AKE SAT WAITING in the lobby wearing khaki pants and a dark blue polo shirt that made him look younger than the suit he wore
the day before. He stood, holding two cappuccinos, handed her one, and said, “Ready?”
Outside, Casey saw the Lexus before Ralph could step in front of her.
“Where to, Ms. Jordan?” he asked, pitching a cigarette into the bushes.
“You weren’t following us last night, were you, Ralph?” Casey asked. “Because that wouldn’t be necessary.”
Ralph stared at her with empty pupils surrounded by tattered brown and yellow irises.
“I think I’m set on a ride,” Casey said, glancing at Jake. “Don’t forget about the car, Ralph. The white one? Bavarian Motor
Works?”
“I’ll let you know,” Ralph said, limping toward the Lexus. “But I’ll just tag along in case something comes up.”
“I’m a big girl, Ralph,” Casey said. “I even made these high heels from a rattlesnake I killed with my bare hands.”
Ralph looked down.
“I’m kidding,” she said.
Ralph opened the car door and, climbing in, said, “Mr. Graham is pretty precise in what he wants.”
Casey shrugged and followed Jake toward his Cadillac, which was parked on the side of the building.
“How’s Dad?” Jake asked.
“Constipated,” she said. “Makes him limp.”
“What BMW?”
“Hubbard says he saw a white BMW the night of the murder,” Casey said. “If Graham really wants to help, that’s what he should
have Ralph doing. But we’re kind of keeping that under wraps for now, so if you don’t mind going off the record?”
“Graham,” Jake said. “He’s up to something else.”
The hospital was only a five-minute drive. They got there just after nine and Casey admired how Jake wormed them into the
office of the hospital’s president.
“Smooth,” Casey said as the president’s secretary showed them into his office.
“I can’t help it,” he said, looking almost sheepish. “People love me.”
The hospital president, Dr. Prescott, entered wearing a dark suit. They all shook hands and he told Jake how his wife watched
American Sunday
religiously and that it was an honor to meet him.
“Didn’t you do that piece on the rock-and-roll nun?” the doctor asked. “Hell of a story. Did you ever get a comment from the
Pope? Because you ended the piece by saying that the Vatican had not responded to your e-mails.”
“The Pope doesn’t e-mail a lot,” Jake said. “He’s pretty old-fashioned from what I hear.”
Casey looked at Jake, who only shrugged and suppressed a smile.
“So, how can I help?” Prescott asked, sitting at the head of the table and clasping his hands.
“We’re looking for swab samples taken from a rape victim in 1989,” Casey said. “Would you have something from that far back?”
“That’s an interesting question,” Prescott said, looking at her curiously. “I don’t know if I can even answer that for you.
For liability reasons.”
“Twenty years ago a college coed named Cassandra Thornton was raped and brutally murdered,” Jake said. “They brought her here,
but she died within hours and never regained consciousness. The hospital would have tested her for STDs and maybe AIDS, isn’t
that right?”
“I can’t speak about a specific individual, but if you gave me a hypothetical, I might be able to help you,” Prescott said,
offering Jake a knowing look.
“Of course,” Jake said, then restated the question as a hypothetical.
“That would be standard procedure, yes,” Prescott said with a nod.
“Perfect,” Casey said, beaming at Jake, unable to contain her excitement.
Prescott moved his hands from the table into his lap and said, “For anything more in-depth than that, I’d have to have a court
order.”
“Our client has a statutory right to the evidence,” Casey said.
“I understand,” Prescott said, “but this isn’t evidence. If it were evidence, the police would have it. Unfortunately, in
my
the day before. He stood, holding two cappuccinos, handed her one, and said, “Ready?”
Outside, Casey saw the Lexus before Ralph could step in front of her.
“Where to, Ms. Jordan?” he asked, pitching a cigarette into the bushes.
“You weren’t following us last night, were you, Ralph?” Casey asked. “Because that wouldn’t be necessary.”
Ralph stared at her with empty pupils surrounded by tattered brown and yellow irises.
“I think I’m set on a ride,” Casey said, glancing at Jake. “Don’t forget about the car, Ralph. The white one? Bavarian Motor
Works?”
“I’ll let you know,” Ralph said, limping toward the Lexus. “But I’ll just tag along in case something comes up.”
“I’m a big girl, Ralph,” Casey said. “I even made these high heels from a rattlesnake I killed with my bare hands.”
Ralph looked down.
“I’m kidding,” she said.
Ralph opened the car door and, climbing in, said, “Mr. Graham is pretty precise in what he wants.”
Casey shrugged and followed Jake toward his Cadillac, which was parked on the side of the building.
“How’s Dad?” Jake asked.
“Constipated,” she said. “Makes him limp.”
“What BMW?”
“Hubbard says he saw a white BMW the night of the murder,” Casey said. “If Graham really wants to help, that’s what he should
have Ralph doing. But we’re kind of keeping that under wraps for now, so if you don’t mind going off the record?”
“Graham,” Jake said. “He’s up to something else.”
The hospital was only a five-minute drive. They got there just after nine and Casey admired how Jake wormed them into the
office of the hospital’s president.
“Smooth,” Casey said as the president’s secretary showed them into his office.
“I can’t help it,” he said, looking almost sheepish. “People love me.”
The hospital president, Dr. Prescott, entered wearing a dark suit. They all shook hands and he told Jake how his wife watched
American Sunday
religiously and that it was an honor to meet him.
“Didn’t you do that piece on the rock-and-roll nun?” the doctor asked. “Hell of a story. Did you ever get a comment from the
Pope? Because you ended the piece by saying that the Vatican had not responded to your e-mails.”
“The Pope doesn’t e-mail a lot,” Jake said. “He’s pretty old-fashioned from what I hear.”
Casey looked at Jake, who only shrugged and suppressed a smile.
“So, how can I help?” Prescott asked, sitting at the head of the table and clasping his hands.
“We’re looking for swab samples taken from a rape victim in 1989,” Casey said. “Would you have something from that far back?”
“That’s an interesting question,” Prescott said, looking at her curiously. “I don’t know if I can even answer that for you.
For liability reasons.”
“Twenty years ago a college coed named Cassandra Thornton was raped and brutally murdered,” Jake said. “They brought her here,
but she died within hours and never regained consciousness. The hospital would have tested her for STDs and maybe AIDS, isn’t
that right?”
“I can’t speak about a specific individual, but if you gave me a hypothetical, I might be able to help you,” Prescott said,
offering Jake a knowing look.
“Of course,” Jake said, then restated the question as a hypothetical.
“That would be standard procedure, yes,” Prescott said with a nod.
“Perfect,” Casey said, beaming at Jake, unable to contain her excitement.
Prescott moved his hands from the table into his lap and said, “For anything more in-depth than that, I’d have to have a court
order.”
“Our client has a statutory right to the evidence,” Casey said.
“I understand,” Prescott said, “but this isn’t evidence. If it were evidence, the police would have it. Unfortunately, in
my
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