“We need to retest the seminal fluid from Susan’s case,” Berger decides.
“Your labs would do that anyway, since he’s up on murder charges,” I reply. “But you might want to encourage them to make it a priority.”
“God, let’s hope it doesn’t turn out to be someone else,” she says in frustration. “Jesus, that would be awful if the DNA doesn’t match when they do the retest. Talk about really screwing up my case.”
She is right. It certainly would. Even Berger might have a hard time making a jury believe that Chandonne killed Susan if his DNA doesn’t match the DNA of the seminal fluid recovered from her body.
“I’ll get Marino to submit the stamps and any latent prints to the Richmond labs,” she then says. “And Kay, I need to ask you not to look at anything in that file unless it’s witnessed; don’t look any further. That’s why it’s best you don’t submit any evidence yourself.”
“I understand.” Another reminder that I am under suspicion for murder.
“For your own protection,” she adds.
“Ms. Berger, if you knew about the letters, about what was happening to Benton, then what did you think when he was murdered?”
“Aside from the obvious shock and grief? That he was killed by whoever was harassing him. Yes, first thing that came to mind. However, when it became clear who his killers were and then they were gunned down, there didn’t seem to be anything to pursue further.”
“And if Carrie Grethen wrote those harassing letters, she wrote the worst one, it seems, on the very day Susan was killed.”
Silence.
“I think we must consider there could be a connection.” I am firm on this point. “Susan may have been Chandonne’s first victim in this country, and as Benton started poking around he might have started getting too close to other things that point to the cartel. Carrie was alive and in New York when Chandonne came there and killed Susan.”
“And maybe Benton was a hit?” Berger sounds doubtful.
“More than maybe,” I reply. “I knew Benton and the way he thought. For starters, why was he carrying the Tlip file in his briefcasewhy did he take it with him to Philadelphia if he didn’t have some reason to think that the weird stuff in it was connected to what Carrie and her accomplice were doing? Balling people and cutting their faces off. Making them ugly. And the notes Benton was getting made it clear he was going to be made ugly, and he sure as hell was….”
“I need a copy of that file,” Berger dismisses me. It is obvious by her tone that she suddenly wants to get off the phone. “I’ve got a fax machine here in the house.” She gives me the number.
I GO INTO ANNA’S STUDY AND SPEND THE NEXT HALF hour photocopying everything in the Tlip file because I can’t feed laminated documents into the fax machine. Marino finished the burgundy and is asleep on the couch again when I return to the living room, where Lucy and McGovern sit in front of the fire talking, continuing to paint scenarios that are only getting wilder the more they are influenced by alcohol. Christmas speeds away from us. We finally get around to opening gifts at half past ten, and Marino groggily plays Santa, handing out boxes and trying to be festive. But his mood has gotten only darker and any attempts at humor have a bite. At eleven o’clock, Anna’s phone rings. It is Berger.
“Quid pro quo?” she launches in, referring to the letter dated December 5, 1997. “How many non-legal-minded people use that term? Just a crazy idea, but wonder if there’s a way we could get hold of Rocky Caggiano’s DNA. May as well turn over every stone and not be so quick to assume Carrie wrote these letters. Maybe she did. But maybe she didn’t.”
I can’t concentrate as I return to Christmas gifts beneath the tree. I try to smile and act abundantly thankful, but I don’t fool anyone. Lucy gives me a stainless-steel Breitling watch called a B52 while Marino’s gift to me is a coupon for a year of firewood that he will personally deliver and stack. Lucy loves the Whirly-Girls necklace I had made for her and Marino loves the leather jacket from Lucy and me. Anna would be pleased with an art glass vase I found for her, but she is somewhere on 1-95, of course. Everybody goes through the motions quickly because questions hang heavy in the air. While we gather up rumpled ribbons and torn paper, I motion to Marino that I need a private word with him. We sit in the kitchen. He has been in some stage of drunkenness all day, and I can tell that he is probably getting drunk on a regular basis. There is a reason for it.