She must have used the fireplace,” I observed aloud, assuming that was the kind of detail Luther might want to
But it was the view beyond that took my breath away every time I came back to it, so I watched with delight as Mike tried to take it all in.
“What direction are we facing?
What body of water is that?“
”You’re looking north over the pond. There’s a tiny fishing village there called Menemsha, then beyond that is Vineyard Sound. Another strip of land the Elizabeth Islands and off in the distance is America.
Cape Cod.“ The combination of dozens of subtle shadings of blue and green was endless today, as the sun danced on the water and the sweeping scope of almost three hundred degrees gave us the illusion of being, literally, on top of the world.
Wally and Luther pulled in behind us and drew me back to the real purpose of our visit. It was a strange and uncomfortable feeling to see Luther walk to the front door of the house and hold it open for me.
I had never met him until one hour ago and yet he had already been inside and knew his way around my home, without ever having had an invitation.
“Why don’t you walk us through, Alex, from room to room. Perhaps your eye will catch some detail we’ve overlooked. And if you recognize any objects that belong to Miss Lascar, or that don’t belong to you, point them out for us, will you?”
“Of course.” I hadn’t been to the house since Labor Day, not quite a month earlier, but no one else had been there since, except my caretaker, and then Isabella.
“Does it matter if we touch things now, Luther?”
“Well, I’m afraid you’re going to see that my team has, uh, dusted quite a few items for prints already. Obvious things.
Drinking glasses in the kitchen and bathroom, mirrors and metal surfaces ..
My stomach churned. Another thing I hadn’t focused on, despite all my professional experience. The police and agents would have been looking for clues inside the house, especially if they thought Isabella had been killed or set up by her traveling companion. Hundreds of victims in cases I’d worked on had described to me the painful intrusion caused by their well-intentioned investigators, rifling through drawers and brushing black powder on possessions to see whether the oils from someone’s fingers had left latent prints prints not visible to the naked eye that could link an assailant to a crime scene.
Waldron continued, “We got some lifts, Alex, so we’ll have to do a set of eliminations before you leave. I directed the coroner to get Miss Lascar’s prints, too. Sorry about the mess that black powder is terrible. You’ll need someone to clean it up after we’re out of here.”
It was routine for the cops to take prints of anyone who had legitimate access to the location, to eliminate them from the latent prints found.
It would be expected to encounter my fingerprints as well as Isabella’s on some of the surfaces.
And once we were eliminated, the inquiry would tighten to find the source of the unidentified whorls and ridges that might be hiding on glassware, porcelain fixtures, and cabinet doors throughout the rooms.
I stepped through the front door into the tiny hallway central to most colonial farmhouses, with its staircase leading up to the guest bedrooms. I led the solemn troupe past that to the left, into the living room, its crisp Pierre Deux upholstery and clean lace curtains looking just as I had left them.
“She must have used the fireplace,” I observed aloud, assuming that was the kind of detail Luther might want to
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