The Final Twist
Page 34
The People of the State of New York v. Viktor Buryak, however, had nothing to do with that. This was about a single incident, a single crime, a single murder.
Leon Murphy had been shot to death a week or so after a meeting with the manager of a warehouse that Buryak owned. Murphy was a psychotic wannabe gangbanger who fancied himself a descendant of the Westies, the brutal Irish gang that had once ruled Hell’s Kitchen in Manhattan. Murphy had made a sales pitch offering protection to the warehouse manager.
A very bad business idea, selling that particular product to that particular consumer.
Coughlin asked, “Did you find footprints near Leon Murphy’s body? Or near where the bullet casing was found?”
“Near the body, the field was grassy, no footprints could be ascertained. Near the bullet casing, the evidence collection technicians found footprints but because of a recent rain it was impossible to determine the type of shoe.”
“So you can’t testify that my client’s footprints were found at the scene of the crime?”
“Don’t you think that can be inferred from my prior comment?” Rhyme asked acerbically. He’d learned that nobody cares about badgering attorneys. That’s what they’re paid for.
“Mr. Rhyme, does the NYPD forensics unit routinely collect DNA at crime scenes?”
“Yes.”
“And did you discover any of my client’s DNA at the scene where Leon Murphy was killed?”
“No.”
“Mr. Rhyme, you analyzed the bullet that killed Mr. Murphy, correct? That is, the lead slug?”
“Yes.”
“And you analyzed the shell casing too?”
“That’s correct.”
“And, once more, what caliber was that?”
“Nine-millimeter parabellum.”
“And you testified that the lands and grooves, that is the rifling of the barrel, suggest that the gun was a Glock seventeen.”
“A Glock definitely, a model seventeen most likely.”
“Mr. Rhyme, did you or any investigators you were working with check firearms records in any state or federal databases with regard to my client?”
“Yes.”
“And does or did he own a Glock, specifically a model seventeen?”
“I have no idea.”
“Explain, Mr. Rhyme.”
“He might own a dozen.”
“Your Honor,” said Coughlin. He sounded slightly wounded that Rhyme was treating him so unfairly.
Was Viktor Buryak on the verge of smiling?
“Mr. Rhyme.” The judge was growing weary.
“He asked if he owned a Glock, and I testified that I have no idea. Which I don’t. I can testify that the record shows that, in New York State, he owns no legally registered Glocks.”
ADA Sellars said, “Your Honor, the defense is straying from Captain Rhyme’s contribution to the case, which is not firearms purchase records. It relates solely to his expertise in physical evidence.”
Coughlin said, “Let me lay this foundation, Your Honor. It will be clear in a moment where I’m going.”
Rhyme looked at his keen eyes and wondered what that destination might be.
“Proceed . . . for the moment.”
“Mr. Rhyme, to recap, could you confirm that my client’s DNA was not found at either the site of the body or site of the shell casing?”
“Correct.”
“Or on the body or shell casing.”
“That’s true.”
“And his footprints and fingerprints were not found at either place?”
“Correct.”
“And no fibers or hairs that could be traced to him were found there?”
“Correct.”
“And state and federal records do not indicate that he owns or owned a Glock semiautomatic pistol?”
“Correct.”
“In fact the only forensic connection between the murder of Leon Murphy and my client is a few grains of sand on the ground where the victim was found.”
“Six,” Rhyme countered. “More than a few.”
Coughlin smiled—it was directed at the jury. “Six grains of sand.”
“Please explain again how that sand connects my client to the murder.”
“The sand was unusual in composition. It was made up of calcium sulfate dihydrate, with silicon dioxide, along with the presence of another substance, C12H24, about three quarters saturated hydrocarbons and one quarter aromatic hydrocarbons.”
“About that other substance, as you call it. Could you translate for us, please?”
“It’s a particular grade of diesel fuel.”
“But why does this connect my client to the scene?”
“Because samples were taken from the street in front of his driveway in Forest Hills, Queens, and similar sand was found there. Control samples taken from where the body was found revealed no such sand.”
“Did the sand taken from my client’s home match that at the scene where Leon Murphy was murdered?”
Rhyme hesitated. “The word ‘match’ in forensic science means identical. Fingerprints match. DNA matches. There are some chemical mixtures that are so complex that they could be said to match. In forensics, barring those situations, we use the word ‘associated.’ You could also say very, very similar to.”
Coughlin repeated, “‘Very, very . . .” I see. So then you can’t testify that the grains of sand at my client’s home matched the grains of sand at the crime scene.”
“I just said—”
The attorney snapped, “Can you say the grains of sand from my client’s house matched the six grains of sand discovered at the crime scene?”
After a long moment, Rhyme said, “No, I cannot.”
Coughlin brushed a hand through his sturdy hair. “Almost done, Mr. Rhyme. But before you leave, I’d like to ask you just a few more questions.” A fast look to the jury, then back. “And these are about you.”
To learn more about and to buy The Midnight Lock, please visit prh.com/themidnightlock.
About the Author
Jeffery Deaver is the #1 international bestselling and award-winning author of more than forty novels, three collections of short stories, and a nonfiction law book. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into twenty-five languages. A former journalist, folksinger, and attorney, he was born outside of Chicago and has a bachelor of journalism degree from the University of Missouri and a law degree from Fordham University.
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