The Last Precinct

"I know this is awkward, but is there some way we can make it easier? For one thing, we have to work together," Jay says.

"Maybe you should have thought about that before you told Jaime Berger every detail, Jay," I reply.

"That wasn't against you." His eyes are intense.

"Right."

"She asked me questions, understandably. She's just doing her job."

I don't believe him. That is my fundamental problem with Jay Talley. I don't trust him and wish I never had. "Well, that's curious," I comment. "Because it appears people started asking questions about me before Diane Bray was even murdered. Right about the time I was with you in France inquiries began, as a matter of fact."

His expression darkens. Anger peers out before he can hide it. "You're paranoid, Kay," he says.

"You're right," I reply. "You're absolutely right, Jay."

Chapter 25

I HAVE NEVER DRIVEN MARINO'S DODGE RAM QUAD Cab pickup truck, and were circumstances not so strained I would probably find the scenario comical. I am not a big person, barely five foot five, slender, and there is nothing funky or extreme about me. I do wear jeans, but not today. I suppose I dress like a proper chief or lawyer, usually in a tailored skirt suit or fla

I take 64 West back to Richmond because it is quicker, and I pay close attention to my driving because it is a lot to handle a vehicle this size with only one arm. I have never spent a Christmas Eve like this and I am increasingly depressed over the notion. Usually, by now I have stocked the refrigerator and freezer, and have cooked sauces and soups and decorated the house. I feel utterly homeless and alien as I drive Marino's truck along the interstate, and it occurs to me that I don't know where I will sleep tonight. I guess at A

"Maybe you should stay in the hotel with Teun and me," she suggests.

"How about you and Teun stay with me?" It is so hard for me to express a need, and I need them. I do. For a lot of reasons.

"When do you want us there?"

"We'll have Christmas together in the morning."

"Early." Lucy has never stayed in bed past six on Christmas morning.

"I'll be up, and then we'll go to the house," I tell her.

December 24. Days have gotten as short as they can, and it will be a while before light savors the hours and burns off my heavy, anxious moods. It is dark by the time I reach downtown Richmond, and when I pull up to A

"Do you need anything from inside the house before we go?" she asks.

"Give me just a minute," I tell her. "Was Dr. Ze

I feel her stiffen a little. "I got here just a few minutes before you did."

Evasion, I think as I climb the front steps. I unlock the door and turn off the burglar alarm. The foyer is dark, the great chandelier and Christmas tree lights off. I write A

"Can we prove the hairs are Chando

"No roots," I say, rankled by the reference to my crime scenes. They aren't my crime scenes, I silently protest. "He shed those hairs, so there are no roots," I tell Berger. "But we can get mitochondrial DNA from the shafts. So yes, we can definitely know if the hairs from the campground are his."

"Please explain," she says. "I'm not an expert on mitochondrial DNA. Or an expert on hair for that matter, especially the kind of hair he has."

The subject of DNA is a difficult one. Explaining human life on a molecular level tells most people far more than they can understand or care to know. Cops and prosecutors love what DNA can do. They hate to talk about it scientifically. Few of them understand it. The old joke is, most people can't even spell DNA. I explain that nuclear DNA is what we get when cells with nuclei are present, such as with blood, tissue, seminal fluid and hair roots. Nuclear DNA is inherited equally from both parents, so if we have someone's nuclear DNA we have, in a sense, all of him, and can compare his DNA profile to any other biological sample this same person has left at, say, another crime scene.

"Can we just compare the hairs from the campground to the hairs he left at the murder scenes?" Berger asks.

"Not successfully," I reply. "Examining microscopic characteristics in this instance won't tell us much because the hairs are unpigmented. The most we will be able to say is their morphologies are similar or consistent with each other."

"Not conclusive to a jury." She thinks out loud.

"Not in the least."

"If we don't do a microscopic comparison anyway, the defense will bring that up," Berger considers. "He'll say, Why didn't you?"

"Well, we can microscopically compare the hairs, if you want."

"The ones from Susan Pless's body and the ones from your cases."

"If you want," I repeat.

"Explain hair shafts. How does DNA work with those?"

I tell her that mitochondrial DNA is found in the walls of cells and not in their nuclei, meaning mitochondrial DNA is the anthropological DNA of hair, fingernail, tooth and bone. Mitochondrial DNA is the molecules that make up our mortar and stone, I say. The limited usefulness lies in that mitochondrial DNA is inherited only through the female lineage. I use the analogy of an egg. Think of mitochondrial DNA as the egg white, while nuclear DNA is the yolk. You can't compare one to the other. But if you have DNA from blood, you have the whole egg and can compare mitochondrial to mitochondrial_ egg white to egg white. We have blood because we have Chando