Final justice - W.E.B. Griffin [129]
"You're not pulling my chain, are you?" McFadden asked, seriously.
"No. If there is an . . . incident, we are all up that famous creek without a paddle."
"How the hell did you get involved in this?"
Matt started to push his robe from Olivia's shoulders. She stiffened, but then relaxed and then shrugged out of it.
"Colt is here to raise money for West Catholic High--"
"I saw that in the paper," McFadden interrupted.
Matt raised his head and kissed Olivia's nipple.
She sighed. When he lay back down, she shook her head, tolerantly.
"--Monsignor Schneider, who's the cardinal's man for the visit, is a cop groupie. When Colt told him he would like to see real cops at work, Schneider thought of me and went to the commissioner, and I got stuck with it."
"But why you?"
"Schneider thinks I was a real heroic cop in Doylestown," Matt said after a perceptible pause.
"Oh, shit!" McFadden said, sympathetically.
Susan Reynolds's sightless eyes came to Matt's mind.
"Shit!" Matt said.
"What?" McFadden asked.
Olivia looked at him with concern, then touched his cheek to turn his head so that she could look in his eyes. Her eyes asked, "What?"
"Nothing," Matt said. "Charley, I have to go. . . ."
"The naked broad's horny?"
"Absolutely. I'll see you and Hay-zus at the airport at three."
"Yeah," Detective McFadden said, and hung up.
Matt tossed the telephone aside and looked up at Olivia. "A lot of people thought you acted heroically in Doylestown," she said.
"That's a joke. I didn't even do the job right. If I had, Susan would still be alive."
" 'Susan'? You were friends?"
"More than friends," Matt said.
"I saw you crying on TV," she said. "I wondered."
He looked at her but didn't say anything.
"You know what I feel like doing to you right now?" she said.
"I'm yours! And I love your imagination."
"I feel like putting my arms around you and holding you and telling you that everything's going to be all right."
"That isn't exactly what I thought you had in mind."
"Can I?" Olivia asked.
"Yeah," he said after a moment.
She leaned toward him and he half sat up, and she put her arms around him and held him to her breast.
They stayed that way for perhaps three minutes, and then Olivia glanced down at the sheet covering his groin.
"You horny sonofabitch," she said, wonderingly.
"Is that a complaint?"
She pushed him away from her breast and back onto the bed and looked down at him for a moment before shaking her head, "no."
Fifteen minutes later, they got into the unmarked Crown Victoria and rode out to the Northeast Detectives Division and gave their statements.
THIRTEEN
[ONE]
J. Richard Candelle, a squat, gray-haired fifty-year-old black man who wore his frameless spectacles low on his nose, looked over them at Detective Tony Harris, backed against a laboratory table, shook his head, and announced, "Tony, I'm sorry, that's the best I can do. There's just not enough points."
The reality of identification through fingerprints is not nearly as simple, or as easy, as a thousand cops-and-robbers movies have made the public--and, in fact, a surprising number of law enforcement officers--think it is.
Fingerprints are identified--and compared with others-- through a system of point location, and the classification of these points. The more points on a print, the better. The more prints--prints of more than one finger, of the heel of the hand, or ten fingers and both heels--and the more classified points on each print, the easier it is to find similarly classified prints in the files.
Presupposing having both to compare, comparing the print found on the visor hat left behind by the doer at the Roy Rogers restaurant with the print of the doer himself would be relatively simple and would just about positively identify the suspect.
But establishing the identity of the doer by finding a match of his index-finger print among the hundreds of thousands of index-finger prints in the files of the Philadelphia police department, or the millions