Two weeks had passed since the girls had last seen their father, in handcuffs, as they themselves were dragged screaming from the house. Elizabeth had managed to visit Greg just once, on remand.
Some of the offers had been tempting.
Other wives might have took the money, told their story, and moved on.
But Elizabeth shut the door in their faces, leaving crumpled check books and bruised egos. To even consider their offers would have been an admission of her husband's guilt.
She knew he loved the twins.
She knew he was no killer.
Coming to terms with the underwear found in the drawer wasn't so easy. That and the visit to the Clinic in White Plains. Isaac could only assure her he believed her husband had been going with the best of intentions, for his family's sake, because he loved her and the children.
She took the new call from Isaac in the spare room.
“Good news, Elizabeth. The lab results will be ready in the morning. I'll make an emergency application for bail the moment he's cleared. With any luck he'll be home tomorrow, Christmas Eve.”
He hesitated.
“That's if he's welcome. Elizabeth, you do still want him home, after what's happened?”
“More than anything.”
161
The DNA match with the nasal mucous on the handkerchief had left Randall devastated.
He'd been told the odds of a chance match were hundreds of millions to one.
He gave the semen sample willingly. This, above all, would surely prove his innocence.
When the sample came back an exact match for the semen found on the child's body he began to question his very sanity.
But for the public, this was the best Christmas present their children could ask for.
Uncle Tom was securely locked away in a state jail.
162
Matt threw a towel over his shoulders, dripping water in a trail across the carpet to grab the phone.
“Ceri, nice to hear from you.” He instinctively whipped the towel around his waist in a gesture of pointless modesty. “How's the New Year treating you?”
“Matt, another girls' been abducted.”
He sat down, reaching automatically for pen and jotter, wet hair dripping over the paper. “Another child? When was this?”
“A week ago.
“A week? It's news to me, Ceri. Are you sure about this?”
“A girl disappeared in Yonkers. I just came across a report on the net.”
Matt thought for a second. “Ceri, it's just a coincidence.”
“Matt, it happened on the second. The day Uncle Tom would have struck again.”
Matt sighed. “They've caught him, Ceri. The sick bastard's locked up, awaiting trial. Uncle Tom is history.”
“But the girl...”
“There's more than one sick pervert out there. We all know that.”
“Matt, it was Uncle Tom.”
Matt threw down his jotter impatiently. “Ceri, listen to me. I know how you must feel. You're disappointed your profile didn't match. But that's nothing to be ashamed of. The FBI profile blew out too. Put it down to experience. You're still young. You can learn from your mistakes.”
“I'm not mistaken, Matt.”
He struggled to hide his annoyance. “Ceri, the semen on the child's body was an identical DNA match to Randall. How much more proof do you need? Linking him to the other victims is just a matter of time. Randall is Uncle Tom. Or are you suggesting Randall killing the White Plains child was a one-off? Come on, be serious.”
“I don't know what to think, Matt. I was pleased when they caught this guy, of course, but not convinced. And now this girl in Yonkers...”
“A tragic coincidence. Your profile was flawed, Ceri. Face facts. Sure, we all believed it. I certainly did. But we were all too personally involved. It clouded our judgments. We saw that with the previous homicides. He didn't follow the pattern you predicted. Union Center was convincing, but Binghamton? No V. That's when it began to unravel.”
“But then White Plains, Matt. Back to the pattern again. Don't you see?”
“No, I don't see. Randall was attending a pedophile-clinic in White Plains, being treated for an obsession with little girls, for god's sake. Nothing to do with following any pattern. He's just another sick fucking pervert. That’s just how it is. Forget it.”
163
Matt caught up with Bill Wright in the canteen. The staff restaurant as it was glamorously titled.
Wright was tucking into a plate of greasy hash browns and eggs, browsing the Dow Jones Index on his blackberry, when Matt slipped into the chair beside him, slopping his coffee over the table.
Wright glanced at his watch. “What's the special occasion?”
Matt accepted the comment with good grace. He wasn't noted for turning up for work on time. “How are they doing?”
“Three cents down on yesterday. I don't understand it. Kennet assured me they'd be up by now.”
“How many times has he been wrong so far this year? And it's only January! You'd be better off sticking your savings on the Kentucky Derby. At least that way you can watch it lose first hand.”
“It's all about timing, Matt. A friend of a friend made fifty grand overnight when the market moved the right way. Anyway, it's not nine o'clock yet. What brings you here at this ungodly hour?”
“Had to meet someone in the staff restaurant.”
Wright looked around the empty room curiously. “Who?”
“The Lake Ontario Media science correspondent.”
Wright stopped chewing. “So what's the problem?”
“DNA fingerprinting.”
“My files are open access, Matt. Help yourself.”
“I wanted a personal touch.”
Wright eyed his colleague suspiciously. “What's the story?”
“There isn't one. It's research.”
Wright grinned broadly. “Matt Burford researching? Whose birthday is it?”
“Bill, this is serious.”
Wright lowered his fork. “Try me.”
“Genetic fingerprinting. The how, why and wherefore. I thought I had a grasp of it, but now I'm not sure. I just want a straight-forward explanation. How does it work? And how reliable is it? Just five minutes of your valuable time. Pretty please?”
Wright stuffed his mouth with eggs to keep himself going
“Is it reliable? Yes, pretty much so. Not infallible, but a pretty good indicator. We're talking about value in criminal identification, right?”
“Well, me being a crime reporter an' all...”
“You could always use Wikipedia.”
“I need something I can trust.”
“Matt, I'm flattered. Well, let's start with the theory. The body is made up of billions of cells, each of which has a nucleus. Back in 1911 – ”
“No history, Bill. How reliable is it? There have been mistakes in the past, right?”
“And there will be again. Nothing is infallible. Human error is the biggest factor, of course. But by using two independent multi-locus probes the odds of a mistaken identification are phenomenal. Absolutely phenomenal.”
“Hypothetically, supposing forensic had three separate samples, say hair, semen and nasal mucus. Supposing all three matched identically. Could there still be a mistake?”
“Not a chance in hell.”
164
“This is very impressive.” Isaac took another mouthful, washing it down with a crisp chardonnay. What was it again?”
“Lake sturgeon, with crushed coriander, peppercorns and oregano.”
Isaac nodded vigorously, anxious to demonstrate his approval. “Very nice. Locally caught, I take it?”
“My neighbor’s a regular supplier. He catches, I cook. Sturgeon is a personal favorite.”
“I'm surprised you're not a food reporter.”
Matt smiled graciously. “The next course is prunes.”
Isaac flinched momentarily as he retrieved the
last morsel of sturgeon, hiding beneath a tranche of lemon. He tried to sound casual. “Can't say as I've had them in recent years. Mind you, my father swore by them.”
“Black-bellied streusel tart. Genuine French prunes from the Agen. None of those overgrown Californian currants that pass as prunes to the uninitiated. Soaked in Earl Grey tea, puréed on an apricot base with a crumb topping. Served with Greek yoghurt. Or we have fresh cream if you prefer.”
Isaac felt his appetite slowly returning.
“Matt makes an exquisite prune and Armagnac ice cream in the summer,” Claire said as she brought the streusel to the table.
Over second helpings Isaac suggested there might be an ulterior motive to his invitation than just sampling Matt's culinary skills.
As he summarized Ceri's profile and her last message Matt uncorked a grande reserve rioja. Isaac listened with polite interest, quickly becoming more attentive to the point where the velvet rioja was all but forgotten.
“This is all very intriguing, Matt. No question. Anything that will put my client in a favorable light is welcome. But this girl, Ceri. She's a student? A sophomore?”
“Jeremy, she's a bright, intelligent nineteen year old,” Claire said. “Not the type given to flights of fancy. No-one wants more than me to believe Uncle Tom is locked up and will never kill again. No-one. But the police were wrong last time, with Thomas Bristow. That's why we asked you here. We thought you of all people would be willing to hear this out.”
“I'm not dismissing anything, Claire, but this is a bolt out of the blue for me. You've both obviously given the matter serious thought, and I respect that. I just need to get things straight in my own head.”
Matt said, “Your man, Randall, he's denying everything, right?”
“The homicides, yes. He admits to an interest in young girls, but that's not a crime in itself. Social Services found no evidence whatsoever that he had touched his daughters in any way, despite their Gestapo tactics.”
“I can imagine.”
“But so far as the media is concerned, Uncle Tom is history. They're just waiting for the show-trial. Randall hasn't a chance in hell of a fair hearing. The jury have decided he's guilty before they even know they've been selected.”
“Then Ceri's profile could be an innocent man's only hope.”
“Which is why, against my better judgment, I'm here listening. But I need to take this away and go through it on my own, objectively. And come to my own conclusions. If that's okay with you?”
“That copy is all yours, Jeremy. All we ask is you keep it to yourself, and keep Ceri's name out of anything that follows.”
Isaac nodded. “In which case I must leave you. I have some other matters I need to work on tonight, which must take priority, but I promise you I will read it through again in a few days.”
165
Isaac fixed a hot chocolate as a night-cap and settled down with the papers for a pending hearing, silently cursing himself for staying so long over dinner.
But his mind wouldn't focus.
Ten-thirty.
Reluctantly he reached for Ceri's profile and began making a few tentative notes.
When the alarm shattered the silence at six-fifteen Isaac was still in the chair, bleary-eyed, on his fifth mug of black coffee. At eight-thirty he telephoned Karen and told her to cancel all appointments for the morning. He dialed again.
“Matt, we need to talk. The three of us.”
“Where?”
“Claire’s place?”
“I’ll be there. Ceri's right, isn't she?”
“It may be nothing. And this is strictly off the record, you understand? My client's confidentiality must be respected.”
“My glory days are long past, Jeremy. This one is personal. All I want is the truth. One way or another.”
“Bring any background material you have. Everything. I've followed the case as best I can, but you're bound to know more than me. Oh, and Matt, bring a detailed map, of Broome County.”
166
“Call me old-fashioned, but I find this easier than looking at a computer screen,” Isaac confessed as he spread the map out across the table. “Now bear with me. I'm not entirely sure what I'm looking for, but a thought occurred to me last night.”
Matt looked blank. “And?”
Isaac scanned the map methodically, eyes following his finger as it traced paths across the paper. “Binghamton, Broome County. Very close to Union Center. Too close to be a coincidence.”
Mat shrugged. “Agreed, but there’s no Vs there.”
“Maybe not, but if I’m right there’s...”
Suddenly he grabbed a pencil and circled an area. “There it is! The golf club where the child went missing.”
“Jeremy?”
“It looks like your girl's theory was spot on.”
“Jeremy, the child lived in Binghamton,” Claire objected.
“Indeed she did. But for whatever reason, her father took her to the local golf club.”
“And?”
“It’s right here. Vestal Hills Golf Club. Vestal? The missing V?”
“Jesus. Why the hell didn't Danny have that on his list?”
Isaac looked up. “Danny?”
“It's a long story. Danny produced the list of prospective abduction locations we submitted to the police.”
“And of course the golf club wasn't on it.”
“If the sequence of locations was right up to here, then W, X and Y would have been next.” Matt said excitedly. “Danny ran a search and said there were no Xs, so Uncle Tom would have to skip that, and move on to Y.”
“Yonkers.”
“If that’s the case then White Plains was the W. But that’s your man Randall. In the right place, at the right time. And with a ton of evidence that puts him in the frame.”
Isaac agreed. “A ton of evidence against him. A ton of evidence, you said, Matt. Right?”
Matt shrugged. “It's just a figure of speech.”
Isaac raised a doubting eyebrow. “Just a figure of speech?”
“I think I understand, Jeremy,” Claire said. “Think about it, Matt. Every child so far has been found forensically clean. What was the phase Dunst used? That Uncle Tom demonstrated forensic awareness.”
“Exactly. Then suddenly we have the White Plains girl, Victoria, and like you said, Matt, there's a ton of evidence, a veritable forensic paradise, pointing at one man? A man actively seeking treatment for an interest in little girls, who was in White Plains that day, and for an appointment that didn't actually exist.”
“You're saying he was framed? That's ridiculous.”
“Call it what you like, Matt. But he certainly didn’t kill this last child from Yonkers. And it strikes me as just too coincidental how one minute the police and FBI were floundering, not knowing which way to turn, then suddenly they have a fresh body, a conveniently used handkerchief dropped at the scene and a self-confessed pedophile, undergoing treatment, in the town, on the day. I mean, doesn't it stretch credulity just a little?”
“But the DNA matched. Even the semen. How could anyone set that up?”
“I can't begin to say, Matt. But alarm bells are ringing. This map bears out your girl's theory. So does the abduction in Yonkers. My guess is, Uncle Tom's somehow put Greg Randall in the frame, and now he's back roaming the streets.”
“But the cops are convinced they've got the right man this time. The evidence is overwhelming. Only another child's body turning up with Uncle Tom's exact MO will make them reconsider.”
Claire grabbed at Matt's arm. “We can't wait for that. We have to do something.”
167
Isaac nodded. “At the moment this girl missing in Yonkers is regarded as an unrelated incident. The cops will give it their best shot, but the FBI have already pulled out, and if Uncle Tom's got any sense, he'll make sure this body isn't found. There will be no calling cards this time.”
Claire ventured, “Are we being realistic here, or letting
hope outweigh reality?”
“Realistic,” Isaac assured her. “Remember that Thomas Bristow was first picked up by the cops after an anonymous tip-off saying his car had been seen near to where the body was found. Someone must have known of his interest in children to put his name forward.”
“That was a matter of public record. He'd been splashed across the papers in his time, and he was on the Registry.”
“Granted. But Greg Randall's sexual predilections were most definitely not public knowledge. Again, Matt, this is strictly off the record. Greg approached a private clinic earlier this year because he was concerned about a burgeoning sexual interest in children. Young girls. Yes, he's a pedophile, but don't let that cloud your judgment. That doesn't make him capable of murder any more than it did Thomas Bristow.”
“So what put the cops on to him in the first place?”
“I'm coming to that. Greg had paid for, and commenced, an expensive course of treatment, aversion therapy, to try and do something about his unwanted desires. He kept the whole thing secret from his family, workmates, everyone. In December he was in White Plains supposedly to attend a pre-arranged appointment at a clinic. For reasons not yet clear this didn't go ahead and Greg found himself at a loose end in the town. On the same day, almost literally round the corner, the girl is killed. A nurse who worked at the clinic where Greg was being treated apparently put two and two together and called in the police and Social Services.”
“You're not suggesting this nurse set him up?”
“Of course not. I'm thinking maybe the real Uncle Tom is also a patient at this clinic. Someone who maybe met Greg Randall there, or at the very least knew he was being treated there.”
“This clinic. Where is it, exactly?”
“Syracuse. They have any number of convicted sex offenders going through their doors for treatment. Now call me paranoid, but Thomas Bristow also attended the Quinlan Foundation, many years back.”
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