Talmadge shot up. “Objection, Your Honor. Calls for a conclusion.”
Collier turned and glared at Talmadge. “Your Honor, the court has already accepted Ms. Hooper as an expert witness.
She’s qualified and entitled to draw these kinds of conclusions.”
“Objection overruled. Continue, Ms. Hooper.”
Patricia Hooper nodded. “Yes, I would characterize a positive identification as absolute.”
“Very well. In February of last year, did you receive a series of forensic evidence packets from the scene of a double homicide at an establishment here in Nashville called Exotica Tans?”
“Yes, I did.”
“In your expert opinion, were proper procedures followed in the protection of this evidence, to avoid contamination and degradation?”
“Well, I wasn’t at the crime scene, but when the evidence was presented to me, it appeared to have been properly preserved.”
“And what did the evidence primarily consist of?”
“There were approximately eighty separate packets of evidence, the bulk of which were blood and tissue samples.
There were also some hair samples found as well. And some skin tissue.”
“Were you able to type these samples, to determine from whom they came?”
“Yes, we were.”
“And what were your conclusions?”
“Virtually all the samples contained DNA resident in the bodies of the two victims, Ms. Burnham and Ms. Matthews.”
“Were you able to identify any other DNA that was ex-cluded from that belonging to the two victims?”
“Well,” she said, hesitating, “you have to consider the circumstances of the crime scene. The homicides were committed at an establishment where, to put it delicately, one was likely to find traces of other bodily fluids. We were provided with hair samples and semen samples that we were able to profile, but not to match with anyone else.”
“On or about April thirtieth of last year,” Collier asked,
“were you provided a sample of hair and saliva that were obtained from the defendant as a result of a search warrant?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Were you able to type and identify those samples?”
“I was.”
“And were you able to match any of the samples at the Exotica Tans crime scene with the sample derived from the defendant?”
“No, sir, none of the samples matched.”
“So you have no samples from the Exotica Tans homicide scene that positively place the defendant there?”
“That’s correct,” Ms. Hooper said.
Taylor thought it odd that Collier would bring up a point in favor of the defense. Then, after a moment, she was hit with how smart that was. Of course, when you’ve got a weakness and you admit to it, somehow it’s less weak than when someone else points it out.
“With your permission, Your Honor,” Collier said, turning to the judge, “we’d like to bring into the courtroom a portable bulletin board with a series of photographs and graphs that we’ll be introducing into evidence.”
Forsythe turned. “Any objections, Mr. Talmadge?”
“None at this time, Your Honor.” Talmadge’s voice sounded firm, unshaken.
Jane Sparks stood up as the door in the back of the courtroom opened and a large portable bulletin board was wheeled into the room. She took the board, wheeled it past the prosecution table and into the center of the courtroom in front of the judge and jury. The logistics were a little tough to negotiate, but she managed to get the board where everyone who had to be able to see it could.
Taylor craned her neck. There was a line of blown-up photographs that seemed filled with dark, blurry vertical lines and several charts.
“Ms. Hooper,” Collier instructed, “if you need to leave the stand in order to indicate which of these exhibits you’re referring to, I think that’ll be okay.”
Forsythe nodded.
“Now first, Ms. Hooper, tell us in its simplest terms how PCR works.”
“As I said earlier, PCR is an acronym for polymerase chain reaction. And in and of itself, it’s not really an actual identification. PCR is a method by which we can take a sample of DNA too small to profile and cause it to reproduce itself. This gives us a much larger sample. Now when we have enough DNA material to type, we can create a profile. Every DNA strand contains both constant and variable elements.
The constant elements are areas that all human beings share.
Interspersed with these areas are the variable elements, or the elements which are unique to each individual.”
“Very good, Ms. Hooper. Now, in February last year, you were given, as you said, some eighty packets of evidence from the Exotica Tans crime scene. Can you give us the results of this examination of the evidence?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, getting up from the witness stand and walking over to the bulletin board. She pulled a wooden pointer up off the rail and pointed to a photograph on the far left of the board. “As this label indicates, this is the DNA imprint of Allison May Matthews. And this second photograph is a blowup of the microscopic sample of Sarah Burnham. As you can see here, here, and here, on these loci, the samples are different.”
“All right, Ms. Hooper. Now, on or about February tenth of last year, were you provided with evidence that had been obtained by Metro Police from a Dumpster behind a convenience market on Charlotte Avenue?”
“Yes, I was. And we obtained numerous samples from the material and were able to type them.”
“Could you explain your results to us, please.”
Ms. Hooper raised her pointer and tapped several photographs in a row on the board. “These photographs are representative samples of the material we obtained from the Dumpster. As you can see, here, here, and here, the loci match the target sample definitely identified as belonging to Ms. Matthews. And over here, at these six loci, we established that this sample definitely matched the sample derived from Ms. Burnham.”
Taylor stared hard at the board, craning her neck to see the photographs as well as possible. She felt a tightening in her chest, as if she needed to loosen her clothes. Her face felt flushed. Patricia Hooper had been on the stand for well over an hour now.
“So in your expert opinion,” Collier said, his voice rising just a bit. “The blood found on the clothing in the Dumpster on Charlotte Avenue definitely came from Allison May Matthews and Sarah Denise Burnham.”
Ms. Hooper nodded. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“And on or about March twenty-fourth of last year, were you provided with a sample of carpet removed from the trunk of a 2004 Lincoln Town Car?”
“Yes, it was delivered to me directly at the Nashville Crime Lab.”
“And were you able to perform a PCR/STR analysis of this sample?”
“Yes, sir, I was.”
“Would you tell us the results, please?”
Ms. Hooper stepped to the side of the board and pointed to a series of photographs and charts. “As this graph explains, we look for certain pointers, or loci, which are areas on the actual DNA string that are unique to each individual. As you can see here, the material we obtained from the carpet matches both the samples discovered at the Charlotte Avenue Dumpster site and at the crime scene itself. The pointers match here-”
She tapped on the board.
“-and here-”
Again. The tapping echoed throughout the silent courtroom.
“-here and here and here.”
“So,” Collier said, his voice rising even higher, “in your expert opinion, the samples obtained at the crime scene, at the Dumpster, and on the defendant’s rental car all share the same DNA and therefore could only have come from Sarah Denise Burnham and Allison May Matthews!”
“Yes,” Ms. Hooper said, nodding her head. “That’s correct.”
My God, Taylor thought. Merciful God in heaven! He did it!
CHAPTER 33
Thursday afternoon, Nashville
&
nbsp; The bubble that had been slowly growing somewhere deep in Taylor’s subconscious had suddenly burst through to the surface. It was no longer something she could hide from or run away from. It was, she knew, inescapable. The defense lawyers would throw up every argument imaginable to convince the jury that the police had framed Michael, had set him up to vindicate their own incompetence.
Taylor knew better, though. He had done it.
Michael Schiftmann was a murderer.
How she knew this, beyond the evidence she’d seen earlier in the courtroom, she wasn’t sure. But over the past eight or nine months, ever since the first rumors of the indictment had leaked out of the DA’s office, she had begun to look at him in a different way. There had always been something in Michael’s makeup of artifice, or if not exactly artifice, at least masking. She had known him for years, had slipped into being in love with him almost without knowing it, had been swept along by her own loneliness and the passion within her that he had tapped into and found in a way no one else ever had.
But all along, Taylor realized that she never really knew him. Never really knew him deep inside, in his core.
In his heart.
And now she knew why.
Judge Forsythe had recessed court for the evening after the TBI crime lab agent had testified for more than two hours. Tomorrow morning, Wes Talmadge would go after her, tooth and nail. Taylor felt sorry for the young woman.
Michael looked ashen, almost gray as they all waded out of the courthouse through the crowd, past the cameras, and to Talmadge’s car. For the first time, Taylor saw what almost looked like fear on his face. The shouted questions from the reporters echoed in her ears like the background noise in a riot.
As they walked out of the courthouse and down the steps in the fading twilight, the January wind sharp and bitter around them, Taylor tried to keep her head down, to avoid eye contact with any of them. But someone jammed a microphone out of the mass of bodies directly in front of her, almost hitting her in the face. She jerked her head up, dodged to her right, and through a break in the crowd, saw him.
The FBI agent … Powell, that was his name. He was staring right through her. She had seen him several times before at the trial, had noticed him sitting in the back of the courtroom spectator gallery, but she had avoided really seeing him.
Now she couldn’t help it. They stared directly at each other for what seemed like several moments, then the crowd shifted and Taylor was shoved forward.
Everyone was silent in the car as they maneuvered through the thick, nearly impenetrable Nashville rush-hour traffic.
Carey Talmadge, grim-faced and tired, drove, with Taylor in the front seat next to her. Talmadge and Michael sat in the back. Finally, Talmadge spoke up.
“Don’t worry,” he said out of nowhere, “we knew this was coming. We get our turn tomorrow.”
Taylor turned, suddenly angry. “I didn’t know it was coming! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I told you that they’d be throwing some things at us that looked bad,” Michael said defensively. “We can counter everything they’ve got.”
Taylor shifted back in her seat and stared out the front of the car. She clenched her jaw, regretting her outburst.
“Look, folks,” Talmadge said. “We’ve got to stay calm and keep cool here. This ain’t over by a long shot. Not by a helluva long shot.”
“Great,” Michael mumbled, “I’ve got an attorney that says
‘ain’t.’ “
Talmadge turned and glared at Michael, his eyes narrowing. “You’ve got an attorney that speaks the same language as your jury, hotshot. If I were you, I’d try not to forget that.”
At the hotel, Taylor and Michael got out of the car quickly and slipped into the hotel, unnoticed, through a side door.
They walked quickly across the cavernous lobby, their footsteps silent on the thick carpet. They hurried to the bank of elevators and were lucky enough to get one alone.
“Can we have dinner together?” Michael asked quietly as the elevator door slid shut.
Taylor stared at the front of the elevator, her hands at her side. “Michael, I’m not hungry. I don’t think I could eat a thing.”
“Well,” he said, as the floor buttons above them lighted one after the other. “Would you spend the night in my room tonight? We could really use some time alone together. It’s been a while.”
Taylor felt her stomach convulse, then tensed, trying to hide it. “I’m exhausted. It’s been an awful day. I think I’ll just take a bath and read for a while, then go to bed early.”
Michael turned and faced the front of the elevator next to her. “This isn’t working very well, is it?”
“I’m just tired, Michael. Having your fiance on trial for murder tends to take a lot out of you.”
The buttons above them clicked from 9 to 10.
“You’re not starting to believe them, are you?” Michael asked.
“Can we not do this now?” Taylor whispered.
The elevator door opened on their floor and they stepped out into the hallway. Michael’s room was two doors down from hers. They stopped as he pulled out his key card. “I’ll just get room service, I guess. I can’t exactly go walking around downtown, seeing the sights. I’ll just watch a movie and go to bed, I guess.”
Taylor nodded. “I hope you get some sleep.”
Michael pushed the door open. “Listen, you change your mind, all you’ve got to do is knock on the door.”
Taylor nodded. “Good night,” she said.
Then he was gone.
Taylor walked down to her room and ran her credit card-size electronic room key through the reader, then walked in. The room was cold, the air dry and stale. She tossed her bag down on a chair, took off her overcoat and hung it in the closet, then sat on the edge of the bed and took off her shoes.
Her feet hurt; her head pounded.
She still couldn’t believe it.
But she had to believe it.
The pounding in her head quickened. She realized she was hungry, that the headache was probably the result of a blood-sugar crash. She needed to eat, but she couldn’t imagine putting food in her mouth.
She wandered into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror. Deep dark purple pockets nestled under her eyes, visible even through the makeup. Her eyes were bloodshot.
They’d never been this bloodshot this often before. This had only been happening in the last couple of months.
Her neck ached. She rolled her head around on her shoulders, trying to loosen it. She was exhausted, so tired and sleepy she couldn’t think straight. But, she knew, there was no way she would sleep tonight. Even the Ambien and the Paxil didn’t work anymore. Even with the sleeping pills and the antianxiety medication, she rarely slept more than a couple of hours at a time.
She took off her watch and looked at it-seven-fifteen. It was going to be a long night. She couldn’t concentrate on her reading. Television and movies held no interest for her. She was too tired to think of anything.
Then she stood there a moment, glaring at her own image in the mirror. Funny thing about having your world crash down around you, she thought. Now at least you know what you’re up against and what you have to deal with.
Taylor set her jaw and walked quickly back out of the bathroom and over to the bed. She opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out the telephone directory. She opened to the blue pages, the government listings, and flipped to the heading labeled “U.S. Government.” She squinted to bring the tiny type into focus and scanned down the listings until she found what she was looking for. She picked up the hotel phone, punched 9 to get an outside line, then dialed.
“You’ve reached the Nashville office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,” a recorded voice said. “There’s no one available to take your call. At the tone, please leave a message.”
The phone beeped. “Yes, my name is Taylor Robinson.
You have an FBI agent named Henry Powell in town sit
ting in on the Michael Schiftmann murder trial. It’s vitally important that I speak to him as soon as possible. Can you please get in touch with him and have him call me on my cell phone at 212-555-5645. It’s urgent that I speak to him as quickly as possible. Please have him call me.”
Taylor hung up the phone and sat there in the cold silence of her room. She pulled the covers back from the oversize bed and lay out flat on her back, her head sinking into the pillow. She turned the ringer up all the way on her mobile phone and set it on the nightstand next to her. She tried to will herself to relax, to concentrate on the hissing of the heating-unit fan as it moved the musty air around.
In time, she began to drift off. Not sleep really, just a gentle sliding under the radar screen of consciousness that was barely enough for her body to let go of the worst of it.
Then, what seemed like seconds later, the electronic chim-ing of the cell phone blasted her into consciousness. She shot upright, unsure of where she was, the bright yellow numbers of the alarm clock shimmering in the darkened room.
It was nine-thirty, she noticed out of the corner of her eye.
She’d been out almost two hours. She picked up the phone and hit the talk button.
“Hello,” she said, trying to sound awake.
“Ms. Robinson?”
“Yes, this is Taylor Robinson.”
“This is Agent Powell, returning your call. How may I help you?”
Taylor rubbed her eyes. “Oh, thank you for calling. I-
Could you hold on for a second?” She shook her head. Why had she called him?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I had drifted off, Agent Powell, and I guess I was-”
“I didn’t mean to wake you up, Ms. Robinson,” Powell said. “Should I call back later?”
“No,” she said quickly. “No, not at all. I’m okay. I just, well … Agent Powell, I need to see you.”
“What?” the voice answered.
“I need to see you. Tonight. Is there somewhere where we can meet?”
“Well, I don’t know. This is a little unusual.”
“I need to see you, Agent Powell. Please. Where are you staying? I’ll come to your hotel.”
By Blood Written Page 32