The Last Precinct

"Well, I suppose a lot of them may end up revised before it's all over. No disrespect to Interpol or anyone else intended." Righter recrosses his legs and seems strangely pleased.

"Has he been located? This Pascal person?"

Righter doesn't know, but he speculates that whoever the real Pascal is_assuming he exists_he is probably just one more rotten apple involved with the Chando

"I'm assuming Berger heard the news about Chando

"Recognized the MO, that's right. Says the case of Susan Pless has always haunted her. Berger's in a hellfire hurry to compare DNA. Apparently got seminal fluid and they've got a profile on it, have had it for two years now."

"So the seminal fluid in Susan's case was analyzed." I ponder this, somewhat surprised because typically overworked, financially stressed labs do not analyze DNA evidence until there is a suspect for comparison_especially if there isn't an extensive databank to run the profile through in hopes of a cold hit. In 1997, New York's databank wasn't even in existence yet. "Does this mean they had a suspect originally?" I ask.

"I think they had one guy in mind who didn't pan out," Righter replies. "All I know is they did get a profile and we're getting Chando

Righter has an a

"You know, Kay," he says, "I really didn't get into those sorts of details."

Of course, he would not have. I push for the truth, for the real reason he has come to see me this morning. "And what if the DNA points to Chando

He avoids my eyes.

"Why in the world would you do that, Buford?" I go on as I become convinced that this is exactly what he has decided. "So you can wash your hands of him? Ship him up to Riker's Island and be rid of him? And bring no justice to the cases here? Let's just be honest, Buford, if they get a first-degree murder conviction in Manhattan, you won't bother to try him here, now will you?"

He gives me one of his sincere looks. "Everyone in the community has always respected you so much," he startles me by saying.

"Has always?" Alarm shoots through me like cold water. "As in not anymore?"

"I'm just telling you I understand how you feel_that you and these other poor women deserve him punished to the full extent of the…"

"So I guess the bastard just gets away with what he tried to do to me," I hotly cut him off. Beneath all this is pain. The pain of rejection. The pain of abandonment. "I guess he just gets away with what he did to these other poor women, as you put it. Am I right?"

"They have the death penalty in New York," he replies.

"Oh for God's sake," I exclaim in disgust. I fix on him intensely, hotly, like the focus of the magnifying glass I used in childhood experiments to burn holes in paper and dead leaves. "And when have they ever imposed it?" He knows the answer is never. No one ever gets the needle in Manhattan.

"And there's no guarantee it would be imposed in Virginia, either," Righter reasonably answers. "The defendant isn't an American citizen. He has a bizarre disease or deformity or whatever it is. We're not even certain he speaks English."

"He certainly spoke English when he came to my house."

"He might get off on insanity, for all we know."

"I guess that depends on the skill of the prosecutor, Bu-ford."

Righter blinks. His jaw muscles bunch. He looks like a Hollywood parody of an accountant_all buttoned up tight and in tiny glasses_who has just been subjected to an offensive smell.

"Have you talked to Berger?" I ask him. "You must have. You couldn't have come up with this on your own. You two have made a deal."

"We've conferred. There's pressure, Kay. Certainly you've got to appreciate that. For one thing, he's French. You got any idea how the French would react if we tried to execute one of their native sons here in Virginia?"

"Good God," I blurt out. "This isn't about capital punishment. This is about punishment, period. You know how I feel about capital punishment, Buford. I'm against it. I'm more against it the older I get. But he should be held responsible for what he did here in Virginia, damn it."

Righter says nothing, looking out the window again.

"So you and Berger agreed if the DNA matches, Manhattan can have Chando

"Think about it. This is the best we could hope for in terms of change of venue, so to speak." Righter gives me his eyes again. "And you know damn well the case could never be tried here in Richmond with all the publicity and whatnot. We'd probably all get sent out to some rural courthouse a million miles from here, and how would you like to be put through that for weeks, possibly months, on end?"

"That's right." I get up and jab logs with the poker, heat pressing against my face, sparks exploding up the chimney like a flock of spooked starlings. "God forbid that we should be inconvenienced." I jab hard with my good arm, as if I am trying to kill the fire. I sit back down, flushed and suddenly on the verge of tears. I know all about post-traumatic stress syndrome and accept that I am suffering from it. I am anxious and startle easily. A little while ago I turned on a local classical music station and Pachelbel overwhelmed me with grief and I began to sob. I know the symptoms. I swallow hard and steady myself. Righter watches me in silence, with a tired look of sad nobility, as if he is Robert E. Lee remembering a painful battle.

"What will happen to me?" I ask. "Or do I just go on with my life now as if I never worked these God-awful murders_ as if I never autopsied his victims or escaped with my life when he forced his way into my house? What will my role in this be, Buford, supposing he's tried in New York?"

"That will be up to Ms. Berger," he replies.

"Free lunches." It is a term I use when referring to victims who never see justice. In the scenario Righter is suggesting, I, for example, would be a free lunch because Chando

He realizes the double entendre the same moment I do. I see it in his eyes. Richmond has already been thrown to one wolf, Chando