I ran through the evidence for the judge, the computer messages, the blood type, the lack of alibis, and reminded her of the seriousness of the crimes.
"Additionally," I said, "we had hoped to have the DNA results ready for today's hearing. Unfortunately, they've been delayed. When they are received, we expect the grand jury to return indictments for three homicides. Three first-degree murders, Your Honor."
I was a reluctant warrior. It had gotten too complicated. Three women were dead, the state attorney was married to one and sleeping with another. The chief homicide detective was a pal of the wife. The third woman didn't belong to the happy little Fox clan, but all three played nighttime chitchat on their computer's sex channel. The state attorney had expanded my duties to prosecute all three. Pretty soon you would need a scorecard. How did I get into this? And what was going on?
The judge looked at me, perplexed. "I don't like to hold defendants without the issuance of indictments or criminal information," she said. "Is there any formal charge you can file today?"
Nothing I could think of, unless overacting was a misdemeanor, in which case Two-Ton would be jailed along with his client. Before I could reply, the courtroom door swung open and a young man in a white lab coat came hustling in. He said something to the bailiff, who pointed at me. Just like on TV, the missing witness bursting in to save the day.
"Your Honor, may we present some brief testimony in support of the state's position?" I asked with grateful charm.
"I suggest you do," the judge said.
I tossed an arm around the young man and hustled him to the witness stand. He looked like an earnest graduate student, bushy mustache and unkempt hair. He held a manila folder and glanced nervously at the judge.
"Ever testify before?" I whispered.
"No…and maybe we should talk-"
"No time, the judge is about to grant the writ."
He placed his left hand on the Bible and raised his right hand with a jerky motion that tossed his folder across the courtroom like a Frisbee. I retrieved it. He sat down and told us his name, Dr. Sanford Katzen; his profession, mathematician and geneticist; and yes, he performed various tests on semen samples from two of the decedents and the blood of the defendant.
"What do you call these tests?" I asked.
"Restriction fragment length polymorphism analysis."
Don't you just love doctors? "Is there any other name…?"
"Oh, you probably know it by its colloquial term. Genetic fingerprinting."
"And how do you perform these tests?"
"Oh my, that would take several hours to explain."
Judge Boulton cleared her throat. "Young man, I have nine more hearings before lunch, so perhaps you could just cut to the chase."
"Well, simply stated, and grossly oversimplifying, so you must forgive me, we compare the deoxyribonucleic acid from two different samples. If the size of the genes match, the acid came from the same person. It would be a mathematical impossibility for two random samples to match up."
He opened the folder and pulled out several X-rays. I mounted them on the viewer usually used in auto-accident cases. Dr. Katzen came down from the witness stand without tripping and stood humbly at my side.
"Please describe what the X-rays show," I said.
These are the autoradiograms. First we chop the DNA into small fragments using enzymes. Then they're placed on a gelatin slab, shot with an electrical current, transferred to a membrane that's exposed to a radioactive probe, and pressed against the X-ray film which you see-"
"Dr. Cashman," the judge interrupted. "Could you please get to the point!" Dixie Lee was ready to deny the request for the writ, if only the witness would say the magic words.
"Sorry. Well, as you can see, there are three parallel tracks representing DNA from each sample. The distance between these bands is measured down to one hundredth of a kilobase. That's about one thousand rungs on the DNA ladder, which has some three billion lines. So, as you can see, the measurement is quite precise."
The judge was fidgeting. "Doctor! The results, please."
"Well, if the length of the polymorphic loci match, there's no chance that the samples came from different people. Oh, I shouldn't say no chance, should I? There is perhaps one in one-point-five quintillion, but for statistical purposes-"
"Dr. Katzen," I said, "the results. What does your autoradiogram show?"
"Oh, quite clearly, the kilo bases from each decedent match exactly."
"Exactly," I said.
"So that the semen taken from Ms. Rosedahl and Mrs. Fox obviously came from the same man."
"Obviously," I agreed.
"Of course, as you can see with the naked eye, there is no match with the blood from Mr. Prince."
"Of course," I said.
Wait a second.
What did he say?
"No match at all," he continued. "Not the slightest chance that the semen from either of the bodies came from Mr. Prince, though, as I said, they did come from the same man, whoever he might be."
A thousand blowflies could have laid their eggs in my mouth and still had room for an apple. I was nailed to the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gerald Prince get to his feet at the defense table and nod toward the judge. The nod became a bow. He did it again. Waiting for the curtain call. Someone was saying something. What was it?
"Mr. Lassiter, does that conclude your presentation?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," I said.
The sky darkened at precisely three o'clock, huge thunderheads gathering over downtown, hanging low, bashing each other, lightning crackling. At ten past the hour, the rain came, swirling with the winds, sweeping across Okeechobee Road. An old Pontiac had flooded out and sat, hood up, blocking traffic for five miles. The rain pounded on my canvas top, cold drops sliding inside the window and splatting my left leg.
"I can't imagine why you're so upset," Pamela Maxson said. "You thought he was innocent the whole time. You should be happy."
"Happy to play the fool?"
"Is that it? You're embarrassed that justice was done. Would you rather convict an innocent man?"
"No. I'd rather have stayed out of this. I was set up. To win, lose, I don't know. But I'm going to find out."
I turned down a side street in Hialeah, the Olds splashing through a series of foot-deep puddles. I pulled up in front of a renovated warehouse.
"C'mon," I said to Pam. "I want you to meet Ozzie and Harriet."
Max the Jockey was slouched at the counter, playing solitaire. Cheating. He wore a black muscle T-shirt and the snake tattoo on his forearm coiled as he dealt the cards. "Howdy, shyster," he said. "Your pants are wet."
Pam smiled and said, "Hello, Ozzie."
Max gave her a puzzled look and turned over the deck, trying to find a red queen. In the back, Bobbie's long body was hunched over a silent computer at the sys-op desk.
"How's business?" I asked.
"Slower'n a whorehouse on Sunday morn," Max said.
"What's the matter? Thought every time there was a murder, you two were off to the bank."
His jaw muscles were working up a storm. Either he was sucking his teeth, or he had swallowed his tongue. "Not this time. I figure, after the Rosedahl girl got it, the babes thought it was exciting to fool around, that it wouldn't really happen again. Just like those assholes who throw hurricane parties when the red-and-black flag goes up. They never think it'll hit until their condo gets blown away. So now another babe gets killed, it ain't so much fun."
Bobbie was stirring in the back. She wore black nylon running shorts and rubber thongs. Her midriff was bare; an elastic halter covered her breasts. Barely. She started long-legging it toward the counter, chewing a wad of pink bubble gum, her eyes glued to Pam Maxson. "What's a classy dame like you doing with a dork like him?" she asked.