Until the Final Verdict (10 page)

T
HE
DOJ
LAB
looked like the FedEx building next door: clean, modern, utilitarian, and nondescript. Unlike the other commercial buildings on Research Drive, though, it backed up against a grassy hillside with a view of the bay that by itself could have converted a $250,000 fixer-upper into a $4 million rustic estate.

In his late forties, short, and overweight, Neal McCaskill combed his thinning hair over his bald spot and plastered it down with a heavy layer of hair spray. He wore a high-priced winter suit under a slate-gray London Fog topcoat. He was leaning against his Lexus GS430 when Sheriff Granz pulled his Buick into the parking lot, climbed out, and walked over.

“We going to have any problems?” McCaskill asked unceremoniously.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Are you gonna give me a hard time, or will you work with me as District Attorney?”

“Interim
District Attorney,” Granz corrected. “You could've asked me that on the phone.”

“I wanted to watch your eyes.”

Granz poked his forefinger at McCaskill's chest. “I didn't like you when we both worked for Benton, and I don't like you now.”

“Breaks my heart. So, what's your answer?”

“I'll do my job, make sure you do yours.”

“Count on it.”

“Then we understand each other.” Granz turned and headed to the lab's main entrance. “Why did you ask me to meet you here?”

McCaskill followed, his short pudgy legs churning fast to keep up with Granz' long strides. “DOJ has the DNAresults on the Tucker rape kit.”

“How'd you find out?”

“I'm District Attorney. I called 'em because I didn't want the results to get lost somewhere between your office and mine.”

“Don't unpack the moving cartons. Like I said, you're only an Interim.”

At the door they were met by a uniformed security guard with white hair. “Hi, Sheriff.”

“How's retirement, Richard?”

“Better'n poundin' a beat in the Tenderloin, and I don't have to commute to San Francisco.”

“We're here to see Menendez.”

“Good timing, she just got back from lunch.”

They signed in, then walked across the lobby to a heavy metal door, where the guard punched in a security code. The door swung open to reveal a tiny, sterile anteroom where criminalist Roselba Menendez waited.

Like her crime-lab colleagues, she worked in casual clothes—jeans, a Pacific Cookie Company T-shirt, and white Reeboks. She looked like any other pretty young woman, but she was the best criminalist Granz knew.

She led them past a waist-high swinging gate into a narrow hallway lined with unmarked steel doors. Most were closed, but a few stood ajar, exposing an array of scientific equipment. She stopped at the last door, punched in a security code, and swung it open into a large, open office crammed with desks, chairs, computers, and filing cabinets. She slid two metal stools to a stainless steel bench and motioned them to sit.

“We've completed typing the STRs,” she told them.

McCaskill unconsciously scratched his head, mussing his stiff hair, causing it to stick up like a rooster's comb. “What happened to typing RLFPs?”

Granz snorted. “You've been outta the scientific loop too long, McCaskill. Restriction fragment length polymorphism typing went out with dinosaurs and AquaNet in aerosol cans.”

“Oh. Is that what RFLP stands for?”

Menendez suppressed a smile, but sensed McCaskill's embarrassment. She reached over and smoothed his hair.

“Sheriff's right,” she confirmed. “The main short-coming
of RFLP was that it required large biological samples. That led us to polymerase chain reaction, an advancement enabling us to analyze much smaller crime-scene samples by duplicating the DNA before typing. That led to what we do now—an automated analysis called short tandem repeats.”

McCaskill started to scratch again, caught himself, and tucked his hands in his pants pockets. “Isn't RFLP typing preferred because it's highly discriminating?”

“Yes, but luckily, STR analysis is as discriminating as RFLP, and has other benefits as well.”

“Such as?”

“Mainly, it's faster and cheaper. RFLP was a manual procedure, which meant we had to wait five to six weeks for results. STRs are amenable to automation, so we can achieve a twenty-four-hour turnaround when necessary.”

“Obviously, I don't know much, but I feel still most comfortable with RFLP, it's been around a long time.”

“RFLP's obsolete science, and STR's been used since the early nineties.”

“Yeah?”

“The Feds used it first to ID remains of Desert Storm soldiers. In '93, they used it to identify the Branch Davidian victims in Texas, then the bodies from the TWA's Flight 800 crash. Most recently they used it at Ground Zero and the Pentagon. It's a wellestablished typing procedure.”

“RFLP's already admissible in court.”

“True, you'll probably have to put on an admissibility hearing before you're allowed to present the results, but I can help you with that.”

Granz laughed. “Better start now, I think our
Interim
DAneeds some basic lessons on prosecuting a DNAcase.”

McCaskill took a step toward Granz. “Kiss off.”

“Maybe a little primer
is
in order, Mr. McCaskill,” Menendez suggested, stepping between them.

McCaskill was relieved to be saved the indignity of backing down. “Shoot.”

“After DNA is extracted from the biological sample, the technician amplifies, or copies, it using the PCR procedure, which chemically amplifies a sample that's too small or degraded for RFLP typing. Fluorescent dye is then introduced to mark the beginning and end of each target STR sequence, and to label that DNA section. The labeled products are copied, separated by a special gel, zapped with a laser to establish the genetic profile, and finally printed out as a graph called an electropherogram.”

“How do you determine if there's a match or not?”

“By comparing the electropherograms from several loci. STRs are scattered throughout the human genome, and while a match at one STR loci isn't conclusive, a genetic profile from several STR loci will discriminate conclusively between any two individuals except identical twins.”

“Jesus! I'll just subpoena you and let you explain that scientific mumbo-jumbo to the jury, rather than waste my valuable time trying to sort it out. Bottom line—did you get a match from Tucker's rape kit?”

“One. The DNA profile from the vaginal swab matches the profile from Judge Keefe's blood standard. It was his semen.”

“How sweet—two judges boffing each other in chambers and now it looks like one of 'em's a murder suspect. How about her husband?”

Menendez shot McCaskill a dirty look. “Doctor Sanchez is excluded as donor of the semen on both the vaginal
and
the anal swabs.”

“Oh, that's just great. Can you people tell me who shot the semen up Tucker's ass, or do I have to use my imagination?”

Menendez' olive complexion gave way to a deep red blush. “That's for you to find out, Mr. McCaskill.”

McCaskill started to walk away, then stopped and turned. “I thought that's what you were paid to do. I guess I'm on my own.”

As he headed to the door, Menendez stared at his retreating back, then flipped him the finger.

“Shoulda left the little jerk's hair sticking up so he looks as stupid as he acts,” she told Granz.

Granz smiled. “Next time.”

“Next time, come by yourself.”

Granz patted her on the shoulder. “My pleasure.”

G
RANZ AND
M
C
C
ASKILL LEANED
against Granz' Buick.

McCaskill smoothed his hair. “Where does that leave our investigation into Tucker's murder?”

“It isn't
our
investigation, it's mine.”

“The protocol is for the Sheriff to keep the District Attorney informed.”

“I know the drill, McCaskill, so don't create any territorial disputes with me. It's
my
investigation until I turn it over to you for prosecution. In the meantime, I make the decisions, including what information you get. Now, get off my car, I've got to get back to my office.”

“There's one other thing.”

“What?”

“The Simmons murder.”

“I don't know for certain that he was murdered. He could have intentionally overdosed to avoid a trial.”

“That's a crock of bull, and you know it.”

“Even if he was, I don't know who murdered him.”

“Yes, you do, and so do I. I knew you couldn't keep your personal feelings from overriding your professional obligations. I stopped by the morgue on the way here, talked to Nelson. Take Mackay into custody.”

“Don't have probable cause.”

McCaskill laughed. “You've made hundreds of arrests with a lot less PC. Arrest her ass.”

“Fuck you.”

“Then I'll bust her myself.”

Granz pushed away from the car, turned toward McCaskill, and clenched his fists. “Stay away from Kathryn or . . .”

“Or what? If you're too pussy-whipped to do your job, I'll do it for you. Just stay out of my way.”

“M
OM, WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE
?”

“I thought I'd give you a ride home from soccer practice.”

“Ashley and I were going to walk home together.”

“I need to talk to you, honey. It's important.”

Emma tossed her books into the backseat of the Audi A4. “Can we go by Sophia's and get a burrito? I'm hungry.”

Kathryn merged into traffic. “It's only four o'clock. Didn't you eat lunch?”

“Yeah, but that was a long time ago. Can we?”

“I suppose we can pick something up and take it home. We've got to eat dinner anyway, and I don't feel like cooking.”

Emma gave her mother a long look. “You said you
have something important to talk to me about. Am I in big trouble?”

Kathryn patted her daughter's knee. “Of course not.”

“You've been crying.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Your mascara's all streaked.”

“Oh.”

“What's wrong?”

“Let's talk about it at home, okay?”

Emma rode in silence for several minutes, then asked, “It's bad, isn't it?”

“I know you're anxious, but please, let's wait until we get home.”

She turned into the small shopping center where Sophia's Taqueria occupied an inconspicuous rear space, dug in her purse, pulled out her cell phone and a wadded-up twenty-dollar bill, and handed the cash to Emma. “Would you mind getting our food while I make a phone call?”

“Sure. Plain quesadilla with a side order of guacamole, right?”

“You know me so well.” Kathryn tried to smile, but it turned out to be a grimace, which Emma noticed.

“You should talk to me about what's bothering you now. I love you, and I'm a good listener, you know.”

Kathryn felt tears well up again, but willed them to stop, then leaned over and kissed her daughter's cheek.

“I know you are, Em, and you can't imagine how
important that is to me right now. But run along and get the food so I can make my call.”

Kathryn had spent most of the day sitting alone in her car parked near the beach, unable to think of how to tell a young girl that her mother was a murder suspect. But she needed to break the news soon to avoid Emma hearing it first on the evening news or, worse, from a girlfriend who called to ask about it.

She tried to contact Dave Granz several times, but he was out of his office. His secretary said she'd heard the news. She had just hung up from another unsuccessful attempt when Emma returned.

They drove home silently. As she pulled the car into the driveway of her condo, Emma said, “Mom, there are some men in a car parked in front of our carport.”

“Yes, I see.”

The unmarked Ford Taurus backed into her parking space belonged to the DA Inspectors' motor pool. When the two men in the car spotted her, they started to open the doors.

Kathryn zipped into an empty parking space, shut off the engine, and climbed out.

“Take the food inside, Em, I need to talk with these men for a minute.”

“Mom, I'm scared.”

“They're from my office, honey.” Kathryn gave Emma a hug. “Everything's all right, I promise. But please go inside now.”

Kathryn watched until Emma was inside, then turned to face DA Chief of Inspectors James Fields and Neal McCaskill.

McCaskill had buttoned his coat against the cold, causing his jowls to hang over the collar.

Stocky and dark with a face that bore the aftermath of teenage acne, Fields wore only a suit that was damp and wrinkled. The right sleeve of his coat was gathered and tucked into itself where his right hand had been before a bomb blew up a courtroom and his hand years before. After months of intense rehabilitation that taught him to shoot left-handed, he had been restored to full duty as a DA Inspector. One of Kathryn's first acts as DA was to appoint him Chief of her Inspectors Division. He had rewarded her with quiet competence, dogged determination, and fierce loyalty.

McCaskill walked ahead of Fields, stopping with his pudgy face just inches from Mackay's. “You're under arrest for the murder of Robert Simmons.”

“You can't arrest me without a warrant.”

“I have a warrant. I think Judge Keefe rather enjoyed signing it.”

She looked at Fields. “Is this for real?”

“I'm afraid so.”

McCaskill grabbed her upper arm. “Turn around, Mackay.” He looked at Fields. “Cuff her.”

“Jesus Christ, Mac, that's not necessary.”

“DA's policy. She's a felon.”

She struggled to break free. “You bastard, let me go,” she demanded.

“You're not going anyplace except Blaine Street.” McCaskill sneered at the mention of the women's detention facility. “Now, turn around so he can cuff you, or I'll do it myself.”

She turned her back. Fields snicked the handcuffs loosely on her wrists, then opened the front passenger door of the car and helped her sit.

“What about my daughter?”

McCaskill held the passenger door open and leaned inside. “Fields'll book you into jail. As soon as I get back to my office, I'll send Child Protective Services to take her into custody.”

“Dammit, wait with her! She's only twelve years old. You can't leave her alone.”

“Should've thought of that before you murdered Simmons.”