Unknown Means (19 page)

“How do you know that?”

“The Plain Dealer has a beautiful thing we like to call the Archive. Everything newsworthy that’s ever happened in the city of Cleveland since the paper began, in 1841. Okay, maybe not everything. But it had society page blurbs about Grace Markham and Frances Duarte at dinners for Darryl Pierson, on backstage tours at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, heading to New York for shopping trips. Including, of course, what they were wearing. I think when it comes right down to it, there’s not much to say about the rich except what they were wearing.”

“When was that?”

“About four years ago. After that, not so much. They’re still mentioned in tandem here and there—we ran a picture of them with a Sunday magazine article about a new restaurant that opened in Tower City just two months ago.”

Not surprising that the women would be friends, Evelyn thought. Their lives must have been quite similar. Had they had a falling-out? And what could they possibly have had in common with Marissa?

Clio Helms seemed to read her mind. “But what’s the connection with your DNA analyst?”

Evelyn opened her mouth to point out that the killer might simply frequent expensive apartment buildings, and the fact that two of the victims knew each other could be a not-too-surprising coincidence. If they had been close friends, surely Grace’s husband or Beldon Aimes would have mentioned it.

Perhaps she should put Clio Helms on to Mark Sargeant . . .

except that if some dark secret of Marissa’s did lurk behind that murmuring voice, Marissa would hardly be grateful for its airing

only two months before the wedding. And if he knew more about Grace and Frances than he professed, the journalist could wind up dead. So, for that matter, could Evelyn.

As Riley would say, she bunted. “What are you doing here, anyway? You can’t be following me.”

“That doesn’t say much for your self-esteem, Evelyn. Why wouldn’t I be following you? I said I came to see if your spokesperson could tell me anything new, which he couldn’t. Neither can the cops. I think they’re just rounding up the usual suspects.”

The usual suspects . . . Outside the dock, a discreetly lettered ambulance backed up to the protruding concrete edge, piercing the air with a shrill beep-beep-beep. The deskman forgot about watching Clio and caught Evelyn’s eye. “Traffic coming in. Three cars on I-71. Nasty.”

“Time to go, Ms. Helms.” Evelyn all but shoved the young woman out the back door and promised to call if and when she could talk.

Evelyn headed to her lab via the lobby. Their wizened receptionist, Mrs. Anderson, flagged her down with a lit cigarette. The “No Smoking by County Ordinance” sign on the wall behind her did not apply after quitting time, she explained. “Your peerless leader just toddled upstairs after he spent fifteen minutes telling me how hard he’s worked. First time in twenty years, I’m sure. I’m surprised he hasn’t put in for disability yet, having to get out of his chair more than twice during the day. How’s Marissa?”

“The same, last I heard.”

“She still going to marry that doctor boy?”

“Of course.” She’ll be fine. She’ll be fine.

“Good for her.”

Evelyn climbed the steps to the third floor, now nearly deserted, to survey the small room at the back of the building that housed the DNA equipment. Tony would hit the roof if he thought she had checked up on him, but she doubted he would notice.

First she emptied the biohazard container he’d left full and put away the instruction manuals he’d left on the counter, and she doubted he would notice that either. Then she moved over to the computer attached to the STR—short tandem repeat—DNA analysis system.

She found the printout for the semen sample from Grace Markham and compared it with the one from Frances Duarte—which had, miraculously, served up male DNA. They matched perfectly; not even Tony could screw that up. They had the DNA of the killer.

The thought made her pause. There could so easily have been a third set of samples, and a chart with Marissa’s name at the top.

She moved the mouse, and the monitor sprang to life, courtesy of Tony’s less-than-perfect lab techniques. He hadn’t shut the computer down. She hit the Search History tab.

Tony said he’d sent the results to CODIS, but Marissa often ran fifteen samples of DNA a day and kept the results in her own database. Evelyn had been too tied up with crayons and grease at the time, but after her talk with Clio Helms, she wondered if Tony had run their samples against their own gang of usual suspects. As expected, he hadn’t. Keyboard keys clacked under her fingertips as she followed the on-screen commands.

A box at the bottom of the screen glowered. “Searching.”

“What are you doing?”

She could have sworn her heart physically left her chest. She looked around to see Tony in the doorway. “You scared the crap out of me.”

“Why?” Tony considered their surroundings as safe and comfortable as the average kindergarten, and most of the time, so did Evelyn. Very few criminals broke into a morgue. “You think that guy who throttled you is going to come back?”

Yes, she wanted to say. I do. He might assume I saw his face. He might assume I can identify him. But she couldn’t show weakness to Tony unless she wanted to hear about it every week for the next ten years. Besides, she had a more delicate confession to make. “I’m just checking searches.”

His blue eyes darkened to storm cloud gray. “I said I put in for a CODIS search.”

“I know.”

“So?”

No way around it. “I’m searching our own database. Our past cases, the ones that Marissa had analyzed since we went to STRs from RFLP type analysis.”

A pause while he considered what to do. He had simply forgotten, of course, or somehow assumed that the computer would do that automatically, but that would not be the explanation.

The computer beeped to get her attention. A results window had opened, listing things like match probability and percentages.

A lightning strike from Tony. “Why isn’t running this search in Marissa’s written SOP, then? I followed it carefully, and I’m sure—”

It took a moment for Evelyn to comprehend what the computer screen showed her. “Tony.”

“I’m going to have to have a talk with the princess when she gets back to work—”

“Tony!”

“What?”

“Look at this.” She stared at the screen, trying to absorb it.

Her boss stalked up behind her and read over her shoulder.

Then he said, “Holy crap.”

C H A P T E R

16

OUR KILLER IS THE UNKNOWN SUBJECT IN FIVE UNsolved rapes,” Evelyn breathed into her phone.

David, on the other end, did not seem to be breathing at all. “Five?”

“Over the past, let me see, four years.”

“Where? Who? What are their names?”

“You’ll have to hang on a minute.” She scribbled the evidence item numbers on a piece of paper and hurried down the hall, with Tony on her heels. “I need the daybooks.”

“The what?”

Information regarding every item, every sample, every victim the Trace Evidence Department had dealt with since 1968 had been entered into tall red ledgers, with one page for each day. (The years before that were detailed in students’ composition notebooks.) The six-digit case numbers assigned by the deskmen went in the left-hand margin, and each sample or item of evidence got a distinct three-part number. Someday, and sooner rather than later, a computer program would hold all this information, but Evelyn could wait. Aside from an occasional case of writer’s cramp, the ledgers worked well. She could locate an item from a 1982 murder or a

1971 industrial accident in minutes, and no computer hacker in the world could reach information written only in ink. Besides, it gave her the sense of history in the making.

She pulled the books from 2003 to 2006, plunking them into Tony’s arms.

It took, as usual, only seconds to find the entries. In all five cases they had received only the sexual assault kits, no other evidence, such as clothing or bedding. Each notation listed the submitting agency.

She read the information as she found it. Even Tony became caught up in her frenzied activity, holding the large books for her like a well-trained altar boy.

The first case had come from a wealthy suburb to the southeast of Cleveland named Solon; the second occurred in Parma, the largest suburb of the city, a working-class neighborhood to the southwest. In 2004, the evidence had been submitted by the Cleveland force. The Cleveland police lab, the state police crime lab, and other area facilities conducted DNA analysis, but when backlog held up results, the cops could come to the efficient ME’s office.

In 2005, a case from Euclid, to the east of the city along the lake. “2006, Cleveland again,” she told David.

“He gets around,” Tony pointed out.

“He does indeed.” Phone propped between ear and shoulder, she took the ledgers from her boss, steadying herself with their bulk.

Their killer had expanded from rape to murder. What did he plan to do next? “Just when you think it can’t get any worse—”

“I’ll see where the past cases are, if they’re still open or what.

Then I’m going to pay another visit to the grieving Mr. Markham and find out more about his late wife. Maybe our guy not only got more violent, he got more specific. And, Evelyn—”

“What?”

“Be careful.”

She promised she would and hung up as Tony appraised her with a knowing eye. “What?” she demanded.

“I’d take that advice, if I were you. Obviously this guy doesn’t mind getting out of the city now and then.”

A tremor ran through her, chilling her from her toes to the pulp of her teeth. Their killer had eluded capture many times. He’d gotten good at it.

And at finding his targets.

A HALF HOUR LATER, David flipped his phone shut. Riley had already left, after informing his partner that the Indians were back and raring to go, and a night baseball game should be regarded as a thing of beauty. Even in the rain.

Five unsolved rape cases. He’d called each department involved, but in every one the Records Department had closed and the case investigator had gone home. Stymied by the workday.

He called Joey Eames, without success. Her weary-sounding roommate told him to check out the bar at the Marriott. After she picked up a new pair of black pumps, Joey planned to anesthetize her pain before Grace Markham’s funeral tomorrow.

David stood up and grabbed his blazer. The Marriott stood on the next block, catty-corner to the police department. All he had to do was cross the street.

DESPITE HER STATED INTENTION, Joey Eames seemed completely sober as she chatted up a gray-haired gentleman in the Marriott hotel’s subdued maroon interior. The gentleman left as soon as David flashed his badge, peeving Joey Eames.

“What did you do that for? He’s in pharmaceuticals and seemed . . . nice. He knows a du Pont.” She sipped her cosmopolitan while hitching her skirt another inch up her calf. The new shoes rested in a Nine West bag under her stool.

David ordered a beer. What the hell, his shift had officially

ended. “Sorry. It’s just habit, announcing myself that way. I thought you might not remember my face.”

“I remember everyone’s face.” She made it sound like a curse.

“Have you caught the guy who killed Grace yet?”

“No, and that’s what I wanted to ask you about. Do you know Frances Duarte?”

“That woman that was killed in Lakewood? No, wh— Shit!

You think it was the same guy that killed Grace?” Three other bar patrons looked up as if deciding to go the way of the pharmaceuticals man. A fourth continued to chase an olive around his martini glass.

“Could you keep your voice down?”

She couldn’t. “This is some kind of serial killer psycho dude who kills rich women? Are we all at risk?”

“Joey, please—this is a confidential investigation. I’m exploring all available roads, that’s all. Do you know Frances Duarte?”

“All available roads, my ass. Do they teach you phrases like that at a cop seminar?”

“No,” he lied. “Frances Duarte?”

“Never met her. I saw her at a party once, on the Franklins’

yacht. Kind of a boring little thing. No fashion sense.”

“Were she and Grace friends?”

“Grace never mentioned her, though I’m sure they knew each other. Cleveland’s a small town, really.”

“Did Grace know a Marissa Gonzalez?”

“Doesn’t sound familiar.”

“I’m sorry, but when did you meet Grace again? I forgot.”

“About two, two and a half years ago. In the owner’s box at Jacobs Field. A guy I dated at the time knew William, so we started to chat. That rich crowd—I’m not one of them, you know.”

David didn’t respond. Evelyn had said the reporter had said that Grace and Frances took shopping trips together, but that had

stopped before Joey arrived on the social scene. Perhaps Grace had never mentioned Frances. But then, she had never mentioned her pregnancy either to her “inseparable” friend.

Joey fingered her glass, twirling the stem between her thumb and index finger. “I’m sure William told you that I’m some kind of groupie, hanging on to Grace just to get an invite to good parties so I can meet rich men. You’re a working guy, right, being a cop?”

“Just a cop. No trust funds out there with my name on them.”

“Then you understand.”

“Sure.” Understand what?

“I’ll level with you—William is right. But what else should I do? I’ve got no family, no education, no talents except friendliness.

I can schlep along trying to support myself on minimum wage, or I can marry well. Why shouldn’t I give it my best shot?”

“That sounds reasonable.” And it did, when she put it that way.

“It’s not like I’m some kind of slut. I’m not interested in a quick lay. I’m after a marriage . . . a commitment, kids, a house, all of it.”