Almost Mortal

by Chris Leibig

  “Let me just explain the basics real quick. Otherwise you won’t understand.”

  She sat up, her impending explanation yanking her back into work mode, frantic gestures and all. She loved talking about her job. When it came to the biggest case she had ever had, she would likely appreciate the listening ear of anyone she trusted. Maybe she chose to share with Sam because she and her husband had shared an interest in debriefing each other about crime fighting at the end of long workdays. Or, more likely, because they had not.

  “After you extract DNA from genetic material, let’s say blood, you run it through a process, either capillary electrophoresis or a computer version of that, and you multiply the genetic markers many times over. They appear sort of like peaks on a chart, with various heights depending on which marker is present at a certain location.”

  “I get it. The loci.”

  Sam realized she wasn’t just talking for the bare human contact of it. She was rehearsing for meetings, and eventually for court.

  “Don’t interrupt.” She softly slapped his thigh with both hands, but her eyes were far away, concentrating.

  “Humans have exactly the same DNA at almost all genetic locations. Only in certain locations of our chromosomes does our DNA generally differ from person to person. Most of our DNA does not differentiate us from apes, or even from reptiles. And only a very small percentage of it gives us our unique characteristics. The human genome project that some of you may have heard about—”

  Sam looked around. “It’s just me here, Juliana.”

  “Shut up, please. The human genome project concerned itself with the portion of DNA that is common to all humans. From that, they attempt to learn things about humanity in general, about our origins, our penchant for diseases, anything and everything, really.

  “Forensic DNA analysis is concerned with something totally different. It focuses on that small portion of our genes in which humans generally differ. Instead of seeking commonality, it seeks to exclude. That’s how we determine that a certain sample of blood could not have come from a certain person, or that it could have.”

  “You’re doing great. Only reminding you that it’s twelve thirty-seven in the morning. But please continue.”

  “The way it works is that in every location in our chromosomes—and there are many millions of locations—each of us has two genetic markers, called alleles: one from our mother, and one from our father. Since each parent has exactly two markers at each location, a child has a fifty percent chance to get either one. Virginia’s DNA typing system, called Powerplex 16, maps the genetic markers at fifteen loci that are known to differ from human to human. If the suspect differs from the sample at even one of the loci, or at any one of the thirty genetic markers, we know the suspect could not have been the contributor of the blood sample. If, on the other hand, the suspect matches at both markers on all fifteen of the Powerplex 16 loci, the suspect cannot be excluded as a contributor.”

  “I have a question,” Sam said.

  “I know you’ve heard a lot of this shit before, but bear with me—”

  “I know that once someone cannot be eliminated as a contributor, you guys run statistics on a database of hundreds of random DNA typing samples to extrapolate how many other people on Earth could not be eliminated. It usually comes out like one in six billion or something, thereby allowing the prosecutors to argue that their suspect must have been the guy. My question is, Dr. J. Kim, the statistics are bullshit, aren’t they? I mean you can’t really extrapolate all the profiles on Earth from a couple of hundred samples, can you?”

  Juliana sighed. “You’re dying for an answer to that, and you won’t get it from me. Look, Sam, I know you probably have some client in prison whose DNA matched and you just can’t believe he did it, but if he matched on all fifteen Powerplex loci, it was him, statistics aside—unless he has an identical twin brother. Anyway, back to the Ripper. Here’s the deal. I had dozens of swabs from the crime scenes and for weeks got nothing. Then I asked the detective to bring me all of the crime-scene evidence, including from the autopsy. And I’m looking through these bags and boxes from Joni West’s apartment, everything. And then I open the box with her clothes, and I can’t believe I didn’t do this before. Her bloody bra is sitting right there. I’d swabbed it for the blood, which was obviously hers, but this time I cut pieces from the straps, the non-bloodstained sections, and finally got a foreign profile. Ten alleles at six loci. Weak, but not nothing.”

  “What can you do with it?”

  “Right now, not much. I ran it against the national database, but it’s such a weak profile, it hits too many people. Most of them are in prison in other states, and the detectives looked into one or two who were out, but nothing viable. It’s too weak to make a meaningful inclusion unless some other evidence links the person to the scene.”

  “Okay, but tell me if I have this right: those ten alleles at six loci could exclude a suspect, right?”

  “In theory. But we’d have to have a suspect to compare it to or it’s worth nothing. All I can say right now is that somebody other than Joni West touched that bra since it was washed. I can exclude specific people, but that’s about it.”

  Sam stood, stepped into his pants, and began to gather his other clothes from the floor.

  “Sam, can I ask you something?”

  Sam looked at her.

  She smirked. “I’m not ready for anything serious, don’t worry, it’s not that question. My question is, once we catch this guy, you’re not going to represent him, are you? I mean, you could catch the case, and I’m sharing things with you about my career, and—”

  Sam held up his palm. “Never.” He held her eyes to accentuate the promise. “Besides, it’s probably a federal case. Federal property. My office doesn’t handle those cases. Unless the guy starts killing people somewhere else, the feds will get the case. So don’t worry. You’ll catch him soon.” Sam buttoned his shirt. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Maybe.” She leaned on her elbows on the bed, still naked and legs unselfconsciously spread.

  “If I have a DNA profile I want checked against the bra snapper, will you tell me if it’s a potential match or an exclusion?”

  “Hmmmm. What are you on to, Sam? If you’re sitting on a lead from the Ripper case, you’d better tell me and—”

  “Not a lead, an unsubstantiated personal hunch. Not police worthy yet. But I’ll call you about it. Will you check it?”

  “You’d better. And maybe.”

  On his way down the stairs, a text buzzed in.

  Sam, please call me. Truly an emergency. Would not bother you this late if it were not, though I rather guess you are used to being out and about at this hour. SCP.

  Sam pulled onto the highway before calling Camille. His buzz had pretty much worn off, but he didn’t want to be on his cell while driving in town. Sam would never break his promise to Juliana. He could never represent the serial killer, even if they caught the guy. Even if the case did not go federal, and even if the court appointed the public defender’s office. What Sam could not tell Juliana, at least not yet, was that he was going to help her catch the guy.

  CHAPTER 7

  “I REALLY APPRECIATE IT, Sam.” Camille shook Sam’s hand in the foyer of the clergy’s living quarters, a large, single-family home that stood far across the parking lot from the church building. Soft, low-watt lighting filled the high-ceilinged entryway, covering the furniture and paintings with a mild-fluorescent gloss. “It makes everything look holy, does it not? Even at two in the morning. This is our lobby of sorts. I’m in the carriage house around the back.”

  “Fancy,” Sam said. The carriage-house comment made him think of a Jane Austen novel, not that he had ever actually read one.

  “It’s plain.” She ushered him into a side room. “Vodka, right?”

  Sam sat down on a long couch. The faux royal décor reminded him of something. Like a museum intending to portray Louis XVI’s sitting room but
with cheap furniture—red cushions, gold trim, lace, large mirrors.

  She poured Sam a vodka tonic from a small rolling bar and sat next to him. Her long fingers gripped the glass near the top, the way they train waiters not to do. She leaned back on the red couch. Despite the poor light, Sam saw for the first time the very faintest hint of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Had he not been this close to her before? Camille’s distinctively narrow face and straight posture reminded Sam of a hypnotizing and, indeed, oddly beautiful serpent—like a cobra emerging from a basket. Her hooded eyes watched him watch her.

  “You don’t drink?” Sam said.

  “I like it well enough. My desire comes and goes. But we have a major development.” She slipped off her shoes, pulled her legs up underneath herself, and repositioned her body to face Sam, arm over the back of the couch. A serpent still, coiled at the bottom now.

  “Another confession?”

  “Father Andrada’s confessor called him. Asked if he could come to confession tomorrow morning at eight.”

  “You still don’t know who this guy is?”

  “Like you said, that would ruin Father Andrada’s privilege. And Father Andrada would never put me in that position. If he even knows the man’s identity.”

  “He’s already placed you in that position, hasn’t he? Dealing with me? Creating another witness?”

  “That’s protected by the attorney-client privilege.”

  “Maybe,” Sam said. “But a lot of lawyers would break the privilege to stop a serial killer. The state bar would likely be rather understanding. Frankly, I could probably be disciplined at this point for not coming forward against you and Andrada. Every day that goes by places all three of us in a more difficult position, especially if, well, you know.”

  Without answering, Camille took hold of Sam’s empty glass and walked to the bar. She faced away from Sam as she poured. She roughly massaged one shoulder. She flexed her back, then turned and walked slowly back to her place on the couch. Sam had been attracted to plenty of clients before. He always felt it was okay—thinking, but not acting.

  Camille met Sam’s eyes, having caught him, he supposed, watching her.

  “It’s where I carry my stress—the shoulders. So, what do you suggest? What is someone in Father Andrada’s position supposed to do?”

  “The murders all happened about a month apart, so there’s at least some reason to believe the Ripper won’t strike again in the next few days. I say Father Andrada should do the confession. Get a read on the guy if at all possible. We’ll move on from there. If Andrada can get this guy’s real name, I could go to the DA and cut a deal guaranteeing Andrada immunity for not coming forward before.”

  Camille’s back arched. Her posture stiffened slightly, reflecting, perhaps, worry. Or something else.

  “I get it that that doesn’t solve the whole confession-breaking moral thing for Andrada,” he said. “Fine. But like I said, the shelf life on this secret is very short. Look, let’s do this. I’m going to stake out the church and take a look at this guy. I have court at ten and can’t be late because I’m trying to get this pregnant lady out of jail. As long as he shows up on time, I’ll get a good look at him. That way I’ll know who he is but not through Andrada. From then on, I’ll take care of it. I know people—cops, prosecutors, FBI agents. I’ll stop the guy from striking again the right way, the legal way. Nobody needs to know anything.”

  “But you wouldn’t know this if not through Father Andrada. You need his permission. I mean, isn’t it privileged? That you only know about the confession through your client?”

  “Come on, Camille. He broke the privilege by telling you, and you decided to tell me. We’re deep into the gray zone here. I can handle this without involving Andrada. Shit, Andrada can go until the end of his days without thinking he broke the vow. I’m not even sure he did by telling a nun.”

  Camille shifted in her seat.

  “So what do you think?” Sam asked.

  “Telling anyone about confession breaks the vow.”

  “So? He’s already broken the vow. My plan works, right? He breaks the vow, but I shield him from ever having to testify or be publically known as the way I got onto the serial killer.”

  Camille slowly rolled her shoulders, which seemed looser now.

  “Okay, I think I get it. You see the guy, try and figure out who he is, and we’ll go from there.”

  Sam stood, rubbed his temples, and stretched his arms above his head. He could feel the stress ooze out of his back.

  “I should get home. I’ll be across the street from the church at eight fifteen. I assume this guy arrives here in a car?”

  “I’ve never seen him arrive. I’ve never seen him at all. I’ll leave the surveillance to you.”

  “Three more things, Camille.”

  “Yes?”

  “Tomorrow, when what’s his name arrives, you have to get his DNA profile.”

  Camille’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  “If you’re rejecting my other ideas, then you gotta do this. Just be around. Offer him a cup of water while he’s waiting for the confession. He’ll be nervous. Dry mouth. He’ll take a sip, believe me. Then put the cup in a plastic bag and give it to me. Plus, you’ll get a look at him.”

  “The second thing?”

  “Does Andrada use a cell phone?”

  “Not that I’ve ever seen. He’s stuck in the ’90s. And I mean the 1890s.”

  “What about caller ID?”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “Then I need his landline record for whichever phone received that call. He can get it online, through his provider.”

  “Why?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” She appeared lost in thought. “Camille, I know people who can track down that number. The guy might have called from his own phone or one that gives us a clue. People are dumber than you think.”

  Camille sighed and looked away.

  “And the third thing is I need the names of everyone who works at the church. Just write them on this, it’ll be easier.”

  Camille accepted Sam’s pad and pen.

  “Three priests, me, and a janitor,” she said, scrawling out the names. “So what do you think of the journal?”

  “What about it?”

  “Just anything. Do you feel it resonates with the case or anything else about it? I’m interested in your opinion.”

  “I’m a lawyer. I’m looking for objective indications that the journal has anything to do with our case. So far I don’t see anything. I see a story about a poor, messed-up kid from a shitty family killing his crazy stepdad. Happens all the time. In fact, I’ve had that case. Twice I think. Other than that, it doesn’t resonate.”

  Camille took a step past Sam towards the door.

  “I’m taking your silence on the phone record as a yes. By tomorrow,” Sam said.

  “So, is it easy to get pregnant ladies out of jail?” She opened the door for Sam to step out.

  Sam stood in the doorway, looking down at her.

  “Easier than non-pregnant ladies. Why?”

  “Sometimes I just like to know things.” She held her index finger to her lips. Now that he was outside, they risked waking Father Andrada through the upstairs windows. She softly shut the door. Sam walked towards the Escalade, which again stood alone in the empty gravel lot. Halfway to it he turned back and looked at the rectory. It was plain, a suburban priest’s house; yet inside, despite its gaudy décor, it felt like an ancient cathedral. A dull light shone from upstairs. Andrada probably, doing whatever priests like him did at half past two in the morning.

  Sam’s phone buzzed. He recognized the number, though no contact name appeared. Torres, Dr. Fred Torres, father of a recent juvenile client. A small case that had resolved easily for some community service. But why would the guy be calling so late?

  “This is Young.”

  “Sam, I’m so sorry to call so late. It’s not about Nate. It’s about me. I really m
essed up. I think I need your help.” The doctor’s voice cracked, like that of a man unused to holding together under stress, perhaps an upright citizen just arrested for something serious.

  Torres was an OB-GYN with a nice solo practice in Fairfax. He spoke like a gentle physics professor, always taking the time to make precise pronunciations of medical terms in his native Spanish.

  “I don’t care what it costs, I need to see you now. Can you please meet me at my office? Please!”

  Sam took a deep breath. He glanced back at the rectory. The upstairs light was out now. He clicked his key fob, and the Escalade’s lights flashed red like a buoy in the darkness.

  “Address?”

  •••

  “I can’t believe how stupid I am. I can’t believe how stupid I am. I can’t believe how stupid I am …” Torres repeated the same phrase through tears in his normally elegant Dominican lilt. Shattered glass covered the floor of the windowless examination room, and a large piece of expensive-looking medical equipment, a scanner or EKG machine, lay smashed on the floor. Torres sat on the examination table with his hands on his head, rocking back and forth like a tortured prisoner. Sam stood near the table, arms folded, taking in the room, relaxing his mind, and trying to get a read on the source of Torres’s desperation. The white, metal cabinets along the walls were the only remaining trappings of a normal doctor’s office.

  “Take it easy, Doc.” Sam put his hands on Torres’s shoulders. He felt the tension throbbing inside the man. Sam closed his eyes, and then stepped away. “Tell me, Doc, tell me slowly. We can solve this.”

  “You have no idea. The stress, I can’t take it—”

  “Stop it, Doc.” Sam forcefully gripped both of Torres’s shoulders.

  “His name’s Buterab. Steve Buterab. He’s—”

  “I know who he is.” Sam saw it, Torres’s whole issue. The smashed equipment, the crying, and the thoughts Sam could feel twisting and turning through Torres’s mind, thoughts of his wife and his daughters and his nice suburban home.