Free Trial and Terror by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

a few moments, trying to imagine what it might be. Nothing came to mind. “Anything else?” he said, handing the packet back to Sergeant Tyrell.
    â€œJust this,” Tyrell said, handing Frank another sealed plastic packet. This one contained a few tiny shreds of a yarnlike substance in a color somewhere between gray and beige.
    â€œThese are carpet or rug fibers,” Tyrell explained. “They don’t match with any carpets or rugs found in the apartment or place of work of Lee or Rodriguez, but they still could have come off one of those two people.”
    Frank was thinking about how the fibers might be of use. “Let’s say I had a suspect for this crime,” Frank said, “and I found this personhad a carpet or rug that matched these fibers exactly. Would that help point a finger at that person?”
    â€œIt certainly could,” Tyrell said, “If you could match those fibers exactly.”
    â€œHow would I do that?” Frank asked.
    â€œFirst you would have to gather some samples from that person’s home or office,” Tyrell explained. “Then you would need an expert to compare them with these samples. We have a crime lab where specialists are trained for that type of work, but you wouldn’t be allowed access to it.”
    â€œNot even if it would help establish the truth?” Frank said with a hopeful look.
    â€œOur facilities are for the police and prosecutors only,” Tyrell said with a shrug. “You’re lucky the judge is even letting you look at this stuff.”
    â€œBut if, say, you wanted to send something to the crime lab for analysis,” Frank said, “you could do it. Because you’re a policeman. Right?”
    â€œThat’s not really my job,” Tyrell said, scratching his mustache. “But I know some of those people fairly well, and, yes, I probably could. But that doesn’t mean I could do it for someone else who’s not a cop or prosecutor.”
    â€œNot even if that person was the son of Fenton Hardy,” Frank said, locking eyes with Tyrell. Frank did not like to throw his father’s namearound, but sometimes it proved helpful. Most folks who knew Fenton Hardy liked and admired him a great deal.
    Tyrell scratched his mustache some more, all the while looking at Frank. “Okay, kid,” he said, lowering his voice. “If you get some fibers, I’ll send them and these over to the crime lab and have them run a quick check. But you need to keep real quiet about it. Understand?”
    â€œQuiet is my middle name,” Frank said, handing the plastic packet with the fibers back to Tyrell.
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    Joe climbed out of a subway station and walked east. Right away, Joe could see that this area, the East Village, was where the hip people hung out. Most of the people passing by looked to be about his age, Joe thought. Most were dressed in funky clothing, and many of them had their hair dyed wild colors, from orange to aqua.
    Joe walked along a block lined with stores that sold things like old rock’ n’ roll records and super-cool sunglasses.
    Stopping at a pay phone, Joe dialed his home number, then punched in the code to retrieve any messages. There was a message from Frank, who explained that if Joe got into John Q.’s apartment and if there was a carpet or rug there, Joe should collect a few fibers from it. He then said Joe should meet him near Karen Lee’s apartment house in one hour.
    Soon Joe was walking along a block lined with run-down apartment buildings, most of them with graffiti scrawled on their walls. Joe approached the front door of the building with the address that matched the one from John Q.’s letter. Joe buzzed 4F, John’s apartment. There was no answer.
    Joe waited a moment while a girl with a ring in her nose passed by. I must be the squarest guy in the neighborhood, Joe thought as he pulled a metal strip from his