Let Darkness Come (28 page)

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 mislead
ing. 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.”

Briley smiles as her adrenaline level rises. “Listen, Louis, I need you to do something for me. I need DNA typing on any hair samples from that crime scene—and I need it fast.” She grits her teeth, knowing she's about to ask the impossible. “Can you have something for me by tomorrow morning?”

He laughs. “You gotta get in line, lady.”

“I've already been in line, and now I'm at trial. Look, I know I'm asking a lot, but I'm nearing the end of my case. I'll come down there and help if you want me to, but if I don't get those results, my client could get a death sentence. Do you understand that?”

She hears a heavy sigh, then Louis clicks his tongue. “Put Malone back on the horn.”

“What?”

“Let me talk to Malone.”

She offers the phone to the detective. “He wants you.”

Malone holds the phone to his ear with one hand while he pinches a French fry and drags it through a pool of ketchup with the other.

“Yeah,” he says, glancing up at Briley. “Yeah. She's okay.”

The cop hands the phone back to her.

“Well?” she asks the technician.

“I'll see what I can do,” Louis says. “I might even have a couple of those hair samples already done. Anything particular you want me to look for?”

“Just anything…odd,” she answers. “You want me to come down and keep you company?”

“No, don't want anyone saying you messed around with the evidence. Just let me plug in the coffeepot so I can get my second wind.”

“Thanks, Louis. I'll tell your boss they don't pay you nearly enough. Detective Malone sends his love.”

She snaps the phone shut and grins at the cop across the table.

“You didn't have to add that last bit.” He baptizes another French fry. “Might give Louis the wrong idea.”

“You need to show the lab guys a little more appreciation,” she answers, sliding out of the booth. “Thanks, Detective. See you 'round the playground.”

A
fter a nearly sleepless night, at nine the next morning Briley stands in the line that leads to the courthouse security checkpoint and redials Louis's number. “Please, please pick up,” she whispers, setting her briefcase on the conveyor belt.

A security guard hooks his thumbs over his waistband and shakes his head. “I'm sorry, ma'am, but you'll have to send the phone through the X-ray machine.”

“But I'm on a call.”

“No exceptions.”

Briley steps out of the security line and watches her purse and briefcase roll down the moving belt. Finally, a man answers, his voice heavy. “Hello?”

“Louis? It's Briley Lester and I'm at the courthouse. I need to know if you found anything interesting with those hair samples from the Tomassi crime scene.”

“Ms. Lester.” A smile slips into that scratchy voice. “You want something
interesting?
Well, maybe you're in luck. I tested twelve samples and found three different profiles, so that means three different individuals have been in that bedroom. In fact, all three profiles were found on the victim's bed.”

“Three different people? Are you sure?”

“DNA doesn't lie. The hairs looked pretty much alike—well, except the dark ones—but the other two are just a shade apart. That's why we didn't bother to test them all.”

Briley catches her breath. “So this means…”

“If you were playing a hunch, my guess is that it paid off.”

She turns, pressing her hand to her forehead. Time to think like a prosecutor, play the devil's advocate. “Okay. Couldn't those hairs be from the husband, the wife, and the housekeeper? The cleaning lady is on record saying that she changed the linens the day before the murder.”

“Not unless the housekeeper is related to the wife. The B and C hairs belong to individuals from the same family.”

“So…” Briley struggles to think through the noise and commotion in the lobby. “Those hairs could have come from the husband and his brother.”

Louis chuckles. “No way. The similar samples are from females. I'd say you're talking about two sisters.”

A thrill shivers along Briley's spine. “Can you bring your report to the courthouse by nine-thirty? We're in Judge Trask's courtroom on the seventh floor.”

“Sure, and do you want me to lasso the moon for you, too? I'll do it, but you have to promise to have coffee with me first.”

For an instant, Briley is flummoxed, then she realizes he's joking.

“Louis—” she can't stop a grin “—I'd be happy to treat you to a cup of coffee. And if you need me to vouch for your overtime—”

“I didn't stay up all night for the overtime. I figured that if you were running around at 9:00 p.m. on your client's behalf, maybe this Tomassi broad was worth a little extra effort.”

Briley bites her lower lip as an unexpected lump rises in her throat. “Thanks, Louis.”

“You gonna need me to testify?”

“Yes. Is that a problem?”

“Not as long as I have my coffee. And for you, I'll even do a shave.”

She looks toward the security checkpoint, where Bystrowski and his associate are dropping their briefcases and belts beside the X-ray machine. “I owe you big-time, Louis. But you'd better do that shave in record time.”

 

When Briley approaches the defense table, Erin arches a brow. “You look like the cat that swallowed the canary,” she says. “Or maybe you finally got a good night's sleep.”

“I got hardly any sleep, but I can't explain why,” Briley says, pulling a legal pad from her briefcase, “because the judge is going to take the bench at any minute. But if all goes well, I think today we may toss Bystrowski a real surprise.” She slides the tablet and a pen toward Erin, then glances at her watch, willing to let the judge take all the time he needs in chambers. Maybe he needs an extra minute to run to the restroom, slip on more comfortable shoes, or make a telephone call….

She props her chin on her hand and peers at her client, who seems subdued this morning. How will she react when she hears that she's a chimera? Briley can't imagine, but it's probably like being told you have a rare blood type. Not the sort of thing that will affect your everyday life, but something that might make a world of difference on one or two occasions.

Erin picks up the pen and begins to doodle on the legal pad. Across the aisle, Bystrowski's knees are touching and parting like the knees of a hyperactive teenage boy. Somewhere down the hall, the fourteen citizen judges have gathered in the juror assembly room, where they are exchanging small talk, sipping coffee, and waiting for the third day of the trial to begin. Behind the prosecutor, on the first row of the gallery, Antonio Tomassi and his family have aligned themselves in two rows. At the center of the group, Antonio folds his arms and stares at the empty jury box. He wears his usual somber expression, but almost anything could be going on behind that stern facade.

Briley picks up her pen and jots a list on her own legal pad. She's prioritizing the issues she wants to address when she realizes that she and Erin could be twins, arched as they are over their writing, both elbows bent at their right sides, legal pads slanted at the same angle….

Her hand freezes as an unexpected thought strikes in a barely comprehendible flash.

A moment later, a door at the front of the courtroom opens. A hand appears and taps the bailiff on the shoulder. Briley watches, holding her breath, as the bailiff accepts several sheets of paper. He glances at the first page, then walks toward Briley.

Her pulse races as she stands and accepts the faxed document. The header at the top of the first page confirms that it has come from the crime lab. A copy of Louis's report. Does this mean he's not going to show?

She winces as a cold blade of foreboding slices into her heart. Something must have happened to Louis, so he sent this fax. But though she could try to get it admitted, even a certified copy won't be admissible as evidence.

She turns, hanging one elbow over the back of her chair as she looks at William. “I need a favor.” She glances toward the back of the courtroom, but there's no sign of anyone who looks like a lab technician.

William nods and silently points past Briley. She turns in time to see Judge Trask step into the courtroom. The bailiff, startled to be caught away from his post, practically shouts the traditional opening: “All rise. The Cook County Court is now in session, the Honorable Milton Trask, Judge, presiding. Be seated and come to order.”

Briley drops the document to her desk as the judge surveys his courtroom. “Good morning,” he says, apparently content to see that the principals have not dishonored the proceedings by being late. “Unless there is new business we should discuss, is counsel for the defense ready to proceed?”

“Your Honor.” Briley stands. “The defense has new evidence.”

The judge perks up. “Really.”

“The state objects, Your Honor.” Bystrowski stands, his tense jaw revealing his frustration. “What's the nature of this new evidence?”

Briley takes a deep breath and plunges ahead. “This evidence comes from the police lab, Your Honor. During discovery, we received an inventory of all items seized in the warrantless search of the defendant's property. We knew the state had certain evidence, but last night we discovered that not all the evidence was tested.”

Trask looks at her with an expression of pained tolerance. “What evidence was untested?”

“Hair samples, Your Honor.”

As a bailiff leans in to whisper something to the judge, Briley peers at the document in her hand. The second page portrays three distinct DNA profiles, revealed in graphs and notations that she doesn't understand. But she can grasp the crucial detail—the DNA of three different persons was found on Jeffrey Tomassi's deathbed. That's all she needs to establish the presence of an intruder. It's all she needs to establish reasonable doubt.

If the judge will admit the document in her hand. Or if she can stall until Louis Thomsen arrives.

She watches as the judge finishes his conversation with the bailiff, then looks out at her. “Hair samples, you said?”

“Yes, Your Honor. Early this morning, the defense received verifying documentation.” She lifts the pages in her hand. “We have a witness en route, a lab technician who can testify as to the content and validity of this document.”

The judge exhales in an audible sigh. “Ms. Lester, I expect you to have your witness present by the time we reconvene. This court will recess for ten minutes.”