"I’d like to do something before we return to the concert hall," he said. "I want to see that ketchup-drenched knife and picture, at your apartment."

Matt looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Er…dude, I, um…I cleaned up the wall," he mumbled. "I didn’t know I should’ve left it alone…."

"You didn’t throw away the picture, or the knife, did you?"

"No – no, they’re still there, on the counter." Matt looked up, encouraged. "Is that okay, then?"

"It should be," Frank assured him. "Let’s go and find out."

When they reached the apartment, Matt was still apprehensive. "Frank dude, I am like major sorry about cleaning off the ketchup, but it was starting to really get to me…" He shoved back his hair, and fastened a worried gaze on the elder Hardy.

Frank smiled at him. "Don’t worry, Matt. I can get prints from other areas – at least, I can if there are any to be found. If any got left!" He took out his kit, and began scanning the wall closely; after a moment he got out a magnifying glass and ran it all along the wall.

"Um—" Matt hesitated. "I probably touched the wall when I cleaned the ketchup off, ya know…."

"No problem, Matt, really. I’m not just looking at the wall; I’m looking outside of it too. Whoever did this might have left more fingerprints somewhere else." Frank looked around, thoughtfully. "In fact, I should probably dust other areas in here; the guy might have touched more things than the wall." He turned to Phil. "Do you recognize the knife?"

Phil studied the instrument lying on the counter, and nodded, motioning to his roommate to look too. "Matt?"

"Yeah, it’s mine," Matt concurred. "My mom gave me a set of kitchen knives," he grinned. "I don’t think she, like, ever thought of it being used like this, though!"

"Figured it probably was," Frank said. "We should check for prints wherever the knife usually is. Was it in a drawer? A knife rack?"

"Yeah, it was in one of the drawers – Phil and I share, you know?" Matt replied. "We don’t have separate stuff."

Frank smiled and nodded his understanding, continuing to study the wall carefully. He worked his way along the surface, and eventually was rewarded. He found a print, quite a clear one, and nodded in satisfaction as he marked off the area, so that he could find it later. He made only a lightly penciled box, realizing that Phil and Matt might appreciate it when it came time to clean the mark off!

Frank moved into the little kitchen area, and checked over the drawer that Matt indicated. There were several knives of varying sizes, plus other kitchen implements.

"I don’t know if I can get a clear print here," Frank admitted. "I mean, you guys keep it fairly clean in here, but it’s doubtful that the drawer handle has been cleaned, and you use it all the time, right?"

Matt and Phil shrugged and exchanged dubious looks, apparently attempting to figure out when the drawer might have last been used.

"I haven’t been here since Saturday," Phil offered. "And the knife was already in the wall when I left…."

Frank continued looking, and managed to spray and dust three extra prints – very clear prints, that he figured probably belonged to Matt or Phil. At last he went back to the counter and looked at the knife itself – and the picture it had been thrust through. For some obscure reason, Matt hadn’t washed the knife or taken it out; he’d merely set the whole thing on top of a paper towel and left it there. Frank had no idea why this had occurred, but it was a fortunate happenstance.

He set about his examination, first pulling on a pair of thin plastic gloves from his kit. Then he lifted each item – the knife and the photograph – carefully, looking for anything resembling a print.

There! Frank caught his breath, feeling a thrill. He’d lucked out – or so he hoped. The back of the picture held one very clear print, and there was another on the tip of the knife blade. It looked as if the person who’d done this had picked up the knife by the blade, rather than the handle. You were careful, buddy – but not quite careful enough! Frank exulted. He nodded in satisfaction, and grinned at his two friends.

"Ready?" he asked.

Phil stared blankly at him, then exchanged puzzled glances with Matt.

"What for, man?" Matt asked.

Frank’s grin broadened.

"To be printed, of course!" he said. "I can’t rule out prints if I don’t know what yours look like, you know!"

"Whoa, radical, dude!" Matt exclaimed, delighted at the prospect. Phil rolled his eyes and heaved an exaggerated sigh. Sometimes being Frank’s friend was inconvenient, to say the least!

Matt thrust his hands out at Frank, and then drew them back as a thought occurred to him. "Are you gonna have to get ink stains on me? I’m not sure about that…."

Frank quirked a teasing smile at him. "Nope. Ink is for police stations. I have a way that’s almost as good as that, and it doesn’t leave your fingers quite as messy."

Frank took a small box from his bag, and opened it. "Just hold out your right hand," he instructed, extending it toward Matt, who still looked somewhat doubtful. "Put it in here – relax, it’s okay! It’s graphite. You know, pencil lead?" He grinned as Matt plunged his hand into the box. When the other man drew his hand out, Frank wrapped ‘magic tape’ about his thumb, then carefully pulled the strip of tape off and affixed it to a piece of white paper. A clear print of Matt’s right thumb appeared.

"Whoa, that is too cool!" Matt marveled, his eyes rounded with awe. "Do the rest of ‘em, dude!" He watched with excitement as Frank proceeded to take the rest of his prints. While he did so, Frank mockingly questioned Matt as if he were a suspect, while Phil listened, grinning.

"Where were you on Saturday, Matt? Can you prove that? Were you with anyone? Macey, huh? Can she give you an alibi for the whole day? Are you sure you didn’t do this just to play a prank on Phil?"

Matt drank it all in, the same ‘delighted hyena’ grin spreading across his face as he answered Frank’s barrage of questions. When Frank was finished with him, he sat and watched while Phil’s prints were taken as well.

"The ink thing wouldn’t take as long as these pencil shavings," Phil complained, as Frank meticulously wound tape on his fingers.

"I can do it the other way, if you really WANT to have black fingertips for the next few days—" Frank told him.

Phil hastily withdrew his hand from the Hardy boy’s grasp. "No, no, that’s really all right, Frank, I’m fine with this!" he said, as Matt broke into raucous laughter.

Finally done with his fingerprinting, Frank began comparing his findings. He was able to rule out the prints he took from the kitchen knife drawer – there were some there from Matt and Phil, both. He pointed out the ulnar curve on Matt’s right index finger, and the whorl on Phil’s thumb to his fascinated friends, and he found, to his disappointment, that the lovely clear print on the wall belonged to Matt, too.

When he got to the ones from the knife and the back of the picture, however, they matched neither Matt’s nor Phil’s. With mounting excitement, Frank pulled out the slide he’d made of the fingerprint on the concert hall wall – the grape-candy print. All I need is a match….

He stared at them in shock and disappointment. The prints weren’t even close to matching!

"It’s not the same," he said dully.

"That doesn’t mean it’s not his, right?" Matt questioned. "It’s not the same finger, is it?"

Frank sighed. "Maybe not…maybe not. But maybe…." Discouraged, he set about making slides of the other fingerprints, and put them into plastic sleeves in his case. I won’t give up…I’ve got to solve this. This is just a temporary setback, that’s all….

"Frank," Phil’s quiet voice disturbed his thoughts. "We should get back to the hall. The photography shoot should be starting pretty soon."

"Yeah – okay." Frank snapped his case shut, and pulled out his cell phone. "I just want to take a minute to call the family and see if Joe’s awake yet." He found the scrap of paper he’d written the hospital’s number on, and dialed. Soon he was in contact with his mother.

"Mom? How’s Joe?"

Matt and Phil, watching, were startled and alarmed to see Frank’s face darken with rage as he talked with Laura. They listened to his terse comments, trying without success to discern what had happened in Bayport. When the conversation ended, Frank swore, and angrily flung his cell phone at the couch.

"Frank—" Phil put a hand on his arm, then shrank back as Frank whirled on him in fury. For a moment, Phil was afraid Frank was going to hit him! "Hey, what happened?" he asked, carefully keeping his distance.

Frank didn’t answer for a moment, obviously struggling to get himself under control. Finally, he gritted out the news: "It’s Joe – they did blood tests – somebody slipped him some Rohypnol, maybe after he hit his head – maybe before. That’s why he’s not waking up!"

"Oh, dude – that is like extreme serious," Matt hissed, aghast. "That’s nasty!"

"What does the doctor say?" Phil queried, hoping for some encouragement from that quarter.

Frank looked stricken. "That’s no help," he groaned. "the doctor told Mom that he doesn’t know when – or IF – Joe will ever wake up!"

There wasn’t anything Matt or Phil could say that offered comfort. Frank was grimly silent as they drove to Symphony Hall, and neither of his friends dared to break the silence; it was as if they knew better.

Frank’s fingers were white on the steering wheel as he drove; he was fighting for control of his emotions again, and this time it was worse than before. He knew that being this upset was hampering his investigation, but he couldn’t seem to damp his feelings down to an acceptable level. It was bad enough that Joe, somehow, hit his head – or that someone else hit him. But they made it worse by giving him a drug…something that made things worse. It could kill him – keep him comatose the rest of his life – oh God, I’ve got to FIND this person!

The boys parked in the closest lot to the theater, and walked the rest of the way. Matt and Phil talked quietly as they went, but Frank paid no attention to their conversation; he was concentrating on his task. Find out who’s missing a cuff link. He thought with satisfaction of the tiny pair of binoculars in his pocket, which he’d taken from his kit – they would allow him a much more up-close-and-personal look at all the members of the orchestra. He only hoped that whoever had lost it hadn’t already gotten it replaced. That would make it much, much harder to find out who was responsible – who had done this reprehensible thing to Joe!

*****

The New York Junior Symphony Orchestra was a lively group, and extremely talented, Frank observed, as he watched the members run scales or tune their instruments while they waited for the arrival of their conductor and the photographers.

Listening to them was highly interesting, and instructive. Some of them seemed to work in teams; others separately, depending on their personalities and/or preferences. Even though this was a photo session rather than a full rehearsal, it seemed that these young musicians played whenever there was an instrument available; it was in their blood!

Frank found himself briefly wrapped up in the scene. For a moment – only a moment – he was lost in watching them, and wasn’t quite so dominated by his anger and the urgent need to find the people who had caused his brother hurt!

Frank kept his keen gaze on the orchestra members, watching them closely, each one, as if he could determine by mere observation who was the person responsible. Responsible for stealing the violin…responsible for hurting Joe! He couldn’t tell, of course. They’re all different, and they’re all so much alike – so engrossed in what they’re doing that it’s impossible to tell who the culprit might be. If the culprit even is one of these people, that is! Frank sighed dispiritedly. He just didn’t have enough to go on; he just didn’t know.

He settled back, content for the moment to merely watch and observe. A good detective, Frank knew, could pick up a lot just from the way another man carries himself. The way he reacts around others. If I can just concentrate, and block out everything else, maybe I can figure out if any one of these kids is the person I’m looking for!

But it seemed to be an impossible task. There were several individuals who were nervous, for one reason or another. There were others who were constantly on their own, or evident loners. That didn’t necessarily mean that they might have stolen the violin, or had a hand in harming Joe!

Frank glanced over at Phil, who was watching Allison with rapt attention. That man is so crazy about her, even just watching her tune her violin fascinates him! Frank thought, amused, and then realized something which made him flush in embarrassed chagrin: That’s the way you act around Megan, you dope! Just watching her breathe fascinates you!

He scanned the group with his binoculars, starting with Angel Coussard and concentrating on all the boys in the group. He noticed Allison’s brightly smiling face, and saw that she was using a different instrument today. It was obviously no match for the lost Stradivarius, but would do for rehearsals, and photos – but Allison needed that Strad back, that was certain! She looked happy, though – her smile didn’t seem forced. I wish I could smile like that again, he thought dolefully. At the moment he didn’t feel as if he ever wanted to smile again.

He continued to look at the orchestra members, but it was hard to see everyone from where he was sitting with Phil and Matt.

"I’m going to move over a ways," he told them. "I can’t see clearly from here." They nodded in acceptance, and Frank quietly changed seats. He raised the binoculars to his eyes and began scanning once more, trying to be casual about the whole thing, and not attract anyone undue attention.

And froze.

It wasn’t a missing cuff link, it was something else. Something that might be even more telling.

One of the boys – in the cello section – was sitting calmly in his chair, instrument between his legs. He was unwrapping something – something that was not only obviously a piece of candy, but was a purple piece of candy. A Jolly-Rancher grape hard candy.