The Mamacita Murders (14 page)

I clip my guest badge onto my suit jacket and am now authorized to walk the halls of this sterile laboratory with Miranda and Dylan.

“Thanks for meeting with us on such short notice,” I say.

“Of course, anything for Dylan, my favorite investigator. Dylan and I have worked on many cases together. What was our last one? That home invasion over in Mason Valley?” asks Miranda.

“Yes. You did an amazing job on that case,” Dylan says, trying to butter her up.

“Miranda located one of the suspect’s DNA on a ski mask he left at the crime scene. That was the only piece of evidence we had linking that guy to the scene.

“She built a profile within forty-eight hours on the case. She even stayed the weekend. I remember coming into the lab over the weekend to get the results. If I trust anyone with my cases, it’s Miranda. We’re in good hands,” he says.

“Aw. You’re sweet. Thank you, Dylan. Let’s go down this hall,” says Miranda endearingly.

I grab onto my guest badge like it’s my security blanket, making sure it’s still in the same place I clipped it thirty seconds ago. I can’t stand hearing Dylan and another woman gush over each other’s case victories right in front of me. Remember, Laura, Laura, Laura. This is all about Laura.

The Tuckford County Crime Lab, when under time pressure from my office, can analyze DNA found at a crime scene in two to three days if they’re pushed. Usually, it’s all based on case priority. If you have a good relationship with the crime lab supervisor and get him or her on your side convincing them the case is important, they’ll work hard to get the job done. They’ll even work over the weekend to help you, like Miranda.

The Crime Lab is over-flooded with work. A piece of crime scene evidence can sit at the laboratory for years before a criminalist takes a look at it, finds a DNA profile on it, then uploads it into a criminal database with offender DNA profiles — and possibly finds a match. The more serious the crime is or high profile the case is, the greater chance you have at the criminalists working up your case.

If you saw their meticulous notes and sterile lab, with all the quality assurance measures they go through to look at one piece of evidence, you’d understand why it takes so damn long. They aren’t just running a black light over the piece of evidence like you see on television. There’s a whole bunch of procedures they need to follow to make sure they keep up with standards and regulations of the state. I know Miranda can get the DNA done in Laura’s case if I can find a way to convince her.

“Why don’t we make a right down this hall and use this conference room to discuss the case? I think I read about it this morning in the paper,” says Miranda.

The medium-sized conference room gives me room to spread out my file. Dylan places his Special Homicide portfolio on the table and stares at Miranda.

“Is this the one where a young girl was found bound in the motel room, but she’s still alive?” asks Miranda.

“Yes,” both Dylan and I reply in unison.

“I’ll let Gaby tell you about the case. She has a personal relationship with the girl. She has been trying to recruit her into her club, so the news was shocking. They met in another case we were prosecuting. Laura is the victim in a sex case,” Dylan explains.

“Did the lab do any DNA work in that case?” Miranda asks.

“No, she didn’t report the sexual abuse until months later. There was nothing to test,” I say.

“Okay, well, tell me what pieces of evidence we have in the current case,” says Miranda.

What I’ve learned about DNA cases and the Crime Lab is that sometimes it’s better to give them less information about the facts of the case or the suspected perpetrators. It helps keep them unbiased if they don’t know whose DNA we hope they will find. When they are testifying and the defense is trying to make them look like our puppets, it helps when they know little about the case or the suspect. They can say they just were given items of evidence and looked for semen or fluids and figured out whose DNA it was. When they can testify they had little or no information about a certain case or suspect, it shuts down any potential defense of bias in our favor.

“We have a belt,” I tell her.

“Where was that found?”

“Around her wrists. Her hands were tied up and she was lying on the bed.”

“Was she tied to the headboard or any part of the bed?”

“No. Her hands were tied together and resting like this,” I say, holding my hands down by my lap.

“Were they tied to any other part of her body?” asks Miranda.

I shake my head back and forth. “They weren’t tied to anything. She was blindfolded, though,” I say.

“With what?”

“A sock.”

“Was she found lying face up or down?”

“Up.”

“What else do we have to examine?”

“We have a ceramic vase.”

“Why is that important?”

“It has blood all over it.”

“Where was that found?”

“Next to the victim.”

“What condition was it in?”

“Partially broken,” I say.

I used to make pottery when I was young. The hum of the wheel and the touch of the cool clay after dipping my hands in the water and kneading my clay always felt so soothing. I made my mom a vase one year. She loved it. My mom would wake me up every Saturday so we could pick roses from our garden and put them in our vase. I would do anything to hear her sing one more time, “Rise and shine and get some glory glory.”

One time, my stepfather cut our Saturday ritual short when he saw my mom talking to our neighbor John. I could still smell the alcohol on his breath when he stood over my mom at the kitchen sink as she filled our vase with water. I can still hear the crash of the vase when he shattered it against the wall. The white walls of my hallway spun around me like a moving tunnel as I ran to my room for cover that day.

“Ms. Ruiz, did you hear me?” asks Miranda.

“No, I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“Is there any other evidence you’d like examined?”

“Yes. Let me think,” I say. “There are exams from the suspect and the victim, who by the way is named Laura.”

“Was there any other evidence collected around the scene that might tell us who was there? It seems quite a task for someone to do this alone. I read in the newspaper that the entire room was ransacked in addition to the girl being tied up and her panties were pulled down to her ankles. Is that accurate?” Miranda asks.

The thing about news reports on crimes is they rarely report the details of crimes under investigation. Sometimes the media gets more information about a case than I may initially have. They are good about going into the community and interviewing people about the suspect or the victim. They will show up at memorial sites and take the time to speak with the people who are affected the most.

When it comes to details of the crime scene, however, they rarely have any. They are usually not allowed beyond the yellow crime scene tape or given much information by police, so the investigation is not jeopardized. Prosecutors can’t even give any more information to the press other than charges a suspect is facing, the maximum sentence a suspect is facing, and any other public information that takes place in open court on the record, like court rulings, testimony, and motions. Law enforcement never releases details other than the location something occurred, the suspect’s name and the victim’s name, assuming she’s not a minor.

“Was that really in the paper? That the room was ransacked and about her panties?” I ask, surprisingly.

“Yes, that’s what I read,” says Miranda.

“I wonder where they got those details. I’m surprised because they’re actually true,” I say.

“Those are typically things law enforcement would not release, especially this early in the case,” Dylan says. “I know I didn’t release that information and I can guarantee Ford wouldn’t have released that. The press release from the Leafwood Police Department didn’t contain that information, either.”

“Ms. Jules,” I begin. “I know how swamped the Crime Lab is. Every case I send here seems to take three to six months. But this case is very personal to me. I was prosecuting Laura’s sex case when she didn’t show up to testify, and then we found her in the motel.

“I was trying to recruit her into The Mamacita Club where I mentor at-risk women like Laura. Helping them is my passion. They come from broken homes, low income neighborhoods, and mobile home parks. They’ve been subjected to violence, gangs, and drugs. Laura is sitting in a coma over at the Memorial Hospital and can’t tell us what happened to her. We need science to tell us. This is an important case.

“I brought some pictures taken during one of our field trips. Laura’s best friend Christina is in this one,” I say, pushing one of the photos I printed on my desk jet printer early this morning towards Miranda.

“Who’s this lady?” asks Miranda pointing to the woman we visited.

“The girls met a cancer survivor whom they really bonded with,” I reply.

Miranda studies the photo with an expression that seems to recall something inside of her.

“This picture is what Laura looks like now,” I say, handing her one of photos taken by a tech yesterday.

Miranda looks at the photo and points to the horseshoe on Laura’s shaved head.

“I’m assuming this is from brain surgery?” Miranda asks.

“Yes, but for the grace of God, she didn’t die. Whatever you can do to get this DNA processed within the next forty-eight hours, it would mean a lot to me,” I say.

“The person you have in custody is her boyfriend, is that correct?” Miranda asks. “I read that in the paper, too.”

“Right,” I say. “Well, it was more so her pimp. We believe he was pimping her out from that motel room.”

“Why would her boyfriend or pimp have ransacked the room?” asks Miranda.

“That’s a good question,” I say, looking at Dylan.

“It’s pretty common for a suspect to make the scene look like a burglary occurred,” Dylan replies. “They do it to throw off the police and make it look like a random act. Or, the perpetrator, even when they know the victim, shuffles through the drawers looking for money or other things to take. Criminals are just greedy. They’ll grab things near the exit door of a store they just robbed. Some are just freeloaders, especially someone like Clown.”

“You’re pretty confident you have the right person?” questions Miranda.

“I am,” says Dylan firmly.

“And you?” Miranda asks, turning her focus to me.

“That’s why I’m here. I want science to answer that question for me. I wasn’t there,” I say.

I could feel Dylan staring at me. Miranda looks down at the pictures of Laura and my group of girls with the cancer survivor.

“Our crime lab has triple the amount of cases as other crime labs, and we have far less criminalists to handle the caseload. I’m going to make an exception in this case and get this done by tomorrow. That’s the best I can do. I can see how important the case is to you. Plus, I want you to be confident you’re charging the right person,” Miranda says.

“You’re an angel. Thank you,” I say graciously.

Sitting across the table from Dylan at Farmer Tuck’s Burgers, taking bites of our burgers and fries, starts to calm my stomach after visiting the Crime Lab. A fix of greasy food always calms my stomach when it’s queasy from photos or evidence we have to look at. But Dylan always has a way of disrupting any of my calm moments, or maybe I just let him.

“What did you do in there? Did you really have to bring those photos?” Dylan asks.

I don’t want to have this conversation on a topic that is so sensitive to me, especially with a man I care about. I’ve learned I get defensive about the girls I mentor.

“I need the Crime Lab to get the DNA done before I leave on vacation. They won’t get it done if we don’t pressure them a little bit,” I say.

“Why did you have to make it sound like you don’t know if we have the right suspect?” asks Dylan.

“I need to believe I can prove this case beyond a reasonable doubt before I recommend my office file charges. My burden is different from yours, Dylan, you know that. Plus, I’m concerned now because Laura wasn’t raped. Your theory is Clown raped and assaulted her for wanting to leave the ring. And that’s not what the exam results are showing. Plus the print on that vase isn’t even Clown’s,” I say.

“You made it seem in front of Miranda that you don’t believe he’s the one. That makes me look bad,” he says.

Dylan’s deep blue eyes and puppy dog face look desperate. I usually find men who are whining about something a complete turn-off. But Dylan, right now, is endearing. I feel closer to him now than I did at the Crime Lab when Miranda Jules was drooling over him. However, that might be because I’m hormonal right now.

“I just want the Crime Lab to work up this case and care about it. If I didn’t show those photos and lay it on thick, she might not care about this case. Look, if Clown’s our guy like you believe, there should be DNA all over the belt, her nails, the VAT exam. Why are you worried about it if you’re so confident he’s the one?”

“Why are
you
questioning Clown’s involvement?” Dylan asks, shifting the focus on me.