Let Darkness Come

by Angela Hunt

  She jots the address on a napkin, thanks the doctor for his time, then tucks her phone and the napkin into her coat pocket.

  “What’s that about?” William asks, his face a study in concern. “Who’s Phillips? Not another shrink, I hope.”

  Briley shakes her head. “He’s a geneticist. And this has nothing to do with the trial, it’s a personal favor for Erin. I don’t know why I let myself get talked into these things.”

  “You’ll learn.” Kate dumps another sugar packet into her coffee cup. “In no time at all you’ll be as down-to-business as the best of ’em at Franklin, Watson, Smyth & Morton.”

  Briley sips from the steaming coffee the waitress poured for her, then sighs and closes her eyes.

  “We understand,” William says, correctly interpreting her weary expression. “Bystrowski mopped the floor with Dr. Sparks.”

  Briley’s eyes fly open. “It wasn’t that bad…was it?”

  “He killed with the word convenient,” Kate says. “Hard to argue with that, especially in the Google age. Some juror is going to realize that Erin could have heard about those Ambien murder cases and decided to implement the same defense. She goes to the doctor, gets a prescription, has it filled a couple of times…. She doesn’t even have to actually take the pills. It’s a great plan, but it makes her look awfully cold-blooded.”

  “A scenario with first-degree written all over it,” William says, his eyes flat and hard.

  “Gee, thanks for the encouragement.” Briley reaches for the bucket of peanuts on the table. “So, any suggestions? I’m nearly out of fresh ideas.”

  “Character witnesses?” William suggests. “What about Antonio Tomassi?”

  Briley shakes her head. “We have to save character witnesses for the penalty phase, but I wouldn’t call that man in any case. Have you been watching him? He thinks she’s guilty.”

  “Are you sure?” Kate frowns. “Hard to believe a father-in-law could turn on his son’s wife like that.”

  “I’m sure,” Briley answers. “But we’re going to need to dig around in Erin’s past to see if we can dredge up old teachers, friends, anyone who could testify about the good she’s done. I might have to ask for a continuance, since we don’t have a mitigation specialist—” Her voice catches as the events of the past few weeks collide in her head like the scattered puzzle pieces on Roger Wilson’s tray. They shift, they spin, then they fall into place, revealing a picture she’s been too distracted to see.

  She stares across the booth at Kate and William, her mouth open.

  William freezes in the act of cracking a peanut shell. “What?”

  “The firm,” Briley whispers. “They didn’t put me on the case because they believe in me. They put me on this one because they’re sure I’ll lose.”

  Kate makes a face. “Now that’s crazy talk.”

  “No, it makes perfect sense.” Briley swallows hard. “Tomassi is an important client, and he wants Erin punished—you said it yourself, Wills. That’s why I’m handling this trial alone, and that’s why Franklin wouldn’t assign another associate to help me. Not that you two haven’t been terrific, but if Tomassi wanted Erin acquitted, the firm would have put one of the partners on this case, and you know it. They would have assigned one of the partners and given him a death penalty team.”

  “Acquitted?” William drops his jaw. “No one, not even Mr. Franklin, has dreamed of getting that woman acquitted. She did it, Briley. She killed her husband. You’ll be working a miracle if you can save her from lethal injection or life in prison.”

  “You’re wrong about that, Wills.” Briley gives him a tight smile. “I don’t think she did it. And I want her to walk out of that courtroom a free woman.”

  A faint glint of humor fills William’s eyes. “Now you’re talking like a crazy woman.”

  “I don’t think the firm set you up to fail.” Kate shakes her head. “That’s unethical.”

  “If they were actively manipulating my case, maybe. But they haven’t done that. Erin’s getting her defense, the firm is getting paid, the judicial process is being satisfied. The law doesn’t say a defendant is entitled to the best representation. It only says she’s entitled to representation. That’s what I am—understaffed, inexperienced, rookie murder-trial representation.”

  William lifts his coffee cup. “And here I thought you were moving up the ladder of success.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll even be on the ladder after this.” Briley presses her hand to her stomach as a sludge of nausea roils in her gut. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it until now. If I win, Antonio Tomassi will be unhappy, so the partners will be unhappy. If I lose, Antonio will be satisfied and the story will be broadcast on every channel and written up in every political blog. No client will want to hire me…and the firm may not want to keep me, despite Mr. Franklin’s assurances.” She winces as her phone buzzes in her pocket.

  Kate folds her arms. “Someone has lousy timing.”

  “It’s not a call, it’s a reminder.” Briley pulls out her phone and shuts off the alarm. “I have to swing by the jail and visit a hospital tonight, so I need to get moving.”

  The waitress returns, bearing a tray with their orders. Briley looks at the steaming bowl of soup and pushes it toward William. “I’m not hungry. I’m going to run these errands, and then I’m going home. Maybe I’ll come up with a brilliant idea while I’m rehearsing my closing.”

  “You need a test audience?” William’s eyes shine with a hint of flirtation, but Briley’s not in the mood for flirting. Not with Timothy in California and her trial in the tank.

  “Sorry, but I’ll have to take a rain check.” She gives William a purely platonic smile, then buttons up her coat and heads out into the night.

  A security guard directs Briley to Dr. Steven Phillips’s lab, which is off a long, nondescript, basement hallway with polished tile floors and what appears to be a nearly endless succession of windowless doors.

  She hesitates outside the door marked “S. Phillips,” then pulls it open. A black-topped table beyond the door reminds her of high school, and an Asian man in glasses turns at her approach.

  “Hello,” she says, looking past him. “I’m looking for Dr. Steven Phillips.”

  “That’s me. You must be Briley Lester.” The man smiles as he steps forward, his hand extended. “Don’t let my name throw you. I was adopted by an American family.”

  “Ah.” She gives him a polite smile. “I don’t want to keep you, and I still have work to do tonight, so—”

  “This shouldn’t take long. Do you have the signed authorization from Mrs. Tomassi?”

  “Right here.” Briley pulls the handwritten form from her briefcase and hands it over. She hopes the doctor appreciates the effort it took to get that authorization. Due to the late hour, she had to go to the jail, call the warden’s office for special permission to see Erin, go through Security, wait for Erin to be brought out of her cell…

  The doctor scans the page, then slips it into his pocket. “Sorry about the formality. But patient-privacy regulations—”

  “I understand.”

  “Please, come and have a seat.” She hesitates, about to urge him to give her the condensed version of Erin’s problem, then sighs and follows him to the back of the lab. In the corner a battered desk is covered with folders, printouts, and a computer. The geneticist slides into his seat, his fingers fly over the keyboard, then he pulls a numbered folder from a stack on his desk. “I don’t know how much Mrs. Tomassi told you about her situation.”

  “Enough.” Briley slides onto a stool. “So if you can simply tell me what I need to tell her, I’ll be on my way.”

  The man smiles and settles the folder on his knee. “Mrs. Tomassi came to see me because she was concerned about her DNA. Apparently someone in the family suffers from a genetic illness.”

  “Her brother,” Briley answers, content to leave the details to the doctor’s imagination.

  “We took the usua
l mouth swab from Mrs. Tomassi,” Phillips says, opening the folder. “And we also took blood, in case she wanted further tests done. What we discovered was quite unusual. At first, I was convinced the lab assistant made a mistake and switched the samples with someone else. But no, as you can see, every swab and blood sample is carefully logged and each vial is labeled in the patient’s presence. We even have the patient initial the vial so there are no mix-ups.”

  Briley glances at her watch. “What did your tests reveal?”

  “Mrs. Tomassi…” He hesitates, his square jaw tensing.

  Briley’s impatience veers toward alarm. “Does she have some kind of genetic illness?”

  The doctor shakes his head. “No, sorry. It’s just so rare, I’m a little awed by the possibilities. I know of only forty cases of this condition in recorded history. I’m sure there are others, but people don’t realize the truth unless they have DNA testing. Even then, the condition is unlikely to be discovered unless several swabs from various organs are analyzed and compared.”

  “What is this condition?”

  “Mrs. Tomassi is a tetragametic chimera.” The geneticist beams as if he’s just discovered the cure for cancer.

  Briley stares. “She’s a what?”

  “A chimera. The condition is extremely rare, but no one can say for sure—”

  “I know, I got that part. It’s rare, probably. But what is it?”

  “A chimera—” the doctor lifts his chin “—is usually defined as the blending of two species. A frog, for instance, that has been injected with human DNA. Genetic engineers have been creating chimeras for years.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re not saying that someone tampered with Erin’s DNA, are you?”

  “No, no, human chimeras occur naturally. When two zygotes are in the womb, sometimes they fuse together. This forms an organism with two distinct cell lines, a person with two populations of cells. One set of DNA may appear in her ovaries, another set may appear in her heart tissues.”

  “Is this—” Briley waves at the folder, feeling like a kindergartner trying to understand quantum physics. “Is this similar to what happens with conjoined twins?”

  The doctor responds with a laconic shrug. “Similar? Consider this.”

  He taps on the computer keyboard and pulls up a photograph of what looks like a two-headed boy. “Seventeen-year-old David and Jonathan Violette.” He points to the screen. “Two heads, two arms, two legs. There was a third nonfunctional arm, but surgeons removed it shortly after the boys’ birth.”

  Briley stares at the image, her mind reeling. “Are they—is that—a chimera?”

  “Definitely not. David and Jonathan are two separate people, two unique souls with two distinct personalities. A chimera is one person rising from two different embryos. Because identical twins share the same DNA, we may never know how many people were once identical twins. But tetragametic chimeras are fraternal twins. Fraternal twins have different DNA, they are often of different genders and different appearances—”

  “I know what fraternal twins are.” And sometimes they share special languages.

  She looks away as a blush heats her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap. It’s just—I don’t understand what this means for Erin Tomassi.”

  The doctor shrugs. “Who can say? But she needs to know. One case was uncovered when a woman gave birth to children who were not genetically related to her. Apparently her ovaries originated with her twin.”

  Briley shudders. “How do you explain that to your children?”

  “The most difficult thing was explaining the situation to the state. As I recall, that woman’s children were nearly taken away. The mother and her kids were DNA-tested when she applied for public assistance. When she didn’t match her children, authorities were convinced she had kidnapped them to perpetuate a fraud. Not until she gave birth with a court representative in the room was she able to prove her claims.”

  Briley pinches the bridge of her nose. “Will Erin be able to have children someday?”

  “Of course. But her children’s DNA may not indicate that she is their mother.” He taps his keyboard again. “In another case, a woman’s blood work revealed the presence of two different DNA types in all her tissues. Even the hairs on her head revealed different DNA.” He chuckles. “I would imagine this could cause nightmares for those of you involved in the legal system. After all, DNA is the court’s current gold standard, is it not? Yet DNA can be misleading. Imagine how you would feel if the court took away the children you had conceived and carried.”

  Briley stares at a dusty model of the double helix on the doctor’s desk. For an instant she feels a surge of adrenaline, a fleeting perception. An idea hovers at the edge of her brain, an important thought, but it will not slide into her consciousness.

  She closes her eyes and moves on, considering the ramifications of the doctor’s last comment. Every year convicted criminals are released from prison because they are exonerated by genetic testing that was unavailable at the time of their trials. What if one of those newly released rapists or murderers is a chimera?

  She stares at the double helix as disturbing concepts shove and scramble for space in her brain. “DNA,” she whispers, “may not be perfect, but it’s the best we have.”

  “That may be true,” Phillips answers, “but whatever can be used for justice can also serve injustice. A good thought to keep in mind.”

  Finding no answers in the dusty model, Briley shakes off her fascination and stands. “Thank you, Dr. Phillips. I’ll give your information to Mrs. Tomassi.”

  As she rides up in the elevator, a solitary and disconnected question surfaces in her brain. Bystrowski has introduced several items as evidence in Erin’s trial.

  What happened to the rest of the evidence collected at the Tomassi crime scene?

  Alone in a booth at the Over Easy Café, Detective Mark Malone is eating a hamburger and fries when Briley slides into the seat across from him. He stares at her, then swallows and swipes at his mouth with a paper napkin. “Hello, Counselor. Run into any bathroom muggers lately?”

  His tone is teasing, but his eyes are serious and direct.

  “How are you doing, Detective?” She props her arms on the table. “The only place I’ve been assaulted lately is in the morning papers. But you’re still keeping the streets of Chicago safe for women and children, I see.”

  “I’m off duty, Counselor.”

  “So am I.”

  “So this is a social call?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He shrugs and picks up his hamburger again. “How’d you find me?”

  “The guys at your station. They know your routine.”

  He chuffs and goes in for a big bite, then chews thoughtfully, his gaze pinned on her. Finally, he swallows. “About your mugger. We circulated your description and talked to Mr. Tomassi.”

  “And?”

  “At the time of your attack, Jason Tomassi was being interviewed on the steps of the courthouse. We have time-stamped videotape, so he isn’t the guy.”

  She isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or alarmed. “Oh.”

  “Anything else I can do for you, Miss Lester?”

  With an effort, she pushes thoughts of her attacker aside in order to focus on the real reason she’s sought out the detective. “Whatever can be used for justice can also serve injustice,” she says. “I need to talk to you about the inventory your guys took from the Tomassi crime scene. I know some of it was entered into evidence at the trial, but surely that’s not everything.”

  The detective shrugs. “Of course not. We went through the usual routine—dusted for fingerprints on the windowsills, collected hair samples, took photos of the bed, the bathroom, the body. We cataloged a drinking glass from the bathroom sink, toothbrushes, contents of the trash can.”

  “And in all that evidence, you didn’t find anything unusual? Anything that might have pointed to an intruder?”

  “What are
you driving at?” His eyes narrow. “From the videotape, we know no one approached the house from the front or the rear.”

  “Forget about the tapes, Detective, and answer my question—did you find anything unusual in all that evidence?”

  Malone rolls his eyes. “If we had, I’m sure Louis would have let me know.”

  “Who’s Louis?”

  “Our guy in the crime lab. He does DNA testing, blood-spatter analysis, gory stuff like that.”

  Briley sets her cell phone on the table and slides it toward the cop. “Call him, will you?”

  “What for?”

  “Call him for me, please? It’s important.”

  The detective hesitates, probably wondering if he’s within his rights to tell her to take a flying leap, then he picks up the cell. “He’s not gonna be in the lab,” he says, dialing the number. “It’s nine o’clock. He’s probably home watching reruns.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Then he might be around. Just humor me and get Louis on the line.”

  Malone presses the phone to his ear, then the corner of his mouth quirks. “Louis? You still workin’?” He glances at Briley. “You’re not gonna believe this, but I’m sitting with a defense attorney who’s ready to bust a gut about something. She wants to talk to you.”

  He hands the phone across the table. “Knock yourself out, Counselor.”

  Briley closes her eyes to better concentrate. “Louis? I’m Briley Lester, calling about the Tomassi trial—”

  “The politician?” His voice sounds surprisingly young.

  “Yes, that’s right, the politician who was murdered. Listen, do you still have evidence from the crime scene? Anything that wasn’t used in the trial?”

  “Sure, in the file,” Louis says, a note of confusion in his voice. “Do they need something else?”

  “That all depends,” Briley answers. “Tell me, did you analyze everything? Every hair, every tissue from the trash, everything the detectives brought in?”

  “No need to. Once we fingerprinted the syringe, we had enough to make the case.”