"Get what?" Rhyme snapped.
"Sorry. Something else. A book on interrogation. But it looks more like it's about torture."
"Torture?"
"That's right."
"Purchased? Library?"
"No sticker on it, no receipt inside, no library marks. And whosever it is, he's been reading it a lot."
"Well said, Ron. You're not assuming it's the perps'. Keep an open mind. Always keep an open mind."
It wasn't much praise but the young man enjoyed it.
Pulaski then rolled up trace from the floor and vacuumed it out from the space between and underneath the seats.
"I think I've got everything."
"Glove compartment."
"Checked it. Empty."
"Pedals?"
"Scraped them. Not much trace."
Rhyme asked, "Headrests?"
"Oh, didn't get those."
"Could be hair or lotion transfer."
"People wear hats," Pulaski pointed out.
Rhyme shot back, "On the remote chance that the Watchmaker isn't a Sikh, nun, astronaut, sponge diver or somebody else with a head completely covered, humor me and check the headrests."
"Will do."
A moment later Pulaski found himself looking at a strand of gray-and-black hair. He confessed this to Rhyme. The criminalist didn't play I-told-you-so. "Good," he said. "Seal it in plastic. Now fingerprints. I'm dying to find out who our Watchmaker really is."
Pulaski, sweating even in the freezing, damp air, labored for ten minutes with a Magna Brush, powders and sprays, alternative light sources and goggles.
When Rhyme asked impatiently, "How's it going?" the rookie had to admit, "Actually, there are none."
"You mean no whole prints. That's okay. Partials'll do."
"No, I mean there're none, sir. Anywhere. In the entire car."
"Impossible."
From Rhyme's book Pulaski remembered that there were three types of prints--plastic, which are three-dimensional impressions, such as those in mud or clay; visible, which you can see with the naked eye; and latent, visible only with special equipment. You rarely find plastic prints, and visible are rare, but latents are common everywhere.
Except in the Watchmaker's Explorer.
"Smears?"
"No."