Marcus just stared at John.
"I'm sorry. Why do you want to know about Detective Ash, and why would you think I have the slightest idea what she brings to the investigation?"
Marcus listened to the doctor's questions and noticed his eyes drift slightly upward to the right, a sign of remembering an image, when questioned about how he would know anything about the detective.
There's something there. Morry would clamp his hand on my shoulder and say, see that—there it is.
So Marcus leaned forward, sliding his coffee cup out of the way, looking John right in the eye and said, "I plan to keep writing about this investigation. But I don't plan on focusing on the killer and just the facts about the killings. I want to cover the people—from the victims to the mothers, to the neighbors, to the suspects, to the investigative team and the mayor. Everyone who is anyone in this chaos is fair game. I want to skin this story and lay it bare for all to see. I want it to be an all-encompassing, lives-that-have-been changed, six-degrees-to-Kevin-Bacon sort of story."
Actually Marcus had no idea what he was writing about and everything that just came out of his mouth was pure bullshit that he'd just made up on the spot. All he really wanted to do was make his editor happy and get a story in on time.
John's reaction to the reporter's soliloquy was to fold his arms across his chest, lean back in his chair, and ask, "Six degrees of what?"
Marcus wasn't getting off to a great start.
***
After the meeting they said their good-byes and agreed to possibly meet again. John left it open as to whether he might answer more questions, but he was pessimistic about what new questions Marcus might come up with. Would any of them exonerate him from being in the wrong place, at the wrong time? From trying to kill himself, for God's sake? As he watched him walk away from his house, John felt a sense of brotherly pride for Marcus. He reminded John of when he was a struggling student trying to absorb the fascinating world of medicine. He would corner his professors in the halls with limitless questions, which frustrated some professors, but engaged others. John didn't care, he just wanted the information. His mother had taken to calling him "The Sponge" whenever she was talking with Paulette. It was an inside joke they shared, and although he never admitted it, he somewhat liked the nickname. Marcus was another sponge, and John wanted to help him, so if talking more about the case would help Marcus, he would do it.
Early Sunday morning, John read through some of the serial murder books, taking notes. It wasn't until that afternoon that he noticed the three business cards again. He picked up Megan's and reread the note she'd written on the back. His mind flashed back to the hallway and how he felt her hand brush against his thigh and how her hips swung when she walked. It was time to make another phone call.
CHAPTER 24
It was Sunday morning and Megan made her way to the county's forensics lab to check on the progress of the DNA analysis of the hairs found stuck on Karen Sharp's baseball bat.
To get to the DNA the root of the human hair was cut and mixed with a detergent to remove the white blood cells and separate the usable DNA from the extra cellular material. The DNA material was then cut into variously sized specific sequences using restrictive enzymes that have sticky ends or blunt ends known as restriction fragment length polymorphisms, and were then placed into a gel and sorted according to size. These were only the first few steps in producing a DNA map and were as complex as they were time-consuming, which is why the tests were conducted off site at a special lab set up specifically for DNA testing.
Eric the lab tech was lecturing Megan on the finer points of Trichology, also known as hair analysis, and the history of DNA testing as he adjusted his microscope.
"So anyway," Eric continued in his best research scientist voice, "in nineteen twenty-eight, Frederick Griffith conducted an experiment using virulent pneumonia and mice. It was to be the first experiment, if you don't include Mendel and his peas, to consider inherited genes. Fourteen years later, Oswald Avery followed up on Griffith's experiment and discovered what he called transformation, or inherited genes, in the DNA. Then there was Chargaff, Franklin and Williams, then Watson and Crick, who won the Noble Prize, but really Rosalind Williams—"
"Eric!"
Eric jumped in his seat, hitting the bench with his knees and causing the county's 2 nineteen thousand dollar compound microscopes to shake on their mounts. Detective Ash reached over and grabbed the scopes to stop the shaking. He was doing it again, rattling on. He did it whenever Detective Ash showed up. He was in awe of her and wanted her to like him, and whenever he liked a woman, he got nervous, and when he got nervous he couldn't stop talking.
"What have you got?" she asked.
Eric looked at her crossways and returned to the image from the microscope. "Okay, we're at four hundred times normal size, we can see that this human hair is black, twenty-nine centimeters long, and wavy, as opposed to straight. I found two of them on the baseball bat, along with another human hair—brown and straight. I've already compared the brown hair with those taken from Dr. Randall and they are a match. I have no match for the black hair. It could belong to our suspect. If we find him, we—"
"Once we find him," Megan said.
"Once we find him…we can pull some of his hair for comparison. If they match, we have concrete evidence placing him inside Rachel Sharp's bedroom."
This was the part of his job that he loved. When he knew he was looking at evidence that could be used to convict a suspect; if he was ever caught. Eric had logged the hairs into the computer, collecting snapshots that could be uploaded into a national database and printed out, and blown up for courtroom use.
"It will take another couple weeks before we have a final printout. Once we get it, I'll load it into CODIS and to see if we get a match."
The Combined DNA Index System—CODIS—was the FBI database for DNA fingerprints and tracking of known and suspected criminals. Megan knew that CODIS would be their best shot unless they found more evidence—or the killer suddenly got sloppy. Karen Sharp with her baseball bat was the best break they'd had thus far.
As Megan thought about how long it would take to get the CODIS printout, her cell phone rang. Like Pavlov's dog, Megan's psyche was conditioned for two opposing reactions to the sound of her cell phone; fear and lust. She excused herself from Eric and pulled her phone from her purse. She took a deep breath and stared at the screen. Unlisted. She frowned, clicked the button, and answered.
"Ash," she said.
There was brief silence on the other end and Megan was ready to hang up when she heard a man's voice.
"Detective Ash?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"This is John Randall."
Megan's heart jumped and she caught herself looking over at Eric to make sure he wasn't listening in. He wasn't. Megan swung around and said, "Hello, Dr. Randall. What can I do for you?"
"I wanted to thank you for what you wrote on the back of your card."
She flashed back to John's front yard and tried to remember what exactly she had written on the card. John reminded her by saying, "I believe you."
"Oh yes. Well. I do. From everything you said, what the other doctors had said—it was pretty evident. Besides, even Mrs. Sharp knew you weren't the one in her house."
Another silence that passed between them, then Megan said, "How would you feel about meeting for coffee?"
Silence again. Megan suddenly flushed, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't be—"
"I'd love to," John said, then added, "But I'd rather not meet in public. I hope you understand."
"Yes, of course. How about my place?"
"How about the library?" John asked.
"The library…on Foley Street? I thought you didn't want—"
John cut her off, "I don't want to meet in a restaurant or coffee shop. Room F. Second floor. I'll reserve it. It's a private room I used to study in. I'll bring the coffee."
"All right then," Megan said, a bit bew
ildered.
This isn't how I pictured it.
They agreed to meet the following night and when Megan hung up and turned back to leave, she found Eric staring at her.
"Was that the Dr. Randall from—"
"Get me that DNA match, Eric," Megan said as she brushed past him and entered the hallway wondering what to wear to a library.
CHAPTER 25
He called.
John Randall called.
He wanted to meet.
Megan changed clothes five times before she settled on a short black skirt, not too short—four inches above the knee—a cream-colored blouse and a red button up sweater. She debated going braless. She checked herself in the mirror. Too much nipple. So she went for no panties. She wanted to feel sexy. Who was she kidding? She wanted sex but knew it probably wouldn't happen.
But one could hope.
And if it happened, it would be with John, whom she wanted to know.
Stop it Megan, you're acting like a little school girl. Just stop it. He only wants to ask a few questions about the case. Now that she thought about it, why would he care, she wondered. It hadn't registered with her when she was talking to him on the phone. What could he want to know? She grabbed her purse and flew out the door.
John sat at the table located in the center of Room F and gazed out the window watching the older people in the ancestry section of the library. Each one searching their past, wanting to know more about who they were and where they came from. John figured young people didn't have as much interest in where they came from as people who are closer to dying…or maybe they were just retired and had nothing else to occupy their time. As he considered it, he thought maybe after this serial murder thing passes, he might just come back and look up his own ancestry.
He sensed someone looking at him and his gaze traveled from one end of the window to the end next to the door. He saw Detective Ash standing there, smiling in at him, and he was immediately struck by how different she looked from the night of his arrest. He noticed her shapely legs and thought she looked like she was ready to go out to a nightclub. He found himself staring at her beauty, so long in fact that she opened the door without an invitation because John was taking too long to wave her in. In an instant, he recalled her hand against his thigh in the hallway and the way she stared into his eyes in his front yard. He watched her step in and shut the door behind her, then stood and extended his hand.
"Thank you for coming, Detective."
"Please, call me Megan," she said.
Megan took his hand in hers and kept hold of it, looking into his blue eyes for a moment before asking, "How are you holding up?"
"Fine," John said, pulling his hand free.
Megan set her purse down on the table.
"Here," John said, pulling out a chair for her.
"Thank you."
***
John's chair was at the farthest end of the rectangular table and Megan sat in the chair closest to the end, her back to the window. In any other situation, she would prefer to be able to see anything and anyone in her surroundings. All cops learn to keep their backs to the wall. But this was a library, and Megan wasn't a cop right now. As far as she was concerned, this was a date. She placed her right elbow on the table, rested her chin in her hand and with a bright smile asked, "How are you?"
"I think you asked that question already."
"Oh, I guess I did," she said, a flush of red rising in her cheeks. After an awkward moment of adjusting her seat, Megan asked the real question that had been stuck in her head since John's phone call.
"So…why exactly are we meeting? You said you wanted to talk about the case, but you must know I can't really discuss anything beyond what's already in the news."
"I want to be able to help somehow," he said.
Megan watched his lips as he spoke. They were full and masculine and she wanted to kiss them. She wanted to hold John, protect him, cook for him, and watch movies on the couch with him. How she could feel all of this in such a short period of time? She didn't know. The feelings were there, powerful and intoxicating.
"How can you help?" she asked.
"I'm not sure. I can do research. I'm good at that. This room was my home away from home for a long time and I have all the time in the world. I can follow people and call you to tell you where they are," John said excitedly.
Megan smiled at the thought of seeing John walking behind a suspect, his face bandaged, his eye blackened, trying to blend in.
"You think it's funny?" he asked.
"No, it's just, you're not really going to fade into the background with that bandage on your face and the fact that you've been on every local news station for the past few days."
John's shoulders sagged.
"You're right. Are you going to get into trouble for meeting with me?"
Megan had considered this on her way over. It hadn't occurred to her when she first received the phone call. All she could think about was that John wanted to see her. But on the way over it hit her—people might see them together.
Oh well. She could say she was following up because John said he'd remembered something else. She'd have to remember to ask him what that something else could be when she explained her concern to him. For now, she was here with him and she really didn't care otherwise.
"I'll just say that you thought of something else about that night and you wanted to let me know," she said.
"Hidden away in a library study room? Couldn't I just tell you over the phone?"
Megan reached across the table and touched John's hand, "Don't worry about it."
John looked down at her hand on his. Megan quickly pulled it away with a smile.
"Can you think of another way I might help besides following someone around?" John said.
You could make love to me.
Megan's mind raced trying to think of something quickly. "I could call you and get your opinions on things." How could she keep him involved where he thought he was contributing, but where it would never be known and she wouldn't reveal key evidence in the process? She so desperately wanted to have these meetings continue, a desire that had nothing to do with the case.
"Opinions?" asked John.
"Yes. I tell you something we're looking at and get your opinion."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. It's not like this is a typical request, and I don't usually have a reason to bring someone new into an investigation."
John's eyes tightened.
"I didn't mean to hurt you by saying that." Megan added, noticing his crestfallen look.
"No, it's okay. You're right. I just want to contribute somehow, if possible."
"I know. I'll find something. We'll make it happen."
They stared across the table at each other, their eyes locked, the slightest of smiles on their faces. Then John said, "Oh, I almost forgot." He leaned down below the table, and Megan immediately shifted in her seat and opened her legs just slightly. Her heart raced with the thought that he might look up her skirt and find she was not wearing panties. But as soon as he was down, he was back up again with a thermos in his hand.
"I promised you coffee."
Megan smiled and John set a Styrofoam cup in front of her.
"I hope you don't mind Styrofoam."
"Are you kidding," Megan replied, “that's all we have at the station."
"Then this should feel just like home."
Far from it.
He finished pouring two cups and spun the top back onto the thermos. Megan watched him, hoping he might lean over again to put the thermos back. She reached down with her left hand and pulled back her skirt, just a bit, then brought her hand back up over the table. John dipped below the table, and she could see his back undulating up and down as his arms shifted, apparently moving things in his backpack. The sound of a zipper opening. His back stopped moving. She slowly turned her body and closed her legs as if she was just shifting her position, trying to get comfortable. She saw
his back move again and when John raised his head, Megan was looking out the window, her cup of coffee to her lips.
She turned back around and said, "Good coffee. What brand is it?"
John's mouth opened, but said nothing for a moment.
He looked.
"It's French roast, from Seattle," he said.
"I like it. You'll have to tell me where to get some."
John adjusted his seat and said, "Sure. No problem."
Megan noticed three paperback books lying on the table, the top one had the word "Murder" in the title, but it was upside down so Megan couldn't read it completely.
Damn, he must have brought them up from his backpack. Maybe he didn't see.
"I want to ask you about serial killers in general. How do they decide to kill?" John said with an anxious, anticipatory voice.
Megan smiled, sipped her coffee, then set it on the table, and for the next hour all they talked about was serial killers. John discussed the serial killers that he'd read about, the books he'd bought online, asking Megan if she'd heard of them. She had. She knew about most serial killer cases across the country. If you're a homicide detective and you learn you have a serial killer in town, the first thing you do is run the known evidence through the FBI's national database to see if anything sticks. If you have a case in Florida, you check to see if Georgia or South Carolina have a similar case. Sometimes the killer travels, figuring they've worn out their welcome at home. So they move, lay low for a while in their new town getting to know the terrain, and then they get to killing again.
"How long have you been a detective?" he asked.
"What?" Megan said, the question surprising her. As simple a question as it was, she couldn't remember the last time anyone asked her that.
"Um, well, let me think. About nine years. Yes, nine years."
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