replication would result in the evidence we needed. I wanted my old life back—and quickly.
Chapter 9
D NA kind of looks like a keypunch card once the X-ray film develops. In a sexual assault case, there’s the victim’s DNA, and then we also usually have DNA belonging to known people in the victim’s life. For instance, if the victim is a married mother, her children’s and husband’s DNA would also be gathered so we would know whose DNA was also present at the same time versus the unknown assailant’s.
David Falco had given DNA samples, and three days later, I looked at the way the tiny dotsaligned after replicating the sample from the panties.
It wasn’t a match.
I felt like screaming in the lab but contained myself. For verification, a second criminalist backed up my findings—Julio Chen. His mother was Mexican and his father was a Chinese dissident who’d defected when he was at MIT. Julio himself had gone on to study chemistry, and as soon as he finished his doctoral thesis, he’d have his Ph.D. in the same.
“Julio? You see what I see, right?”
He nodded. He had been following me every step of the way as I duplicated the DNA and ran my tests, watching me like a hawk.
“Not even close, Billie. This guy is not the rapist.”
I held up my hand for a high five, rubber gloves and all.
“I’ve never seen you get involved like this.”
“Well…this guy is special. At least the Justice Foundation thinks so, and I’m inclined to agree.”
“You’re lucky the sample wasn’t too degraded.”
I nodded. “That a little trace from years ago could come back and clear an innocent man is like out of sci-fi. I love what I do.”
I stood up, satisfied.
David Falco had not raped Cammie Whitaker that night.
His prints weren’t on the knife.
Nor were they on the playing card.
His attorney was an incompetent alcoholic who had since been reprimanded by the Bar four times.
Falco had passed two lie detector tests.
Every interviewee raved at what a great guy he was. That he was incapable of such violence.
I felt elated. In fact, though I had been a criminalist for years, I had never felt this surge of emotion as I processed a sample.
I went in to show Lewis the results. He acted underwhelmed.
“Come on, Lewis,” I whined. “Be happy.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? I mean, C.C. will be thrilled,” I teased him. “Isn’t that at least a little reason to be glad about this?” I sat down in the chair opposite his desk.
Lewis stood and shut the door to his office. He turned around and looked at me. “Does the fact that you have to bring Tommy Salami to work with you three days running mean anything?”
I shrugged. I’d gotten over being annoyed.“He’s good company. And he’s got nothing to do while I’m in here, so he details my car. Today he brought Turtle Wax.”
Lewis shook his head and then went and sat down behind his desk, which was covered in file folders representing cases.
“If David Falco is innocent, as it appears he is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, then there is a suicide king killer out there. And he knows you. And C.C. And you’re both pissing him off. Or else it’s Cammie Whitaker’s crazy brother. Either way, I don’t feel too thrilled with this at all.”
“You’re just thinking of this now?” I asked. “What did you think would happen when we proved he was innocent?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been a scientist for so long, I think I thought of this whole process in more abstract terms. Or more clinical terms. You know, on a microscopic level. Beyond that, before we started working with C.C. and Joe, we were faceless. Lab coats. We weren’t targets. You weren’t a target.”
“We’ll be fine, Lewis. We did something good. We did something that matters.” I thought back to my organic chemistry classes and the endless science in college. I had done it because I liked science and I wanted to do something with it—law enforcement or forensics. But I
Chapter 9
D NA kind of looks like a keypunch card once the X-ray film develops. In a sexual assault case, there’s the victim’s DNA, and then we also usually have DNA belonging to known people in the victim’s life. For instance, if the victim is a married mother, her children’s and husband’s DNA would also be gathered so we would know whose DNA was also present at the same time versus the unknown assailant’s.
David Falco had given DNA samples, and three days later, I looked at the way the tiny dotsaligned after replicating the sample from the panties.
It wasn’t a match.
I felt like screaming in the lab but contained myself. For verification, a second criminalist backed up my findings—Julio Chen. His mother was Mexican and his father was a Chinese dissident who’d defected when he was at MIT. Julio himself had gone on to study chemistry, and as soon as he finished his doctoral thesis, he’d have his Ph.D. in the same.
“Julio? You see what I see, right?”
He nodded. He had been following me every step of the way as I duplicated the DNA and ran my tests, watching me like a hawk.
“Not even close, Billie. This guy is not the rapist.”
I held up my hand for a high five, rubber gloves and all.
“I’ve never seen you get involved like this.”
“Well…this guy is special. At least the Justice Foundation thinks so, and I’m inclined to agree.”
“You’re lucky the sample wasn’t too degraded.”
I nodded. “That a little trace from years ago could come back and clear an innocent man is like out of sci-fi. I love what I do.”
I stood up, satisfied.
David Falco had not raped Cammie Whitaker that night.
His prints weren’t on the knife.
Nor were they on the playing card.
His attorney was an incompetent alcoholic who had since been reprimanded by the Bar four times.
Falco had passed two lie detector tests.
Every interviewee raved at what a great guy he was. That he was incapable of such violence.
I felt elated. In fact, though I had been a criminalist for years, I had never felt this surge of emotion as I processed a sample.
I went in to show Lewis the results. He acted underwhelmed.
“Come on, Lewis,” I whined. “Be happy.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? I mean, C.C. will be thrilled,” I teased him. “Isn’t that at least a little reason to be glad about this?” I sat down in the chair opposite his desk.
Lewis stood and shut the door to his office. He turned around and looked at me. “Does the fact that you have to bring Tommy Salami to work with you three days running mean anything?”
I shrugged. I’d gotten over being annoyed.“He’s good company. And he’s got nothing to do while I’m in here, so he details my car. Today he brought Turtle Wax.”
Lewis shook his head and then went and sat down behind his desk, which was covered in file folders representing cases.
“If David Falco is innocent, as it appears he is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, then there is a suicide king killer out there. And he knows you. And C.C. And you’re both pissing him off. Or else it’s Cammie Whitaker’s crazy brother. Either way, I don’t feel too thrilled with this at all.”
“You’re just thinking of this now?” I asked. “What did you think would happen when we proved he was innocent?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been a scientist for so long, I think I thought of this whole process in more abstract terms. Or more clinical terms. You know, on a microscopic level. Beyond that, before we started working with C.C. and Joe, we were faceless. Lab coats. We weren’t targets. You weren’t a target.”
“We’ll be fine, Lewis. We did something good. We did something that matters.” I thought back to my organic chemistry classes and the endless science in college. I had done it because I liked science and I wanted to do something with it—law enforcement or forensics. But I
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