Trace of Doubt (7 page)

Chapter 11

B
en Sato took the CD-ROM I handed him. He smiled his enigmatic smile, gave a little bow and gestured to the booth he had reserved for us.

“Nice place,” I murmured. “I’ve never been in here before.”

“I like it because it’s quiet. And they play jazz.”

“You like jazz?”

He nodded, sitting down. “I like Charlie Parker. And Billie Holiday.”

“A little melancholy,” I mused.

“So am I,” he said.

There was a moment of silence between us. I realized that I was going to have to get used to silences if I was going to work with him.

“I brought my laptop,” he said, pulling out a Sony Vaio from the bench next to him and putting it on the table. He took the CD from its jewel case and after firing up the PC, popped it in.

“You’re thorough.” He said it as a compliment.

On the CD I had dozens and dozens of files, labeled clearly, such as, “Interview notes neighbor,” or “newspaper clippings.” I had scanned all of our newspapers from that time and made PDF files. I had interviewed and reinterviewed all the neighbors from that time. I had files with digital pictures of the house, as well as files with digital pictures of the woods where she was found.

“I should have guessed. Criminalists are exacting.”

I nodded.

“You could have been a homicide detective.”

“Not if I wanted to remain in the family. My father and brother wouldn’t be too pleased. I mean, it’s bad enough I work in a crime lab. It would be another thing entirely to be a cop. The Quinns are from the other side of the law. My uncle Sean’s serving life for murder. But you know all that already.”

He smiled. “How do you know?”

“Because I can tell you didn’t come into that meeting with me and Lewis blind. You looked into me. My family. The case. That would be how you handled it. Am I right? Thorough. Exacting.”

I was going to say anal retentive, but decided not to. In Ben’s case, I thought his nature was about respecting the victim of the crime, being sure he left no stone unturned.

He nodded.

“I still don’t get why you came to the United States. Boredom? Ennui?”

“A warrior with no war.”

“And why take my cold case?”

He didn’t say anything. He opened file after file, studying, memorizing—I could just see that about him. He was committing everything to memory. I was sure of it.

A waitress came over, and I ordered a bourbon and soda. He ordered a single-malt scotch. I waited patiently while he went through each and every file.

“My sister was killed.” He said it quietly, and it took me a minute to realize he was referring to himself, revealing something personal.

“I’m sorry.”

“Crime is so rare. When it happens, it’s an affront to our whole society. But justice in Japan is different. It took me six years to catch her murderer. And then I came here. I suppose I was frustrated by justice there. The process.”

“I’m sorry.”

“She was murdered by a very rich man’s son. A billionaire. His position meant special treatment. No arrest for a very long time even though it was quite clear he killed her for fun.”

“Rich people and celebrities get special treatment here, too.”

“I know. But in the ideal, justice wears a blindfold.”

“I wish it always worked that way.”

“We must try to be impartial, to strive for the ideal.” He looked me in the eyes. “So I understand what it’s like to want to solve a case like this. Something personal.”

“To leave the place of perpetual despair,” I said, remembering his mythology.

“Exactly.”

Our drinks arrived, and I sipped mine. “I feel like one day I’m going to look at those files and see something that’s been there all along. Like searching for something you’ve lost and it’s been right under your nose the whole time.”

“Tell me about the letter you got at work.”

“Well, there’s more now.” I took Ben through receiving the letter, the attack at the shooting range, and the letters from Andrew kept separately, as well as my mother’s first love, Daniel. I even told him about my father and the message from Marty O’Hare.

“You must do two things. You must test your DNA against your father’s. And you must find Daniel.”

“You think it’s a personal crime?” I asked him.

“Statistically you know that to be so. But evil doesn’t pay attention to statistics. So, we have to check it as a process of elimination.”

I looked at him. His face was unreadable in many ways. “After you found her killer, were you able to find peace?”

He shut his eyes for a moment. “Peace…is something within. I am the ultimate paradox. At peace when I am at war.”

“At war against evil.”

He nodded. “I feel like a perpetual soldier.”

A paradox. That was what my life was. I freed a man, but we were both imprisoned by our pasts. I was a criminalist, a scientist, who had decided to make DNA personal. And it was only a matter of time before I found out just how personal it was.

Chapter 12

K
enora called my cell phone on Friday—she had called the Foundation’s office and gotten my number. The two of us agreed to meet at an out-of-the-way bar up in Suffern, New York. Suffern was an exit off of the New York State Thruway—a town accessible to the highway. She suggested the place. It wasn’t likely she or I would run into anyone we knew.

The bar was in a strip mall, and Irish shamrocks were painted on the windows. I walked in at eight that night. I had come alone, as she asked me to. She was waiting in a back booth.

I fitted in at the bar she chose. Not because I was white or most of the bar’s patrons were white, or even because I was Irish, but because I had on jeans and a tank top with a black linen jacket, my hair in a ponytail, no makeup on, sneakers on my feet. I knew I was attractive—but my kind of beauty is simple—long shiny hair, good complexion, nice smile, good body. Kenora, the “new and improved” Kenora, didn’t fit in because she was so extraordinary. She looked like she had just stepped off a tour bus as a music star. When I reached the table, I saw that tonight she had in color contacts that transformed her eyes to an exotic emerald color, and her body-hugging outfit seemed to have been sewn precisely to fit her. I sat down without waiting to be asked.

“Hi,” I said. I had checked out the place from the parking lot. I hadn’t seen any bodyguard types.

“Thanks for coming,” she said softly.

“I’m still not sure why you wanted to meet me.”

She looked down at the table but didn’t say anything.

I waited, but still nothing. Finally, I spoke. “Kenora,” I exhaled, trying to gather my thoughts. “I didn’t grow up in the projects. So I don’t know what it’s like to have the deck stacked against me in terms of race and poverty and education. I don’t want to screw up the life you have, no matter how you got it. I believe you were raped.”

“I was.”

I nodded. “But Marcus’s blood wasn’t on you. And the stain isn’t your blood, either. And he
had
an alibi. So here’s the thing, Kenora. I may not have grown up in the projects, but my mother was murdered. The case was never solved. And that deck was stacked against me my whole life. I never got over it. I’m still not over it.”

She swallowed hard. “How was she killed?”

“Not sure. She disappeared and they didn’t find her for months.”

“Did your daddy do it? That happened to a friend of mine. Her boyfriend, Derek, didn’t want to get married when he got her pregnant, so Derek killed her. And there was a girl in the building next to mine whose husband killed her ’cause he found out his baby wasn’t really his.”

For the first time in my entire life, I didn’t know how to answer the question of my father’s guilt or innocence. “I don’t think my dad had anything to do with it.”

Kenora looked down at the glass of champagne she had in front of her. The waitress came over and I ordered a cola. After the waitress left, neither I nor Kenora said anything for a few minutes. Finally I decided to take the lead.

“Marcus didn’t do it, did he?”

She was very still, but after a long pause, she shook her head.

“Do you want to tell me who did?”

“I’m not a bad person.”

I nodded at her. “You’re here now. Kenora, you can fix this.”

Her hands shook, and she took a big swig of her drink. “I was raped by Tony Castle.”

I had to conceal my reaction. Tony Castle was a major NBA player, drafted after his sophomore year in college. He had endorsement deals for sneakers, a car, a soft drink, a sports drink. He was a huge star in the sports world. “Was he from your neighborhood?” I tried to remember his story beyond the ghetto-to-NBA, rags-to-riches inspirational stuff that they always talked about on sports shows or during games.

“Way back. I mean, way, way back. See—” she took another swig of champagne “—he was from the same projects. But he left. Went to live with his coach. That was his shot, you know?”

I nodded, urging her with my eyes to go on.

“He used to come back once in a while, not often, to play b-ball with his old friends. One time he did, he kept flirting with me. Next thing I knew, he went nuts. Said I was a tease and a whore and a gold digger. He raped me.” She wiped at a stray tear. “His friend Curtis watched. Didn’t do anything except occasionally say, ‘Go for it, Tony.’”

I was afraid to breathe, afraid any word from me might stop her from telling her story.

“I was hurt. He punched me in the stomach. Hurt real bad. I went home, cleaned up ’cause I felt so disgusting. I didn’t tell anyone. He told me not to. Then I changed my mind. Like…at first I wasn’t going to say anything, but then I felt really angry and I went to the police. Then his agent comes to me. Comes to my aunt’s house—I lived with her. Says he has a deal for me. If I say Marcus did it, then I’ll get paid. Not a little bit of money, either. ’Cause it turns out the draft was coming up. And they didn’t want this story breaking and maybe messing things up.”

“But why Marcus?”

“I think they picked him because he had no record. Figured he’d beat it. I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I just did like I was told. My aunt told me this was my chance to get out.”

“But when you filed the report, didn’t you give a description? Marcus is nowhere near as tall as Tony Castle. Didn’t you give a name?”

She nodded. “I did, but that file somehow got lost or something. I think they bought the police off, too. I mean, I didn’t think it at first. I just thought it was just them thinking some bitch from the projects got raped, so who cares. But now I’m not so sure. That first report was never filed. The cops went after Marcus.”

“So why now? Why come forward after all this time?”

“’Cause they gave me a lot of money. And my aunt. And even Curtis. And I took my money and moved away. I got pretty.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “But no matter what I did, I still felt ugly inside. And it got to me. The guilt. So I want to fix this. Hopefully without going to prison. Or getting myself killed.”

“How much money were you paid?”

“Four million dollars.”

“Jesus!”

She nodded. “His contract was worth $76 million. And I heard he paid off one other woman, too. And that’s not counting all the money he gets saying those sneakers are going to make some kid jump higher if he pays two hundred dollars for ’em. And he does a bunch of commercials. He’s loaded.”

“I know.” I tried to imagine the legal team this guy would have. “Are you willing to meet with Joe Franklin? Do you know who he is?”

“Yeah. Do you think he can keep me out of prison?”

“He’ll try to get you the best deal possible. In all of this, you were an impressionable rape victim. This agent pulling the strings, Tony Castle himself, they’re the most culpable.”

“I just want to breathe again. Without the guilt. Sleep one night without thinkin’ of Marcus in prison.”

I pulled out my cell phone and called Joe. I gave him the short version of events. He gave me instructions, and I disconnected and faced her again.

“He says to go to his office tomorrow. Here’s his card.” I fished a business card out and handed it to her. “But you go to this corporate office, not the Justice Foundation one. Between now and then, he says don’t talk to a soul. Don’t tip your hand, nothing. Do you understand, Kenora? When this comes out, there’s going to be a firestorm of media like you’ve never seen before. Joe will help you handle it all, make sure your interests are represented. And the good news is we should be able to get Marcus out really soon.”

She looked relieved. “Nothing in my life has been good, really good, since then. I haven’t been to church in two years.”

“Well, confession is good for the soul, Kenora.”

The two of us sat and talked awhile. Lives of desperation lead people to do things they regret, that they’re ashamed of. I understood why Kenora did what she did. But I thought of Marcus’s pain. I hoped he could somehow repair his life and move on; I hoped bitterness wouldn’t consume him.

We settled our bill about an hour later, and I walked Kenora to her fancy car and shook her hand and wished her luck. “Joe is a really good lawyer—the best—and I know he’ll try to help you.”

“He won’t hate me for what I’ve done?”

I shook my head. “He wants to help Marcus. But he’ll want to make sure that you come through this okay, too.”

I waved goodbye as she drove off, climbed in my own car and drove to the entrance to the thruway. I was doing about sixty-five miles an hour when my right rear tire blew. I heard this loud sound like a gunshot, and then felt the car pull into the other lane.

“Jesus!” I shouted, my heart pounding. An eighteen-wheeler was bearing down on me, horn blaring. I struggled to maintain control of the wheel. My old Caddie didn’t have antilock brakes, and with such a big car, I was fishtailing. Soon I could feel I was driving on the rim.

With the odd thump-thumping sound of a car with a blown tire, as soon as the eighteen-wheeler barreled past me, I looked for a spot to pull over. In my rearview mirror, I saw sparks trailing in back of me from the rim dragging against the cement road.

My arms shaking from the effort, I finally pulled over to the side of the thruway. Cars whizzed past me. I knew I could call my brother to come get me and he’d be there as fast as he could. But I also knew how to change a tire myself.

I was well off to the side and put on my hazards, but it was still dangerous at night. I retrieved my gun from the glove compartment. I didn’t like feeling so vulnerable. I slipped out of my blazer, and slid across the seat, climbed out on the passenger side and went around to my trunk. As I got closer, I saw something underneath my rear bumper.

“Shit!” I assumed I’d hit something. Maybe that was what had caused my flat.

I squinted in the darkness, the only light coming from the headlights of cars passing me. When I got closer, I could see that whatever it was on my bumper, it was duct taped there.

I knelt down and saw it was another envelope, like the one that had been left for me at the shooting range. I pulled it off and looked inside. Another lock of hair.

Only, this lock was the same shade as my own.

There was a note. Much as I wanted to read it, I wanted to get to the lab with no chance of contaminating it.

I pulled my jack and spare tire out of my trunk, and then, my loaded gun by my side, I changed my tire, sweating in the heat of the summer night. As soon as I got my tire changed, I threw the old tire in the trunk and wiped my dirty hands on my jeans. I took the envelope and my gun, and I climbed back in my car and headed toward the lab.

I had a feeling, a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach, that the envelope on the seat next to me contained my mother’s hair.

Another souvenir.

Despite the work I do, I have never been any closer to understanding the mind of a criminal, the mind of a serial killer. Is it possible to be born without a conscience?

Unlike television shows and movies that play up the role of criminalists, it’s not my job to understand the psyche of a killer. That’s for the detectives, the D.A., the forensic psychologists and the profilers. My role is about analysis. Taking the genetic fingerprints and running my tests.

But of course, Lewis and I have always been aware of our part, of how we use the detritus of our human DNA to catch evil. The psyche, however, has always puzzled me.

I understand crimes of passion. I understand street crime. Drug crime. Gang violence. I understand crimes born of the kind of mind-numbing poverty Marcus and Kenora grew up in. But serial killers are a breed apart.

I thought of BTK writing chillingly of killing a little girl. Or of Danny Rollins staging his victims. Or of Ted Bundy using his very handsome ordinariness to dupe unsuspecting women. I thought of the German cannibal who struck a bargain with a man who volunteered to be killed.

With these souvenirs, I was being plunged into the strange fantasies of a killer. Like Lewis said, it was cat and mouse.

And right now I had the feeling he was dangling me in his paws.