Cold Case Squad (33 page)

Life is good. Doctors say I can be back on the job in a matter of
weeks. Riley says we're still in the budget, at least until next year's
crisis. While I can't wait to hug my kids again and watch them grow, my
heart goes out to April Terrell and her children, and Natasha's oldest,
a virtual orphan at twelve. What can you say to a boy whose Mom wound
up in a Dumpster and whose Dad has appointments on death row in two
states, to say nothing of Granddad, the escaped war criminal? Milo
Ross, the kid's latest stepfather, has said he'll raise the boy.

I said I didn't want any fuss at the airport, but as Nazario and I
walk down the concourse, there they are. Riley, Stone, Corso, even Emma
and a dozen others.

I am welcomed by laughter, applause, and Miami's warm, wet kiss. I
don't know why of all Terrell's victims, I alone survived. There has to
be a reason. Something I'm meant to
do. I can't wait to get back on the job.

After a skirmish with Nazario over the car keys, Stone drives me
home. First we three swing by the Beach to pick up my stuff.

"So how'd you do it?" I ask. "You solved the Meadows case. Got the
guy! I even saw you on the network news. How did you nail it?"

"As you know," Stone says, "fingerprint residue consists of three
main substances that are exuded from glands all over the body. They are
the apocrine, eccrine, and sebaceous glands. The sebaceous gland is
usually associated with hair follicles and leaves the best residue for
latent prints. Suspects pick it up on their hands as they touch their
face, hair, beard, whatever, even their arms. And our suspect had a
beard and lots of hair. I was worried at first because he washed the
bodies, but I read in an article in the
Forensic Journal
that
water alone won't destroy fingerprints left by sebaceous residue."

I am distracted, blown away by everything around me. The rapidly
moving clouds and water. The familiar skyline I thought I might never
see again. The voices of my detectives, the camaraderie.

"Hold on, genius. Gimme the
Reader's Digest
version."

"Yeah, Stone. Sarge's brain is still healing."

"Okay." Stone grins. "Bottom line? You
can
extract DNA
from a fingerprint—even an unrecognizable fingerprint. Some people
doubted it could be done. They were wrong."

"The mind is like a parachute," I say. "It always works best when
it's open."

"Then," Stone says, "it was no problem to compare it to the DNA he
left on the soda bottle. Voila, a match. Simple."

"We got him, although his lawyers are considering an insanity plea
based on some teenage trauma. But how can they convince a jury he was
insane for decades, all while holding a responsible job?"

"I'd love to see him and Terrell in the same cell," I say, as we
turn into the long, shaded driveway.

Stone took good care of everything, including the cat, who runs to
greet me. Who says animals have short memories?

Stone carries my stuff down to the car while I call the owner. Adair
is still in Italy. I don't know what time it is there, but he sounds
wide awake.

I report that everything is swell, including the cat.

"What cat? We don't have a cat," he insists.

In fact, he says, his young wife is allergic to cats.

I stare at the cat, purring on my lap at the moment. Is this a joke?
I hand the phone to Nazario, who will be staying here to baby-sit his
place because I am going home.

We swing by the nearest animal hospital to see if we have a match
for any of the missing, wanted, or reward posters hanging from the
waiting room bulletin board. Nothing. I show the cat's puss to the
staff, to see if they recognize his mug as somebody's missing pet.

The receptionist lights up. "You've got one of the city cats." She
coos at him and scratches his head. "You can tell by the notch in his
left ear."

I thought he'd been maimed in a fight.

The city had too many strays, she says. So volunteers trapped them,
to put a lid on the population explosion. They were spayed and neutered
and put back out on the street to do whatever they were doing before,
but without the same results.

"So what do I do with him?" I ask her.

She shrugged. "You can put him back where you found him."

My heart beats faster as we turn onto my street. The last time I was
here I was persona non grata, sneaking in the dark to check on my
family.

Today the house is a splash of color. Hung with welcome-home signs
and banners made by the kids. They run to meet me. Connie is waiting
outside, crying, her arms open. Neighbors are waving and here I am,
walking up to the front door under my own steam, carrying the cat
carrier, my feet still on the planet, still vertical, the luckiest man
alive.

I am deeply grateful to editor Mitchell Ivers, a writer's dream. He
inspires, conspires, and swoops out of the sky like a superhero. What a
masterful accomplice! I am home at last.

Dr. Joseph H. Davis, the world's most brilliant forensic
pathologist, contributed greatly to this book, as did my fabulous
friend, Sergeant Joy Gellatly, the pride of the Savannah Police
Department. She is the best and the brightest.

William and Karen Sampson, that phenomenal nationally known team of
forensic experts, generously shared their genius. I am indebted to my
old friends William Venturi and Raul J. Diaz, former homicide
investigators, now ace private detectives and soldiers for justice.
Between them, they have solved more real life-murders than most police
departments ever see!

Lisa Kreeger, senior attorney with the American Prosecutors Research
Institute, contributed invaluably to this book. Her razor-sharp mind,
love for the law, and keen sense of justice make the world a better
place. So does attorney, journalist, and fearless sports-car driver
Siobhan Morrissey, who flashes in and out of my life at the speed of
light in her big mean red machine.

Alisa Fambrini is consistently generous with her expertise and
knowledge. The world is more beautiful, thanks to her. I am also
grateful for William B. Wolfson, whose words of wit and wisdom live on.
Thanks go to my agent, Michael Congdon, and to Asa Boynton, Fire
Lieutenant Russell Frank, Amy Brier, Rabbi Sholom Blank, Matthew Lane,
the amazing Freddy Walker, my friends Leonard Wolfson, Brooke Engle,
Dr. Howard Engle, Dr. Hubert Rosomoff, and the warm and witty Renee
Steele Rosomoff. All gave generously of their time and knowledge—as did
my veteran co-conspirators Marilyn Lane, Edward Gadinsky, Ann Hughes,
Pam Stone Blackwell, the Rev. Garth Thompson, and Dr. Richard Souviron,
the world-renowned forensic odontologist.

The brilliant Joel Hirshhorn, president of the American Board of
Criminal Lawyers, rescued me, and my sanity. Again and again.

The usual suspects were there, as always, when I needed them: Dr.
Ferdie Pacheco, Al Alschuler, Ira Dubitsky, Sol Schreiber, and Patricia
Keen, along with the other loyal and stout-hearted Sesquipedelians.
Friends are the family we choose. How cool is that?