When he was finished, he settled back in the witness chair and waited.
“The fingerprints you found belong to the defendant, known as John Smith, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know, by the way, whether there were any fingerprints on file for John Smith, or were you given them by the police after they had taken him into custody?”
He saw where I was going. “You mean, did we take prints from the knife and then run them to find out who they belonged to, or did we compare them to the ones we had for the defendant?
We compared them to the set we were given-the ones that belong to the defendant.”
“I see. In other words, this was not an investigation in which you used the fingerprints taken from a weapon to find out who among all the millions of people out there who have their fingerprints on file might have held the knife in their hand and used it as a murder weapon?”
“That’s correct,” he said, reaching for his handkerchief.
I waited while he blew his nose and when he finished asked him if he wanted more water.
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“If you had not been given a set of his fingerprints,” I asked, pointing at the defendant, “would you have been able to iden-tify him as the person whose prints were on the knife?”
He coughed into his hand. “No,” he said finally. “There are no prints of his on file.”
“Isn’t it true, Detective Blensley, that everyone arrested for a crime-even a misdemeanor-has their fingerprints taken?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“And those fingerprints are kept on file?”
“Yes.”
“So what you’re saying is that the defendant in this case has never before-not once-been arrested for a crime, any crime, isn’t that right?”
He lifted his arms and turned up his palms. “All I can say is what I said before: His fingerprints weren’t on file.”
I went back to the counsel table and stood next to my chair.
“Your honor, may the witness please be shown state’s exhibit number 106?”
The clerk handed the detective the clear plastic bag containing the knife.
“I won’t ask you to take it out and test it, but just looking at it, does the blade seem to have been filed sharp? In other words, does it have an edge on it?”
“No, it doesn’t have an edge.”
“In fact, wouldn’t you say it appears rather dull?”
He nodded, and waited.
“Of course even a dull knife can be used to stab someone, can’t it?”
He nodded again, and I had to remind him to answer out loud.
“Yes.”
“Now, if you would, look at the handle. Does it look to you-
the way it looked to me-worn, faded, a knife that has been used a lot?”
“Yes, I’d say so.”
“In other words, from everything you observe, you would have to say, wouldn’t you, that this is a rather old knife-certainly not a new one?”
“I would agree with that,” he said, sniffing into his handkerchief.
“Probably used by lots of different people from the time it was first sold, wouldn’t you think?”
“Yes, I would imagine.”
“And yet, if I heard you right, the only fingerprints you found on the knife belonged to the defendant. All those people-dozens, perhaps hundreds-used this knife and you only found one person’s prints. Doesn’t that suggest something to you, Detective Blensley?”
He hesitated, not certain what I meant. I drew myself up, and with a sense of urgency in my voice, asked, “Doesn’t it suggest to you that whoever had that knife before it came into the possession of the defendant must have wiped it clean?”
He started to answer, but I cut him off. “Doesn’t it suggest to you that whoever had the knife before didn’t want anyone to know? And why do you think whoever that was wouldn’t want anyone to know that he had held that knife-that knife that the prosecution tells us was used to murder Quincy Griswald-unless it was because he was the one who murdered him?”
Loescher was on her feet, shouting her objection. “Nothing further, your honor,” I said as I started to sit down.
I was back on my feet before I had touched the chair. “There is one more thing, your honor.”
Loescher looked at me, her mouth still open. Bingham looked at me, his mouth still shut.
“Detective Blensley, the fingerprints you found-the fingerprints that belong to the defendant-can you tell us if they were put there before Quincy Griswald was murdered?”
He shook his head. “No, there is no way to know that.”
“In other words, they could just as easily have been put there sometime after Quincy Griswald was murdered, correct?”
“Yes, that’s true.”
Twenty-six
The prosecution began the third day of testimony with Dr.
Friedrich Zoeller, head of the laboratory that had conducted the DNA testing on the blood residue found on the knife. Tall and thin, with prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes, he slouched on the witness chair, one leg dangling over the other, one arm sticking straight out to the side. With astonishing rapidity he rattled off facts and figures and did it with such confidence that it was almost impossible to think he might be wrong. From nine-thirty in the morning until the court recessed for lunch a few minutes after twelve, Dr. Zoeller lectured the jury on the nature of DNA and the absolute certainty that the blood from the knife belonged to Quincy Griswald and to no one else.
Cassandra Loescher treated him with a deference she had not shown anyone else. Zoeller was not just an expert witness, he was a scientist, and science, she seemed to say with every respectful question she asked, was the one thing no one could question. The testimony of the state’s witness that the knife found on the defendant, the knife that had only his fingerprints on it, had been used to murder Quincy Griswald was something only a fool could doubt.
Standing in front of the charts and graphs that had been carefully arranged on two large easels between the jury box and the witness stand, I studied for a moment the brightly colored, neatly labeled exhibits. With my hands clasped behind my back I moved to the far end of the jury box.
“I’m afraid I’m just a lawyer, Dr. Zoeller,” I said, watching the faces of the jury. “Earlier we heard testimony from someone about fingerprints. If I followed what you were saying, DNA is the same kind of thing. Is that right?”
He seldom moved from the languid position he had assumed when he first took the stand. His head rolled onto his shoulders and he looked at me down his nose.
“In a manner of speaking,” he replied with an indulgent smile.
“The difference is that fingerprints are just what the word suggests: the surface skin of the tips of the fingers. DNA, on the other hand-
as I tried to explain-can be taken from virtually any part of the body: skin, blood, hair, bodily fluids-the saliva inside the mouth, for example.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I said, flapping my hands in the air. “I understand that. What I want to be clear about is this: DNA, like fingerprints, is unique to every individual-no two people have the same fingerprints or the same DNA. Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right,” he said, flashing that same patronizing smile.
“With the exception of identical twins.”
I smiled back. “Tell me, Dr. Zoeller, do identical twins have the same fingerprints?”
He blinked. The smile disappeared, and the hand that had been dangling in the air gripped the arm of the chair as he started to sit up.
“I don’t think so,” he replied cautiously.
“You don’t think so?” I asked, still smiling. “You don’t know?”
“No, I don’t believe they would be the same,” he said, becoming a shade more pale.
I dismissed it as a matter of no great consequence. “Fingerprints aren’t your specialty. You’re an expert on DNA.”