There are new developments in the Chandonne case. As I suspected, when the seminal fluid in Susan Pless’s case was originally tested in 1997, only four probes were used. The New York medical examiner’s office still uses four probes for the first screening because they are developed in-house and therefore it is more economical to resort to them first. The frozen extraction was retested using fifteen loci, and the result is a non-match. Jean-Baptiste Chandonne was not the donor of the seminal fluid, nor was his brother, Thomas. But there are so many alleles in common, the DNA profiles are so incredibly close, that we can only assume there is a third brother, and it is this brother who had sex with Susan. We are baffled. Berger is on her head. “DNA has told the truth and fucked us,” Berger told me over the phone. Chandonne’s dentition matches the bite marks and his saliva and hair were on the bloody body, but he did not have vaginal sex with Susan Pless right before she died. That may not be enough for a jury in this day of DNA. A New York grand jury will have to decide if it is enough for an indictment, and it struck me as incredibly ironic when Berger said this. It doesn’t seem to require much to accuse me of murder, nothing more than rumor and alleged intent and the fact that I conducted experiments with a chipping hammer and barbecue sauce.
For weeks, I have waited for the subpoena. Yesterday it arrived, and the sheriff’s deputy was his usual cheerful self when he showed up at my office, not realizing, I suppose, that the case this time involves me as a defendant and not an expert witness. I have been asked to appear in room 302 of the John Marshall Courts Building to testify before the special grand jury. The hearing is set for Tuesday, February 1, at 2 P.M.
At a few minutes past seven, I stand inside the closet, pushing through suits and blouses as I run through all I need to do this day. I already know from Jack Fielding that we have six cases and two of the doctors are in court. I also have a ten o’clock telephone conference with Governor Mitchell. I pick out a black pants suit with blue pinstripes and a blue blouse with French cuffs. I wander into the kitchen for another cup of coffee and a bowl of high-protein cereal that Lucy brought over. I have to smile as I practically break my teeth on her healthy, crunchy gift. My niece is determined that I will emerge from my smoldering life a fit phoenix. I rinse dishes and finish getting dressed and am heading out the door when my pager vibrates. Marino’s number shows up on the video display and is followed by 911.
Parked in Anna’s driveway is the latest change in my life the rental car. It is a midnight blue Ford Explorer that smells like ancient cigarettes and will always smell like ancient cigarettes unless I do what Marino suggested and stick an air freshener on the dash. I plug my cell phone into the cigarette lighter and call him.
“Where are you?” he asks right off.
“Heading out the driveway.” I turn on the heater and Anna’s gates open to let me out. I don’t even stop to pick up the newspaper, which Marino next tells me I need to see, because clearly I haven’t read it yet or I would have called him right away.
“Too late,” I tell him. “I’m already on Cherokee.” I harden myself like a little kid flexing his stomach muscles when he dares someone to sock him in the gut. “So go on and tell me. What’s in the paper?” I am expecting that the special grand jury investigation has been leaked to the press, and I am right. I drive along Cherokee as recent winter weather continues to dissolve in drips and puddles, and slushy snow sluggishly slides off roofs.
“Chief Medical Examiner Suspected in Grisly Slaying,” Marino reads the banner headline on the front page. “It’s got a picture of you, too,” he adds. “Looks like one maybe that bitch took out in front of your house. The lady that fell on the ice, remember? It shows you climbing in my truck. Pretty good of my truck. Not so hot of you…”