Win opens the envelope and slides out copies of newspaper articles, the autopsy and lab reports, none of them very good quality, probably from microfilm.
“Science,” she says with confidence. “If it’s true there’s a God gene, then maybe there’s also a Devil gene,” she adds. Lamont loves her cryptic quasi-brilliant pronouncements.
She is almost quotable.
“I’m looking for the devil that got away, looking for his ancestral DNA.”
“I’m not sure why you’re not using the lab in Florida that’s known for all this.” Win looks over the blurry copy of the autopsy report and adds, “Vivian Finlay. Sequoyah Hills. Knoxville old money on the river, can’t touch a house for under a million. Someone really beat the hell out of her.”
Although there are no photographs included in the records Lamont has given him, the autopsy protocol makes several things clear. Vivian Finlay survived long enough to have substantial tissue response, her face lacerated and bruised, her eyes swollen shut. When her scalp was reflected back, it revealed huge contusions, a cranium with punched-out areas caused by the repeated violent blows of a weapon that had at least one round surface.
“If we’re testing for DNA, then there must be evidence. Who’s had it all this time?” he asks.
“All I know is the FBI did the lab work back then.”
“FBI? What interest did the Feds have?”
“I meant the state authorities,” she says.
“TBI. Tennessee Bureau of Investigation.”
“I don’t think they were doing DNA back then.”
“Nope. The dark ages when they still did good ol’-fashioned serology, ABO typing. Exactly what was analyzed and who’s had it all this time?” he tries again.
“Bloody clothing. As I understand it, it was still in the evidence room at the Knoxville PD, was sent to the lab in California…”
“California?”
“This has all been carefully researched by Huber.”
Win indicates the photocopies she gave him, then asks, “This is everything?”
“Apparently the Knoxville morgue’s moved since then, their old records in storage somewhere. What you’ve got is what Toby tracked down.”
“Meaning what he had the ME’s office print out from microfilm. What a sleuth,” he says sarcastically. “I don’t know why in the world you have an idiot like that…”
“You know why.”
“Don’t know how Huber could have an idiot son like that. You should be careful doing favors for the director of the crime labs no matter how great a guy he is, Monique. Could be construed as a conflict of interest…”
“How about leaving that to me,” she says coldly.
“All I can say is Huber owes you big-time if he’s dumped Toby on you.”
“Okay. We said we’re honest tonight?” She looks him in the eye, holds his gaze. “It was a bad call on my part. You’re right. Toby’s useless, a disaster.”
“What I need is the police file. Maybe Toby the disaster got a photocopy of that, too, in the course of his arduous and thorough research?”
“I suppose you can take care of that yourself when you return to Knoxville. Toby just left for vacation.”
“Poor guy. Probably exhausted from working so hard.”
Lamont watches the waiter return with his silver tray and two glasses of wine, says, “You’ll like the pinot. A Drouhin, the daughter, actually.”
He slowly swirls it, smells it, tastes it. “Have you forgotten? You sent me to the Academy because it’s the, and I quote you, Harvard of Forensic Science. I’ve got one month left.”
“I’m sure they’ll accommodate you, Win. Nobody said anything about your dropping out. In fact, this is going to make the NFA look good, too.”
“So I’ll work it in my sleep. So let’s see.” He sips his wine. “You’re using the NFA, using the Knoxville Police Department, using me, using everyone for political gain. Tell me something, Monique.” He pushes his luck, his eyes intense on hers. “Do you really give a damn about this dead old lady?”
“Headline: BIG-SHOT MASSACHUSETTS DETECTIVE HELPS OUT SMALL-TOWN POLICE DEPARTMENT, SOLVES TWENTY-YEAR-OLD CASE, VINDICATES OLD WOMAN MURDERED FOR SPARE CHANGE.”
“Spare change?”
“It’s in one of the newspaper articles I gave you,” she says. “Mrs. Finlay collected silver coins. Had a box of them on her dresser. The only thing missing, as far as anybody knows.”
It is still raining when they leave the Harvard Faculty Club and follow old brick pavers to Quincy Street.
“Where now?” Lamont asks, half hidden by a big, black umbrella.
Win notices her tapered fingers tightly curled around the umbrella’s wooden handle. Her nails are neatly squared, no polish, and she wears a large white-gold watch with a black crocodile band, a Breguet, and a Harvard signet ring. Doesn’t matter what she earns as a DA and for the occasional class she teaches at the law school, Lamont comes from family money — a lot of it, from what he hears — and has a historic home near Harvard Square and the British racing green Range Rover parked across the dark, wet street.
“I’m all set,” he says as if she offered him a ride. “I’ll walk to the Square and grab a taxi. Or maybe stroll over to the Charles, see if they’ve got any good jazz going on at the Regattabar. You like Coco Montoya?”
“Not tonight.”
“I didn’t say he was playing tonight.”
He wasn’t inviting her, either.
She is digging into her coat pockets, getting impatient, looking for something, says, “Keep me informed, Win. Every detail.”
“I’ll go where the evidence goes. And a fine point that shouldn’t get lost in all the excitement, I can’t go where the evidence doesn’t go.”
She digs in her expensive handbag, exasperated.
“And I hate to emphasize the obvious,” he says as rain falls on his bare head, trickles down his collar. “I don’t see what good your At Risk initiative is going to do if we can’t solve the case.”
“At the very least, we’ll get an ancestral DNA profile, say the case was reopened as a result. That in itself is newsworthy and compassionate, and we’ll never admit to failure, just continue to keep the case open. A work in progress. You graduate from the NFA, return to your usual assignments. Eventually everybody will forget about the case all over again….”
“And by then maybe you’ll be governor,” he says.
“Don’t be so cynical. I’m not the cold-blooded person you seem determined to paint me to be. Where the hell are my keys?”
“In your hand.”
“My house keys.”
“Want me to go with you, make sure you get in all right?”
“I’ve got a spare in a key box,” she says, and abruptly leaves him in the rain.
3
Win looks up and down the street, watching people moving with purpose along sidewalks, watching cars drive by, water spitting out from the tires, watching Lamont drive off.
He walks toward the Square, where the cafés and coffee shops are crowded despite the weather, and he ducks into Peet’s and squeezes between people, mostly students, the privileged and self-consumed. When he orders a latte, the girl behind the counter gawks so openly at him, her face turns red. He’s used to it, usually is somewhat flattered, amused, but not tonight. He can’t stop thinking about Lamont and the way she makes him feel about himself.
He carries his latte through Harvard Square, where the Red Line train comes in and most people traveling on it aren’t enrolled at Harvard, maybe don’t even know that Harvard isn’t just the local college. He loiters on the sidewalk along John F. Kennedy Street, squinting at oncoming headlights, and the rain slashing the bright lights reminds him of pencil marks, of childish drawings of falling rain, like the ones he used to draw when he was a boy, when he drew something besides crime scenes and ugly conclusions about people.