It was clear there'd been a struggle and Rinaldo had fought his assailant. Locard's Principle, named for the French criminalist Edmond Locard, holds that there is always a transfer of evidence between perp and crime scene or perp and victim. This is especially true in the case of physical struggle. Ideally, Rinaldo would have dug some telltale DNA from his killer's skin with his fingernail as he fought the man. Now, reading the ME's and Sachs's reports, they learned that Rinaldo had worn gloves. Trace from the gloves and his coat, run through the gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer, revealed no chemicals that might lead them to a particular location or suggest a profession that the killer might have had or hairs or other DNA-rich evidence.
Rhyme sighed. "Tires and Rinaldo's shoes. Let's see what they collected."
Fortunately the truck had fairly new tires--and the victim had worn treaded running shoes--so there was a fair amount of soil trace in both.
Cooper prepared a sample for the GC/MS. As he did so, Rhyme squinted and turned away from the machine. He'd heard the faint sound of a key in the front door (after the accident rendered him disabled, he was convinced that his surviving senses grew more acute). Thom was in the kitchen, so this would be Sachs, who'd left earlier to pick up Rinaldo's son at a Child and Family Services facility and take him to an emergency foster care family. He was glad she'd returned; he wanted her insights into the case.
But then he heard something in addition to her footfalls, something that troubled him.
Another set of steps, softer.
He sighed.
"What's wrong?" Mel Cooper asked, noting the expression.
He didn't answer.
Sachs turned the corner with a companion. The boy, strapping and dark-skinned, with crewcut black hair, stopped in the parlor doorway, eyes wide as he gazed at the equipment.
Sachs gave a faint smile at, Rhyme supposed, what would be his look of dismay. She said, "This is Javier."
"Hi," Mel Cooper said.
Rhyme nodded, forcing a smile onto his face.
The boy nodded cautiously then turned back to the machinery.
Sachs paused only a moment and, knowing what Rhyme would be thinking, said, "Javier's not staying here. The foster family's not far away, on the West Side. I told him I'd stop here and he could meet the people who are going to catch the man who killed his father."
The boy fiddled with what looked like a pencil box. It had a picture of some boxy cartoon characters and the word "Minecraft" on it. He also held a tablet of drawing paper and Rhyme could see some sketches of similar characters. They were pretty good for a child of his age.
"Well, yes." Rhyme nodded at him. What was the boy's name again? He'd forgotten already. "We're doing--"
"You in one of those chairs. Damn. Wheels. And a motor. I've seen them. Why?"
"I can't walk."
He blinked. "You can't walk? How d'you play soccer?"
"I can't."
"Shit."
Rhyme now smiled genuinely. "Yeah. Shit."
Sachs said, "Javier? These men're going to use all this equipment, like you see on TV. They're going to find that man."
"Yeah." The boy's eyes had grown cloudy again. He wasn't going to cry, Rhyme assessed, and he wasn't going to give in to a temper tantrum. But he seemed to be shrinking, withdrawing.
"I'll be back in a half hour, Rhyme," Sachs said.
She turned. Javier, however, remained where he was, staring at Rhyme's chair. He pointed to a screen--the one attached to the gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer. He said, "There's this game. FIFA. A video game. You know FIFA?"
He had no idea. He said, "Sure."
"This game, you can play soccer. Any team you want. Chelsea. Liverpool. Galaxy. It's cool. You can play it in your chair. You don't have to run around. You can play it sitting there."
"Thanks, Javier."