Free The Twelfth Card by Jeffery Deaver

of some kind. It was brown and Cooper thought the stain might be blood. A test with the phenolphthalein presumptive blood test revealed that it was.
    “His?” Sellitto wondered.
    “Who knows?” Cooper responded, continuing to examine the sample. “But it’s definitely human. With the compression and fractured ends, I’d speculate the rope’s a garrotte. We’ve seen that before. It could be this was the intended murder weapon.”
    His blunt object would be simply to subdue his victim, rather than to kill her (it’s hard, messy work beating someone to death). He also had the gun, but that would be too loud to use if you wanted to keep the murder quiet in order to escape. A garrotte made sense.
    Geneva sighed. “Mr. Rhyme? My test.”
    “Test?”
    “At school.”
    “Oh, sure. Just a minute . . . I want to know what kind of bug that exoskeleton’s from,” Rhyme continued.
    “Officer,” Sachs said to Pulaski.
    “Yes, m’ . . . Detective?”
    “How ’bout you help us out here?”
    “Sure thing.”
    Cooper printed out a color image of the bit of exoskeleton and handed it to the rookie. Sachs sat him down in front of one of the computers and typed in commands to get into the department’s insect database—the NYPD was one of the few police departments in the world that had not only an extensivelibrary of insect information but a forensic entomologist on staff. After a brief pause the screen began to fill with thumbnail images of insect parts.
    “Man, there’re a lot of them. You know, I’ve never actually done this before.” He squinted as the files flipped past.
    Sachs stifled a smile. “Not exactly like CSI, is it?” she asked. “Just scroll through slowly and look for something you think matches. ‘Slow’ is the key word.”
    Rhyme said, “More mistakes in forensic analysis occur because technicians rush than because of any other cause.”
    “I didn’t know that.”
    Sachs said, “And now you do.”

Chapter Six
    “GC those white blobs there,” Rhyme ordered. “What the hell are they?”
    Mel Cooper lifted several samples off the tape and ran them through the gas chromatograph/mass spectrometer, the workhorse instrument in all forensic labs. It separates unknown trace into its component parts and then identifies them. The results would take fifteen minutes or so, and while they waited for the analysis Cooper pieced together the bullet the emergency room doctor had removed from the leg of the woman whom the killer had shot. Sachs had reported the gun had to be a revolver, not an automatic, since there were no brass cartridges ejected at the scene of the shooting outside the museum.
    “Oh, these’re nasty,” Cooper said softly, examining the fragments with a pair of tweezers. “The gun’s small, a .22. But they’re magnum rounds.”
    “Good,” Rhyme said. He was pleased because the powerful magnum version of the rimfire 22-caliber bullet was rare ammunition and therefore would be easier to trace. The fact that the gun was a revolver made it rarer still. Which meant they should be able to find the manufacturer easily.
    Sachs, who was a competitive pistol shooter, didn’t even need to look it up. “North American Arms is the only one I know of. Their Black Widow model maybe, but I’d guess the Mini-Master. It’s got a four-inch barrel. That’s more accurate and he grouped those shots real tight.”
    Rhyme asked the tech, who was poring over the examination board, “What’d you mean by nasty?”
    “Take a look.”
    Rhyme, Sachs and Sellitto moved forward. Cooper was pushing around bits of blood-stained metal with the tweezers. “Looks like he made them himself.”
    “Explosive rounds?”
    “No, almost as bad. Maybe worse. The outer shell of the bullet’s thin lead. Inside, the slug was filled with these.”
    There were a half dozen tiny needles, about three-eighths of an inch long. Upon impact, the bullet would shatter and the pins would tumble in a V pattern throughout