“And that grouping over there?” Maddocks pointed to slides showing reddish-brown shafts.
“That’s Female Brunette. She’s a DNA match to Faith Hocking—so we’ll just refer to her grouping as Hocking.”
“Gotcha. And these are all from the Thetisby scene?”
“I’ll get to that.” She grinned like a little Cheshire cat, and he sensed she was going to save the prize for last. Maddocks liked her on the spot.
“’Kay, Black-Haired Male One—” She indicated the first set of images with her stick. “We’ve got head hair, body hair, pubic hair. Black-Haired Male Two. Similar set—pubic, head, body. Blond Male. Head only.”
“All Caucasoid?”
“Correct.”
“Now, these are the head hairs—usually the longest hairs on the human body.” She motioned to the head hairs in all the groupings. “See how they’re characterized as having a uniform diameter and, in these images over here, a cut tip?”
Maddocks nodded.
“Most of these head hairs have been forcibly removed. Hair that falls out naturally has a club-shaped root, like this one, here. But these others are stretched at the root area and have follicular tissue attached.”
Which could indicate an altercation, Maddocks thought, or perhaps just hair getting caught up in rough rope strands while tying knots.
“These are the body hairs.” She tapped the various slides in the Black-Haired Male One and Black-Haired Male Two groupings. “And these are pubic—generally coarse and wiry in appearance. They exhibit considerable diameter variation, or buckling, and often have a continuous to discontinuous medulla, which is the type of hair core. All of these pubic hairs have been forcibly removed and have follicular tissue attached.”
“As in, from friction during rough sexual intercourse.”
“That would have to be your determination, Detective. I’m just the scientist telling you what I see.”
Yeah, he liked this little Sunni scientist. She was making his crap day feel just a tad brighter, and scientist or not, she was building his anticipation like a master storyteller.
“Hocking. Pubic trace from the floor in the cellar, here.” She tapped her pointer on the slides. “Head hair evidence from the ropes, here. All forcibly removed. Evidence of chemical treatment on the head hair—she colored her hair a slightly darker shade.”
Padachaya moved to the adjacent light board and clicked that one on, too. “So here we have the DNA profile of Black-Haired Male One and Black-Haired Male Two.”
“Bottom line?”
“Lay speak, bottom line—both Black-Haired Male One and Black-Haired Male Two DNA are a match to the two sets of postmortem hair trace found on Hocking’s body—from pubic combings and from inside her tarp wrapping.” She glanced up at Maddocks, a glint in her dark eyes. “And the DNA profile of Black-Haired Male One is a match to several hairs found on Gracie Drummond’s clothing.”
He whistled softly. “Nice work, Dr. Padachaya. You’ve just linked Black-Haired Male One to both homicide victims.”
She laughed. “Please, call me Sunni. Everyone does. And it’s my team you can thank—just doing their jobs.”
Maddocks peered more closely at the hair images. “And from the looks of things—if those male pubic hairs were obtained from Hocking’s pubic combings, both black-haired men potentially engaged in intercourse with Hocking.”
“Pubic contact and probably rough friction in order to forcibly remove the hairs, at the least,” she said.
“And Mr. Blond Male, he’s not connected?”
Silence.
He turned and looked down at her. Maddocks’s pulse quickened at the look on her features. “Okay, Doc, spit it out—what have you been withholding to the last?”
“He’s a match to the semen DNA from the used condom. Hocking’s DNA is also on the condom. Plus, techs found one of his blond head hairs on the exterior of Drummond’s coat.”
He stared at her, his brain spinning. “Holy cluster—”
“I know.”
“Three men. One blond, two dark,” he said quietly, staring at the slides on the board. “With the DNA profiles of Mr. Blond and Mr. Black One connected to both homicide victims.”
“And so far,” she said, “we still have no matches to any known subjects for those three unknown male profiles—nothing in the National DNA Data Bank, CODIS—they’re not in the system.”
Maddocks’s mind turned to Jayden Norton-Wells, Zach Raddison—black hair. Jon Jacques Junior and Senior—both blond. Tension and adrenaline twisted through him. They needed DNA samples from those men. To rule them in or out.
But they still had no new evidence that would give them RPG—reasonable and probable grounds—for a DNA seizure warrant. They needed to find something that would show a judge that one of those men probably committed the designated offense or offenses. Or was party to the offense. That was their stumbling block right now. That was what they needed. They were a long way off.
“I owe you, Sunni,” he said.
“I’ll hold you to that, Detective.” She grinned again.
CHAPTER 53
Merry shifted to ease the cramps seizing her leg, grateful for her down jacket and toque. While the clear Friday night was great for visibility, it meant cold.
The pregnant moon was waxing. It shone a path like beaten metal over the sea, and it made the white yachts in the marina gleam eerily. Zooming in with her telephoto lens, she clicked off another rapid series of shots, making sure she captured the name of the luxury mega-yacht clearly—the Amanda Rose—and the flags she was flying.
There was a fair bit of activity on board the big vessel—the silhouettes of people moving across the lighted windows, some occasionally filtering out onto the deck to smoke, cigarette ends flaring bright orange in the dark as they lit up or inhaled. Faint strains of music and snatches of laughter trailed up to where she squatted between a Dodge truck and a Kia Sorento parked along the road that curved around the northeast end of the small bay. Her VW Bug was parked just a few cars down, on the opposite side of the street, but she had a better sightline from here.
Action seemed to quiet down as the minutes ticked past midnight and into Saturday morning. Cold was crawling deep into her bones now. This must be what cops felt like on stakeouts. Hours of nothing, just waiting, getting cramps. Her mind went back to the altercation this afternoon, when she’d gone to find Damián Yorick.
Damián was the pimp Nina reported having seen Faith with some months ago. Merry had gone to ask Damián about the blond guy with the Bimmer.
She was with that pimp of hers from way back, Damián, and some other blond guy—rich prick who was driving a small, black BMW. Young, like in his twenties …
Damián, however, claimed to Merry that he hadn’t seen Faith in almost two years. It was a lie. She’d believe Nina over that bastard pimp any day. She’d confronted him over his lie. The argument replayed in her head as she watched the Amanda Rose.
You fuck the hell out of my business, you little meth-head whore. You wanna end up floating in that gorge, throat slit, like your friend? This is big shit, too big for you, you little two-bit tabloid trash. Fuck off out of here now before I do something I’m going to regret …
She’d taped it … my business … this is too big for you … those words led Merry to believe Damián was somehow connected to Faith’s death, that something was going on with the blond guy. So she’d waited outside his place until he’d left his premises around 10:00 p.m. She’d followed his car to this marina. He’d turned into the private marina lot, while she’d driven a little farther around the bay and parked. From her vantage point, she’d seen Damián making his way through the marina security gate and down along the dock, to where he’d boarded the Amanda Rose.
Merry tensed suddenly as another man came striding purposefully down the dock toward the luxury yacht. She zeroed in on him with her telephoto lens. Dark hair—black maybe. About the same age as Damián. Tall. Decent build. Sh
e clicked off a series of frames as he climbed the gangway and boarded the yacht.
The seconds ticked by. Things grew even quieter. Cold began to bite hard, and Merry started to shiver in spite of her down gear and toque. She was about to pack it in, thinking that maybe she’d return tomorrow to see if she could learn more about the boat, when suddenly she saw Damián returning down the gangway with the dark-haired guy.
The two men walked together along the dock toward the exit gate, heads bent in close conversation. She shot images as they went up the gate and then up into the parking lot. She zoomed in closer over the distance. The guys paused at Damián’s vehicle. The other male then turned his face her way, and she clicked. He then made his way over to a dark-colored Porsche. Looked red in this light. The stranger opened his driver’s side door, got in. Merry’s pulse quickened. She could run in a crouch behind the row of vehicles parked along the waterfront, get into her Beetle, and follow Damián as he pulled out of the private lot. Or she could follow that Porsche, try to find out who the stranger was. She chose the Porsche. Scurrying along, bent low, she opened her Beetle door, climbed in, fired the ignition. She pulled into the street and rounded the small bay as the Porsche sped out of the lot. Its brake lights flared red, and it turned onto the road that led into the ritzy Uplands neighborhood.
Because the streets were so empty and the night so clear, she held way back while still trying not to lose him.
He turned left, and then right again, climbing into a wide tree-lined street of estate homes. His taillights flashed red, and abruptly he swung into a driveway, disappearing from view.
Merry drove past the driveway entrance and drew up alongside the curb. She stared at the lit gold plaque on the stone pillar flanking the driveway, and her mouth turned dry with excitement.
AKASHA.
Pulse galloping, she photographed the name. But just as she fired off a rapid succession of clicks, another car—a white Audi—pulled into view and came to a stop under a streetlight several meters short of the driveway entrance. Merry slid down in her seat, peering up over the edge of the window. There was a man and a woman in the front of the Audi. The man leaned over, and the two engaged in a long, passionate kiss. Slowly, Merry raised her lens, clicked. Again. And again. The Audi windows started to steam up. Then suddenly the interior light flared on as the passenger side door opened. A woman got out. Merry’s heart stalled as the woman leaned down into the car to say something while holding the door open.
The man was Jack Killion. The freaking city mayor. And the woman was ADAG Joyce Norton-Wells.
Staying low, hands trembling with excitement, Merry fired off another series of shots. The ADAG shut the passenger door. The Audi pulled off, and Joyce Norton-Wells walked up the AKASHA driveway carrying her briefcase.
CHAPTER 54
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 16
It was 5:30 a.m. on Saturday morning. Maddocks had come in early, knowing things would be quiet at the station, just a handful of Operation Limpet guys coming in. Primarily, Fitz and the rest of management would not be there. And he didn’t want Fitz around for what he was about to try—bringing Jayden Norton-Wells in to give a voluntary DNA sample.
The plan had come to him last night, as he’d lain in the grip of insomnia aboard his yacht, fretting about Angie and the case. She’d not returned his calls, and he’d not tried to go around to her place, either. He’d decided last night that whatever course of action she took, if it was to be of any value, if it was to work long term and be in her best interests, he had to do the most difficult thing of all—wait for her to come to him.
He shoved his hands deep into his pockets as he stood in front of the whiteboard. Chewing lightly on the inside of his cheek, he studied the new lines he’d drawn linking victims Drummond and Hocking to Black-Haired Male One, Black-Haired Male Two, and Blond Male.
A cough sounded behind him, and he spun around.
Holgersen. Quietly watching him.
“How long you been standing there?” he said, slightly rattled—hadn’t heard the guy come in at all.
Holgersen came forward. Under the harsh fluorescent light this morning, the hollows beneath his eyes looked deep, and his cheeks gaunt. “You called, boss,” he said, referencing Maddocks’s new position on the task force. “You left me a message in the middle of the night. Told me about the black hair DNA profiles, told me to come in this morning to help with your plan. Remember?”
“I didn’t say five thirty a.m.”
He gave a halfhearted shrug. “Thought I’d come take a look at things and give it alls a think in the quiet myself.” He titled his chin toward the whiteboard. “But you gots here first.”
Maddocks regarded the man in silence for a beat. “You get any sleep at all, Holgersen?”
Another shrug. “Ah, yanno, a case eats away at a person sometimes. So … you gots the DNA profiles up there, I see.” He came close to the board, studied the new links and information. Without turning around, he said, “So, Fitz, eh. Buziak. You the new man-in-charge.”
Maddocks remained silent.
Holgersen turned, crooked a brow. “How’s Pallorino?”
“Don’t know.”
He nodded. “And I reckon Fitz isn’t gonna be on board with this plan of yours?”
Silence.
“So what makes you think our Jayden-pretty-rich-boy is actually gonna wanna offer us up his body juices by choice today?”
Maddocks walked over to the counter where he’d put a pot of coffee on to brew earlier. He poured himself a steaming mug and held up the pot. “Want?”
“Nah, I’ll get me some real shit later, thanks.”
Maddocks returned to the board and sipped as he considered the photo of Jayden Norton-Wells. He pointed his mug at it. “He’s the weak link. And the key link. The Lexus. The Saint Christopher medallion. Him fleeing to Raddison, who has a matchbook in his office with Drummond’s cell number on it. He’s connected. Don’t know how—but he is. We nail him, I figure the dominoes will start falling.”
“See, here’s the thing,” Holgersen said, fishing into his breast pocket for his pack of nicotine gum. “If Norton-Wells is connected, he’s not gonna give us a DNA sample voluntarily. Plus, even if he’s not connected, he’s a law student. Them guys are big on shit like the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, privacy laws, personal rights—full of braggadocio blow and all.”
Maddocks cocked a brow. “You been doing the daily jumble with Leo now?”
A grin slashed his tired face. He popped a tablet of green gum between his teeth, held it there, and said around it, “I do know some shit, boss.”
Recalibrating. That’s what Maddocks felt he was doing with each new interaction with Kjel Holgersen. The cop intrigued the puzzle-solver in Maddocks. What, he wondered, was Holgersen’s motivation in becoming a detective? What made him tick? What was his motive in trying to tip him and Angie off about Fitz? It was part of the reason he’d picked Holgersen to go with him today. Keep your friends close, as they say, but your enemies even closer—and he wanted to figure out which Holgersen was. Friend or foe.
“Motive,” Maddocks said slowly, watching Holgersen’s face. “That’s how I approach everything, everyone. Norton-Wells might be a law student, but he’s also a disappointment to his father. I’m guessing his mother, too—a top prosecutor and politician. If he’s a law student because he wants approval from his own parents, he’s needy. Not in his wheelhouse. I’m betting he’s probably not the smartest, or most strident, of law students, either.” He sipped, returning his attention to the photo of Jayden Norton-Wells.
“He’s devoutly religious,” Maddocks said quietly, staring at the young man’s features. “There’s a clear morality at play in his head. Right and wrong. Good and bad. And in his faith, bad means you go to hell. And Jayden Norton-Wells is shit-scared he’s going to hell. Because when we went to see him, right after the news broke about Drummond, he was a mess. Sick with stress, oozing fear. You could smell it on him.”
>
“Yah, so, he fits the religious aspect of the killings maybe, and he might have known our Gracie, and he lied about the Lexus … but he don’t fit no Grablowski lone-wolf, lust-based, cunning, sadistic, serial killer profile. Way I figure it, if he did give our Gracie girl a personally engraved Saint Christopher medallion, he cares about her. Them saints are supposed to look after people. Jayden-pretty-softy-rich-boy don’t want to rape and cut and kill her and then risk hell and damnation by dragging his offering into the cemetery at midnight and leaving her bleeding and dying at the foot of the Virgin Mary. No way, José.”
“Exactly. But he does know something. He’s hiding something. He’s shit-scared. And Norton-Wells panics when scared. He panicked into a really bad lie about that Lexus, the dinner at the Auberge, about the parking lot from where the Lexus was allegedly stolen, and he panicked into a wild dash to have something out with Raddison at city hall—couldn’t even think to put his coat on, or who would see him. Now, that wasn’t a lawyer thinking.” Maddocks set his mug down. “Panic is like a wild horse without the jockey of logic to rein it in. You actually lose the ability to think at all—you just act from the primal brain. We go lean on Norton-Wells for the murder of his dear Gracie Drummond, we make him panic, he might just offer up his DNA sample to save his ass—because my bet is he didn’t do those things to Gracie Drummond. But he might know—or suspect—who did.”
“What if he bolts straight to Daddy and Mommy and they pull out all them big legal guns? Then we gets nada.”
“I don’t think he will. And even if we do find enough for a DNA warrant, those guns are coming out anyway. This way we head them off at the pass. And the clock is ticking on this one. Fast. It’s worth a shot.”
“Worth the wrath of Fitz?”
“We got nothing else right now.” He paused and met Holgersen’s eyes. “I’m running the investigation. Not Fitz.”
Holgersen inhaled deeply, smoothed his goatee, then grinned heartily. “Let’s go nab us a law-boy, boss.”
The Drowned Girls (Angie Pallorino Book 1) Page 31
