Forensic science* operates within the messy architecture of American law enforcement: a system built not for scientific consistency, but for local control. This jurisdictional fragmentation shapes—and often distorts—the way forensic science* is practiced across the United States. It’s not just a story about methods and standards. It’s a story about how structure shapes outcomes, and how even the best science can falter when it is forced to work across a thousand different rulebooks.
Too little, too late
In 2004, Cameron Todd Willingham was executed in Texas for the deaths of his three young daughters in a house fire. The evidence that sealed his fate came from forensic fire investigators who testified that patterns in the burn marks, the presence of multiple points of origin, and other observations all pointed to arson. In the years after his death, fire science* underwent a major shift. Experts recognized that many so-called "indicators of arson" were based on myths, not science. The National Fire Protection Association issued new guides. Courts revisited old fire investigations. But Willingham’s case did not get revisited in time. By the time the science* changed, the law had already closed the book.
Willingham’s story is a telling reminder of what happens when forensic science* and the legal system fall out of step. It is also a story about something deeper: how the fragmented, decentralized nature of American law enforcement and forensic practice creates a landscape where what counts as science (and possibly what counts as justice) can vary wildly depending on where you happen to be.
N = 18,000
The United States does not have a forensic science* system per se.1 It has roughly 18,000 law enforcement agencies, each operating within its own rules, traditions, resources, and priorities:2
Federal Agencies: There are 73 federal law enforcement agencies.
State Agencies: 50 primary state law enforcement agencies.
Special Jurisdiction Agencies: 1,733 agencies with unique jurisdictions.
Sheriff's Offices: 3,063 sheriff's offices.
City, County, Tribal, and Regional Police Departments: 12,501 of these departments.
There are about 400 forensic laboratories in the U.S. and an untold number of forensic service providers (crime scene units, fingerprint units, etc.), probably in the thousands. In theory, forensic science* should be the same everywhere. Fibers, friction ridges, and fracture patterns do not behave differently across state lines. In practice, however, the interpretation, validation, and courtroom presentation of forensic evidence are anything but uniform.
The reason for this is structural. American law enforcement is built on federalism: a division of authority between local, state, and federal governments. Local control is deeply cherished. Sheriffs are often elected. Police departments answer to city councils (in theory), not national authorities. Forensic laboratories are stitched into this same quilt, some run by states, some by counties, some by private contractors; not all are housed in law enforcement but about 95%+ are. No single entity holds overarching authority to impose standards or to ensure that forensic methods are practiced the same way across the country.
This decentralization creates tremendous autonomy, and with autonomy comes inconsistency. Even when national scientific bodies like ASTM or NIST’s OSAC develop well-reasoned, consensus-based forensic standards, adoption is purely voluntary. Some laboratories fully integrate these standards, using them to validate methods, structure protocols, and train staff. Most others ignore them, modify them, or apply them selectively based on local preference or operational convenience. There is no enforcement mechanism, no unified system of oversight. The science exists, but whether it is followed depends on where you are.
The consequences are stark. Two laboratories analyzing the same type of evidence, say, a latent fingerprint or a fiber sample, may use different methods, different thresholds for drawing conclusions, and different language in their reports. Courts in different jurisdictions, even within the same state, may admit or exclude forensic evidence based on divergent interpretations of admissibility standards like Daubert or Frye.3 Science is supposed to be universal, but forensic science* in America is contingent, partial, and highly localized.
Resources are also fragmented
If structural fragmentation weren’t enough, resource disparities make the problem even worse. Some jurisdictions are fortunate to have well-funded, accredited laboratories with access to sufficient technology and highly trained scientists. Others, particularly rural or economically disadvantaged areas, may have little to no forensic infrastructure at all. They may send evidence to overburdened state labs, wait months or years for results, or make decisions without the benefit of scientific testing. A fingerprint comparison done with IAFIS and reviewed by two analysts in a major city lab might be a quick visual side-by-side judgment made by a detective with minimal training in a small county with no lab of its own.
This inequality doesn’t just delay justice. It creates a two-tiered system where the quality of forensic science* and, therefore, the quality of justice, depends heavily on geography and wealth. If you are accused of a crime in a well-resourced jurisdiction, you are more likely to be convicted or acquitted based on robust, validated forensic evidence. If you are accused in a jurisdiction without resources, your fate might rest on old methods, overworked analysts, or forensic guesswork that has long since fallen out of favor in the broader scientific community.
Science vs. Law
Adding to the problem is the cultural rift between science and law. Science thrives on uncertainty. New data, better methods, and replication are the engines of scientific progress. In contrast, the law values finality. Courts look for certainty. They rely heavily on precedent: What has been accepted before is more persuasive than what is scientifically newest. Judges, trained in law, not science, often admit forensic evidence based on past decisions or the fear of being overturned on appeal rather than critical assessment of scientific validity. They err on the side of the weight of the evidence, not its admissibility. As a result, forensic methods that are scientifically discredited can persist in courtrooms for years, even decades, after their scientific foundations have crumbled.
Consider the difference in mindsets. A scientist, confronted with a method showing signs of unreliability, would revise or abandon it. A court, confronted with the same evidence, is more likely to ask whether the method has been accepted before and whether the expert presenting it seems credible. In this environment, forensic science* can become fossilized—anchored not to evolving scientific understanding, but to the weight of legal habit.
The consequences are devastating. Wrongful convictions resulting from flawed forensic practices are not rare anomalies; they are the predictable outcome of a system that prioritizes stability over accuracy; we’re at over 3,600 so far. Organizations like the Innocence Project have shown that faulty forensic evidence contributed to more than half of known wrongful convictions later overturned by DNA. And high-profile scandals (like the ongoing issue in Colorado) have deeply shaken public confidence.
When forensic science* fails, it doesn’t just fail the wrongly convicted. It fails victims, whose real attackers remain free. It fails communities, whose trust in the justice system erodes. It fails the discipline of forensic science* itself, casting a shadow over methods and practitioners who strive for rigor and honesty.
We’re stuck in this system
This is not a failure of individual forensic scientists* or laboratory directors. Most forensic professionals are deeply committed to doing good work under often difficult circumstances. The problem is systemic. It is rooted in how forensic science* is governed, resourced, and evaluated within a fragmented and inconsistent legal structure.
Reforming this system will not be easy. It runs up against the powerful American instincts toward local control, political independence, and legal precedent. Federal mandates for forensic accreditation, national licensing of analysts, or the establishment of an independent forensic science* oversight body (all ideas floated over the years) face stiff political and logistical resistance. I don’t give these ideas much of a chance.
Yet there are paths forward. Federal funding could be tied to meaningful accreditation and quality assurance requirements.4 Universities could rethink how they prepare forensic science* students, teaching from the OSAC standards, using the messy realities of actual casework as case scenarios. Judges could receive better scientific education, equipping them to be true gatekeepers of forensic evidence.5 Professional organizations could continue building coalitions to encourage voluntary adoption of validated standards.6
None of these steps will eliminate the fundamental jurisdictional fragmentation of American law enforcement. But they can build bridges across it—raising the floor beneath forensic science* practices, reducing the worst inconsistencies, and restoring public confidence in the idea that science can, and should, inform justice without fear or favor.
Forensic science* will never be perfect. But if it is to be worthy of the trust placed in it by courts, juries, and communities, it must be practiced with rigor, transparency, and humility. And it must be practiced consistently, regardless of which side of a county line a crime occurs.
Until then, the jurisdictional problem will remain forensic science’s* most persistent, and most damaging, systemic flaw.
As I’ve said elsewhere and often, it is really operates as a system of systems, with law enforcement, the courts, attorneys, etc. all operating as their own system in this interconnected Venn diagram of systems.
When I worked in DC, I estimated that for the 68 square miles of the District, there were about 40 law enforcement agencies, or about 1.7 per square mile. The museums have their own cops, for crying out loud. If someone was murdered outside the lab, that would be on District soil, so MPD would respond. Go a few blocks north, on The Mall, that would be Park Police (the Mall is a national park, technically). Go a few blocks east, that would be Capitol Police. There was an instance where a federal officer from Agency A had committed suicide in his agency car in the parking lot of Agency B; it took the MPD officers some time to figure out who had jurisdiction. Makes your head spin, doesn’t it?
For example, California, Illinois, Minnesota, New York, Pennsylvania, and Washington still use Frye.
Well, at one time. Maybe. Sigh.
To be fair, FJC does a pretty good job; I’ve taught for them before. Judges can be a tricky audience, however, being used to commanding their courtrooms, as they are.
Ahem.