a good thing if you feel paranoid about Big Brother—is that there’s no massive database with everyone in the world in it. So there has to be a match with someone already in the system. If you don’t enter the system and you fly under the radar, you won’t necessarily get caught—unless you’re a clear suspect.”
“So why didn’t they test this speck all those years ago?”
“Well, first it was lost. Then, it was too small. My guess is whoever raped Cammie wore a condom. This may have leaked when he took it off. Now we can use a technique called PCR—polymerase chain reaction.”
“I don’t follow,” C.C. said.
“Years ago, we relied exclusively on RFLP, which required larger amounts of DNA, and pretty high-quality DNA at that,” Lewis chimed in. “Now we can get by with a much smaller amount and duplicate it in the lab to arrive at our DNA fingerprint.”
C.C. looked at Joe. “If the sample showshe’s not the man who left the sperm inside her, then what?”
“While they’re testing the DNA, we’ll be building on our interviews and trying to discredit testimony, along with the god-awful counsel he got. If the DNA fragment is enough to show he wasn’t the rapist, coupled with the fact that he doesn’t match the partial print on the knife—which the prosecution explained away as a latent print—it should be enough to overturn the conviction. He passed two lie detector tests, but the D.A. at the time was hell-bent on not having a serial killer case. He didn’t want a panic in an election year. He wanted to close that case.”
“Here’s to DNA.” I lifted my glass.
“Here’s to Tommy Salami keeping you alive long enough to get it done, Billie Quinn,” Lewis said as the four of us clinked wineglasses.
Tommy Salami was waiting for me the next day when I went out to my Cadillac.
“Hey, Tommy.”
“Hi, Billie.”
He looked about as wide as my car, and I could tell by looking at him that he was wearing a gun in a holster around his waist. His biceps, beneath a black leather jacket, were the size of my thighs. Tommy was an oversize pitbull who worked for my father, doing what I’m not sure and have no intention of asking.
“Do we really have to go through this exercise in stupidity?”
“Your father said I’m to stay on you like white on rice. Those were his exact words.”
“Eloquent.”
“Might as well agree, Billie. ’Cause you know I can’t go back to your father and tell him I lost you again.”
Tommy Salami—and Salami wasn’t his real name, though I had no idea what was—had once been assigned to watch over me during an extended period of warfare with the Murphy brothers, in which it seemed they were smashing all Quinn cars with baseball bats and in general wreaking havoc in our lives. However, I was in no mood for any of it. So I gave Tommy Salami the slip—and my father was not amused.
“All right then, Tommy. Let’s go.” I opened up the Cadillac and climbed in. Tommy took the passenger seat.
“I’d rather drive.”
“I’m sure you would, but it’s my car and I’m driving.”
“Mind if we stop for breakfast? McDonald’s drive-through?”
“Nah. I don’t mind.”
I took Tommy through the McDonald’s drive-through, where he ordered four Egg McMuffin sandwiches, eight hash browns, one large coffee and an orange juice. He munched away on breakfast while I drove to the lab.
When we got to the parking garage, Tommy made a move to get out of the car.
“Sorry, Tommy. Without one of these—” I pointed to my photo ID badge “—you can’t come in. If you need the restroom, there’s one in the gas station across the street. Good luck and I’ll see you at six.”
I wondered how long it would take for the coffee to run through him. It was also chilly out. I took pity on him and handed him my car keys.
“Here. You can run the heat if you need to.”
“Thanks.”
I climbed out and rolled my eyes as I walked away. I hoped the DNA
“So why didn’t they test this speck all those years ago?”
“Well, first it was lost. Then, it was too small. My guess is whoever raped Cammie wore a condom. This may have leaked when he took it off. Now we can use a technique called PCR—polymerase chain reaction.”
“I don’t follow,” C.C. said.
“Years ago, we relied exclusively on RFLP, which required larger amounts of DNA, and pretty high-quality DNA at that,” Lewis chimed in. “Now we can get by with a much smaller amount and duplicate it in the lab to arrive at our DNA fingerprint.”
C.C. looked at Joe. “If the sample showshe’s not the man who left the sperm inside her, then what?”
“While they’re testing the DNA, we’ll be building on our interviews and trying to discredit testimony, along with the god-awful counsel he got. If the DNA fragment is enough to show he wasn’t the rapist, coupled with the fact that he doesn’t match the partial print on the knife—which the prosecution explained away as a latent print—it should be enough to overturn the conviction. He passed two lie detector tests, but the D.A. at the time was hell-bent on not having a serial killer case. He didn’t want a panic in an election year. He wanted to close that case.”
“Here’s to DNA.” I lifted my glass.
“Here’s to Tommy Salami keeping you alive long enough to get it done, Billie Quinn,” Lewis said as the four of us clinked wineglasses.
Tommy Salami was waiting for me the next day when I went out to my Cadillac.
“Hey, Tommy.”
“Hi, Billie.”
He looked about as wide as my car, and I could tell by looking at him that he was wearing a gun in a holster around his waist. His biceps, beneath a black leather jacket, were the size of my thighs. Tommy was an oversize pitbull who worked for my father, doing what I’m not sure and have no intention of asking.
“Do we really have to go through this exercise in stupidity?”
“Your father said I’m to stay on you like white on rice. Those were his exact words.”
“Eloquent.”
“Might as well agree, Billie. ’Cause you know I can’t go back to your father and tell him I lost you again.”
Tommy Salami—and Salami wasn’t his real name, though I had no idea what was—had once been assigned to watch over me during an extended period of warfare with the Murphy brothers, in which it seemed they were smashing all Quinn cars with baseball bats and in general wreaking havoc in our lives. However, I was in no mood for any of it. So I gave Tommy Salami the slip—and my father was not amused.
“All right then, Tommy. Let’s go.” I opened up the Cadillac and climbed in. Tommy took the passenger seat.
“I’d rather drive.”
“I’m sure you would, but it’s my car and I’m driving.”
“Mind if we stop for breakfast? McDonald’s drive-through?”
“Nah. I don’t mind.”
I took Tommy through the McDonald’s drive-through, where he ordered four Egg McMuffin sandwiches, eight hash browns, one large coffee and an orange juice. He munched away on breakfast while I drove to the lab.
When we got to the parking garage, Tommy made a move to get out of the car.
“Sorry, Tommy. Without one of these—” I pointed to my photo ID badge “—you can’t come in. If you need the restroom, there’s one in the gas station across the street. Good luck and I’ll see you at six.”
I wondered how long it would take for the coffee to run through him. It was also chilly out. I took pity on him and handed him my car keys.
“Here. You can run the heat if you need to.”
“Thanks.”
I climbed out and rolled my eyes as I walked away. I hoped the DNA
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