For the next twenty minutes they went over all of the things Faro had not found in the alley, although he had looked for them. No other casings, no other weapons, no other bullet strikes on any of the walls or surfaces. No signs of blood, no footprints. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in that alley. He even described, though they did not physically produce, the bag of garbage they packaged up for later examination at the lab-the Coke cans, cigarette butts, and, not surprisingly, about a dozen coffee cups.

Having finished the crime scene, Stier moved on to work Faro had done at the lab. As well as working at crime scenes Faro wore a second hat as a firearms examiner in the lab. Stier went through his extensive training and experience and qualified him as an expert, and then led him through the process of comparing the bullet from the wall to the gun-test-firing the weapon and comparing the known bullet microscopically to the bullet in evidence.

As Hardy knew he would, he said that although the bullets appeared similar in class characteristics and likely came from the same sort of gun, there were insufficient details on the recovered slug to say with absolute certainty that it had come from the gun in the alley.

Stier knew that this was not his strongest point, and he moved to buttress it. “Tell the jury, please, what tests, if any, you ran on the spent casing, and what results you got.”

“The brass casing is part of a round of ammunition used in the.40-caliber Glock. The marks on the base of the casing-caused by the weapon’s firing mechanism-were consistent with other markings we could create on other bullet casings fired from the same weapon.”

“Does that mean the casing necessarily came from the weapon found in the alley?”

“No. Like the bullet, it came from a Glock.40, but I can’t say with certainty it was that same Glock.40.”

“But of course, Sergeant, you found no other bullets or casings in that alley, correct?”

“Right.”

Hardy knew that this was a repetitive and therefore objectionable question, but that objecting would only draw more attention to something he hoped the jury would not focus on. So he let it go.

Stier saved the best for last. “Sergeant, is there a database that firearms examiners can access to determine ownership of a handgun?”

Hardy knew that this was gilding the lily-any cop could access this database. Even a clerk could access the database. Stier’s question suggested that this was some sort of secret database and that you had to be a member of a club to look at it. But there was nothing Hardy could do about it. Once again, he had to tip his hat to Stier for knowing his business.

“Yes, there is a database. The gun had a registration number, and I ran that.”

With a brightness implying that this was all new to him, Stier glanced over the jury, sharing with them his enthusiasm for the hunt. “A registration number? You mean the gun was licensed to an individual?”

“Yes.”

“And who is that person, Sergeant?”

“The defendant, Maya Townshend.”

A wave of energy swept through the gallery. Stier paused just a moment for dramatic effect, until the room was dead silent again.

Hardy knew that this was a low point, and that it was just going to get worse when the fingerprint examiner told the jury that Maya’s fingerprints were on the magazine that held the ammunition on the weapon from the alley. The best Hardy could hope for from the fingerprint expert was going to be a discussion of an unidentified partial fingerprint on the spent casing.

But since Hardy knew that ultimately that print could have been left by anyone who ever handled the ammunition, who worked where it was manufactured, or clerked in the store where it was sold, that was precious little.

Stier took the opportunity by a sideways glance to include the jury in his acknowledgment of the witness. “Thank you, Sergeant.” Then, somewhat to Hardy’s surprise, Stier half turned to look at him. “Your witness, Mr. Hardy.”

Hardy’s surprise came from the fact that he’d expected Faro to remain on the stand to testify about the Preslee crime scene, but apparently Stier had an alternate strategy in mind for that portion of the People’s case. For now, Hardy had a job to do, and he squeezed his client’s arm and rose with a show of confidence from their table.

“Sergeant Faro,” he began, “in your testimony today, talking about the alleged murder weapon, the Glock.40 and the brass casing and bullet that you found at the scene of Mr. Vogler’s murder, you used the words consistent with several times, did you not?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Tell the jury, please, what you mean by that phrase.”

After a moment’s hesitation Faro shrugged. “I’m not sure I know a better word. We fired a few rounds from the gun in the lab and compared the indent left by the firing pin on those casings to the gun from the alley and they were virtually indistinguishable from one another.”

“Virtually indistinguishable? Do you mean to say that they were exactly the same?”

“Yes.”

“But you can’t say that the casing came from the gun, can you, Sergeant?”

“No.”

“And that’s because your virtually indistinguishable markings were in fact so few in number that they don’t permit a comparison. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“To make a point, Sergeant, your name has an A. R. in it, doesn’t it?”

Stier spoke up from behind him. “Objection. Irrelevant.”

Braun let her curiosity overcome her distaste for Hardy. “Overruled.”

Faro spoke up. “Yes, it does. F-A-R-O.”

“Well, so does mine, Sergeant. H-A-R-D-Y. Does that mean we have the same name?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained. Move on, Mr. Hardy.”

Braun reminding him that she was aware that she’d been ruling in his favor more often than was her wont, but that his leash was very short now, and tightening.

“Sergeant, how many Glock.40s are there in the world?”

“Objection! Speculation.”

“Overruled, Mr. Stier. You qualified Sergeant Faro as a firearms expert.”

Hardy fenced with Faro in this vein for a moment before concluding. “In other words, Sergeant Faro,” he said, “you can’t tell this jury that this casing came from this gun, can you?”

“No. I cannot.”

“And in fact, aren’t there thousands of other Glock.40s that could have left this casing?”

“Yes, there are.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” Hardy kept his face impassive but brought his hands together in muted delight. “Now, as to the bullet itself, the.40-caliber slug that you’ve identified as the bullet that killed Mr. Vogler. Again, you used the words consistent with. Sergeant, did you not run a ballistics test on this slug?”

“Yes, we did.”

“And aren’t ballistics tests conclusive?”

“Generally, yes, they can be.”

“When are they not?”

“Well, when the slug is deformed or mutilated.”

“And was the slug deformed or mutilated?”

“No, not too bad. It was embedded in stucco and wood, but it was okay.”

“And so, was your ballistics test conclusive?”

Faro shot a quick, impatient look over to Stier, shook his head at Hardy. “No.”

Hardy put on an expression of mild surprise. “No? Why not?”

“Because like with the casing, this particular bullet lacked sufficient microscopic detail to permit a conclusive match.” Faro seemed to feel obliged to defend his inability to give more conclusive evidence. “This particular type of weapon has a type of unique hexagonal rifling in the barrel that tends not to leave the marks necessary for an exact ballistics comparison.”

“So, again, Sergeant, let me ask you. Is it possible that the slug that we have here did not come from the gun owned by Maya Townshend?”

This time, since it was foreordained, and though he clearly hated the pass to which he’d come, Faro didn’t struggle with his answer. “Yes.”