“I fully understand, Ms. Jules,” I say. “I understand how the integrity of your laboratory is important. I know that you hold state regulations and your license with high regard. This lab and your work is your livelihood. I get it. And I want to respect that. So in order for you to upload that profile into the database and search it against other DNA profiles, that means one thing. You don’t know whose DNA is on the belt. That means it’s not Clown’s.”
Miranda stays silent. Kiki looks at me with big eyes.
“You’re one smart prosecutor,” says Lloyd, winking at me.
“What about the swabs that were taken from Laura’s vagina? Do you know how many people she had sex with?”
“I produced a report on that, too. It appears the DNA of two separate men were found inside her vagina; one being a major profile and the other being a minor profile.”
A major profile is a simple way of saying there’s more DNA there. It probably means it’s from someone who ejaculated a lot, recently. A minor profile is someone who was there further back in time, or ejaculated less than the major guy. Basically, Laura had sex with two guys recently. But for my purposes, all I care about is who last had sex with her at the motel and left her for dead. I got the hang of how Miranda would be willing to answer these questions where she would not be violating her ethical obligations. So I asked her questions in her own language, the scientific psychobabble that she wanted.
“Let me ask you this. Will either of the DNA profiles that you found inside Laura’s vagina be uploaded into the DNA database, too?”
“Yes, one of them will be. The other one does not need to be.”
Bingo. What Miranda just told me was that one of the vagina profiles belongs to Clown. The other one was unknown and that’s why it needs to be uploaded into the database.
“Let me ask you one more question. Which profile will be uploaded into the database? The major or the minor one?”
Miranda stays quiet and glares at me. She doesn’t want to answer my question.
“The major DNA profile will be uploaded into the database. We know who the minor belongs to,” says Lloyd.
What Lloyd just told me was that whoever last had sex with Laura is not Clown; it’s someone else.
“When will these profiles be uploaded into the database?” I ask.
“By the end of the day,” says Lloyd.
“One last thing,” I say. “Was there anything found on the flamingo vase?”
“Oh, that’s what that thing is. I could tell by the body it was a bird. But I couldn’t tell what kind with the head broken off,” says Miranda laughing, finally lightening up. “There’s nothing significant about the blood on the vase. It was Laura’s along with traces of other people,” Miranda says.
“What do you mean traces?” I ask.
“I wouldn’t be concerned with the trace DNA. That could be people that just touched the vase at some point in the past. It could belong to the cleaning lady or another motel guest. Plus, that vase was lying on the floor, where people walk and shed skin cells or drip semen on the way to the bathroom. The trace DNA can be from any of those sources. Laura got assaulted in a dirty motel room and you’re going to have a lot of DNA in there. But it’s not all going to be forensically relevant.
“You should be focusing on the fingerprint on the vase Dylan told me you guys had. And I’m assuming that belongs to her boyfriend,” says Miranda.
“You’re right, that would be assuming,” I say.
“Excuse me?” asks Miranda.
“Dylan didn’t tell you?” I ask sarcastically.
“Tell me what?” Miranda asks.
“It’s not his print,” I say.
Silence fills the room and Miranda looks like I just told her she had cancer.
Later in the evening after leaving the Crime Lab, I groove to the rhythm sounds and Reggae music at the Island Bar. I dance close to Bill, my dating website match whom I met three hours ago for the first time after three weeks of exchanging boring emails and phone conversations. This is the part I hate about being single. Every Friday night, I force myself to go out on random dates, usually with men I meet online. I started doing this a year ago after coming to terms with the fact Dylan and I were probably over.
I reach down to make sure my pager is still on my hip attached to my low-cut jeans. I’m not supposed to drink alcohol or let anything get in the way of me and a dead body within one hour when I’m on the homicide pager. I feel the pager vibrating against my hip as Bill is grinding up on my leg.
“What was that?” he asks.
“I’m sorry. Remember, I told you I’m on call,” I say.
“Oh, yeah. Do you gotta go?” asks Bill.
I wonder if it’s Kiki, whom I had asked to page me while I’m on my date. She’s my escape route if the date wasn’t going well.
“Let me see who’s calling. I’ll be back.”
I make my way through the bar, sliding through the Paris Hilton and Jersey Shore lookalikes in their tan wedge sandals and short skirts, and onto the sidewalk of the main highway. I instantly smell the salt in the air and hear the waves crashing over the loud voices of the drunken patrons.
I get a closer look at the pager and recognize Dylan’s number. A part of me wants to turn around and go back into the bar and grind on Bill the rest of the night. Dylan still hadn’t returned my calls since I left the Crime Lab. I feel as though he’s blowing me off. Another part of me wants to walk down to the Cove and just zone out and ask for answers.
Just as my eyes start tearing up, I remember that I’m paid to answer the homicide pager, and this could be about an entirely different death having nothing to do with my relationship with Dylan. I pick up my cell phone and start dialing Dylan’s number.
“This is Gaby Ruiz, I’m returning a call to the homicide pager,” I say.
“So professional. You didn’t recognize my number?” says Dylan playfully.
I stay silent.
“Gaby, it’s Dylan.”
“Hi, Dylan, what’s up?” I say.
“Well, we have another homicide,” he says. “Officer Cruz was found dead in his car parked in his garage that was torched. We’re investigating it as an arson homicide. Some ground samples taken from the garage came back positive for igniter fluid.”
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“Yeah, I am. This investigation just keeps getting better and better,” says Dylan.
“Cruz was placed on administrative leave. We asked him to come in for a mandatory interview Monday afternoon regarding Laura’s case. Then I got this call a few hours ago,” he says.
“Dylan, why didn’t you tell me about Cruz sooner?” I ask. “We have a staffing in three days. And why didn’t you return my calls today? Laura’s in a coma, Javier’s case was dismissed, and now Cruz is dead? I mean, is this for real? Is it just me or is something strange going on?”
“What are you talking about?” Dylan says, exasperated. “Don’t talk to me like I’m supposed to have all the answers. You know how this works. I can’t work miracles. Why don’t you go and ask your angels what the heck is going on if you think it’s that easy? We found Cruz’s card in Laura’s pocket and I told you I was looking into it. The Leafwood Police Department forced him to go on administrative leave while we were investigating his connection to Laura.
“We asked him to come in and give a statement about why his card was found in Laura’s pocket. Then he turns up dead. Now you’re telling me things are strange. I don’t know what the heck is going on. But what I do know is that I’m calling you because you’re the on-call prosecutor and I have to,” says Dylan angrily.
I hear a dial tone.
He hung up on me. Just as I’m fantasizing about calling him every cuss word I can think of, I see him calling me back.
“I’m sorry. I just needed to cool down,” says Dylan.
“Dylan, why are you just calling me now and why didn’t you call me earlier to let me know you had an interview set up with Cruz?” I ask. “I told you from the start I wanted to be involved in every part of this investigation. But instead, I’m finding out hours later that you were planning this interview. And now, you’re calling to tell me that Cruz is dead.
“I don’t know if you think I’m a joke or because I’m just a female prosecutor that you don’t have to keep me in the loop. I’m sick of this. I’ve given you a lot of leeway. Do you realize that my job depends on this, my supervisor asks for updates, and Tanner sometimes calls her out on the carpet if she’s not being kept in the loop?” I say frustrated.
“Gaby,” says Dylan, trying to calm me.
“You might think it’s just a fun game, but I don’t. I don’t want to get in trouble. And people are getting demoted left and right these days with the economy tanking. Tanner already told me I’m off the case as soon as we staff this thing. The least you can do is help me save face.
“I’m going to be asked questions on Monday like why should we file on Clown, was there anyone else involved, why shouldn’t we be looking at Cruz. Now I have to get up to speed on all of this because you didn’t have the professional courtesy to keep me in the loop,” I say.
“You know what? If I friggin’ knew what Cruz had to do with this, I’d be more motivated to invite you down to the station,” Dylan says. “But his interview had to do with an internal investigation by the Police Administration. They were going to interview Cruz as an employee, not a suspect. You wouldn’t be able to use his interview because it’s forced and not voluntary.
“I’m confident Clown is our guy. Cruz’s card being found in her pocket is a red herring. He was either in there sleeping with Laura or she had his card from some past investigation. I’m confident he didn’t assault Laura in that room. I’m one hundred percent sure it’s Clown.”
“When were you going to talk to me about all the DNA findings?” I ask.
“Why don’t you ask Ford? The Leafwood Police Department is still leading the investigation, both Laura’s case and now Cruz’s internal investigation. I’m working alongside these officers and don’t really know who’s in charge.
“Look, I’m trying,” Dylan says. “I’m keeping you in the loop as much as I can. I’m now in charge of Cruz’s homicide, because he’s actually dead and possibly connected to a sex case. So it’s the Special Homicide Team’s jurisdiction. I can do more with this case now and direct what’s investigated.”
“I can’t believe this. So where should I meet you?” I ask.
“At Cruz’s home. 1123 Citrus Avenue. It’s in Leafwood. Do you need directions?”
“I know where it is,” I say without thinking. “I mean I’ll GPS it,” I say backtracking, not wanting Dylan to know about my visit to Cruz’s house.
“Sorry,” says Dylan, changing the subject.
“For what?”
“For everything,” says Dylan.
“Don’t worry about it. Thanks, though,” I say.
“No really, I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have called you back or let you know what was going on with Cruz. But I couldn’t go over the Lieutenant’s head. He decided how to handle the internal investigation and all.”
“It’s okay. Stop worrying about it. It’s fine. I’m fine. Things are all good on my end. I’ll see you in a bit,” I say.
11:52 p.m. blinks in red on my dashboard. I park my car, get out, and start walking, feeling a sense of déjà vu. Once I get past the crime scene tape bordering not only Cruz’s house but two houses on each side, I see Dylan walking towards me. The smell of his cologne and his big blue eyes never quit being my biggest weaknesses.
“Do you want a walk-through?” asks Dylan.
“Sure,” I say.
“Go ahead and put these on,” says Dylan, handing me a white cloth mask and a big yellow and black firefighter-looking coat.
“Standing in there more than a minute, the smoke really starts getting to you,” he says.
I have never been in a place that had been burned. I always imagined that when buildings burn, they burn to the ground. But here, Cruz’s garage is still intact, just completely charred, black, and wilted. The heaviness of the air and thickness of the garage begins to overwhelm me. My hot recycled breath inside the mask isn’t much better than breathing in the barbecue-smelling garage.
The ceiling, an ashy grey and black color, looks like it is about to come crumbling down. The tools, gardening supplies, electrical wires, paint canisters, and automotive parts neatly line the wall units in the garage, but are charred and singed.
The dust still settling around and darkness throughout the garage makes it hard to focus in on anything. Firefighters and investigators walk in and out of the garage. Given everything is charred, it doesn’t seem as important to preserve the crime scene. We creep our way a few yards to the Suburban.
Cruz lies on the slightly reclined seat like he is the rotting skeleton in the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disneyland perched up on top of a bed full of gold. But there is no gold; it is all dust, ash, and burned car seat. He looks peaceful, otherwise unrecognizable because of the burn and blackness to his face. His hands rest to his sides and he’s sitting upright.
The window of his truck is down and all the doors are open. A cool nighttime breeze sends the smell of cow manure and charbroil seeping into my mask. The once tan interior of the SUV is now burned in sections. Firefighters in big yellow suits cut out samples of the floorboard carpet and fabric from the seats.