knowledge that the DNA she’d run for the police commissioner had belonged to the man who’d murdered Ash’s parents had turned her already queasy stomach upside down.
If she’d stayed in the room one second longer, she’d have puked all over the table.
The request, which had come two weeks before, had hardly surprised her. The police commissioner’s chief of staff had called her about a special assignment. It was rare to get a request from the top, but it happened. Rachel herself had gotten two previous requests from the commissioner’s office.
This request was to run DNA analysis and comparison on a cold case. The commissioner’s chief of staff had asked her to pick up the package from the commissioner’s office herself.
Of course, she’d been curious when she’d seen the sanitized documents and unlabeled samples, but it wasn’t the first time she’d been asked to make an analysis and comparison blind, and she was sure it wouldn’t be the last. She’d performed the tests and written her report and, per the commissioner’s request, personally delivered the whole packet to his office.
Now she knew which case it was. The Christmas Eve Murders. One of the most widely publicized murders in St. Louis’s history. The victims were Joseph and Marie Kendall, beautiful, wealthy and successful. The prominent St. Louis couple had been murdered in their bed on Christmas Eve while their four children, Devin, Ashton, Thaddeus and Natalie, slept peacefully, dreaming of sugarplums, in a nearby wing.
Rachel shuddered as nausea spread through her again. A few deep breaths warded it off. She dug into her purse for a package of crackers and nibbled on one as she processed everything Ash had said.
What surprised her—and hurt her—most was that he actually thought she’d had anything to do with reopening the case. He wasn’t thinking clearly, because he knew how her job worked. In the St. Louis Metropolitan Police Department, a not insignificant part of DNA analysis was cold cases.
As a Senior Criminalist #1, DNA Profiling, she processed requests for analysis ranging from appeals from lawyers claiming their clients were falsely imprisoned, to court cases where previous DNA evidence was called into question. Another large part of her job was rechecking and verifying analyses done by outside labs.
She had no control over which cases she reran. She merely delivered on her assignments. Her position was cut-and-dried. She couldn’t do favors for anyone if she wanted to.
Ash’s accusation that she would have done that kind of favor for Tim Meeks was preposterous. Insulting even.
As if she’d jeopardize her job for the scrawny, preppy A.D.A. She’d gone out with him a time or two after Ash had done what every female in the department had warned her that he would do—wooed her, won her and made her fall in love with him, then dumped her.
The women were right about his legendary charm, too. He’d eased away so cleanly and smoothly that it had hardly hurt—at first.
“So what was that about?” Vanessa asked, twirling her chair around. “I’ve never seen Ash lose his cool like that. What did you do to him, girl?”
Rachel arched her neck and massaged a knotted muscle there. Then she shook her head and chose her words carefully. “He’s upset about a case. He had some questions about the DNA.” She hoped the hint that she and Ash were discussing technical DNA questions would quash Vanessa’s interest. She was right.
“Oh, okay. I thought you might have managed to make our local Casanova angry. So far Ashanova is batting a thousand. He’s the only man I’ve ever dated that I still like, even after he broke up with me.”
Rachel regarded Vanessa. She was dark-haired, pretty and had a fair share of men hanging around. But Ash was in his early thirties while Vanessa couldn’t be more than twenty-five. What had he seen in her? Okay, besides the obvious. “How’d he break up with you?”
Vanessa studied her nails. “You know, I’m not sure I can explain it. It just sort of happened.”
Rachel nodded. It had just sort of happened with her, too. And Vanessa was right. It was impossible to explain. Somehow, he’d gone from sexy heat to casual cool, and she’d emerged without a scratch—well, except for the baby.
She ran her palm across her tiny baby bump, unable to keep a smile from her face. She was absolutely thrilled about the baby. She was fine with raising it alone. Women did that all the time, and her mother had already been saying for years that she’d be chief babysitter for her future grandkids. And Rachel wasn’t worried about providing for her child because she had an extremely well-paying job.
Speaking of which—she needed to get back to it. She moved her mouse to wake her computer. But instead of picking up where she’d left off the day before with a case involving three suspects, all of whom had left their DNA at the crime scene, she went to the search function and pulled up the Christmas Eve Murders case. She paged down to the summary report.
She’d heard of the case, of course. Everyone had. The Kendalls had been prominent on the social and business scenes in St Louis. The tragic story of their murders was embedded into the history of the city.
She skimmed the summary. Now a captain, Charles Hammond had been the lead investigator on the case. Her “uncle” Charlie had been her dad’s best friend and fishing buddy until her father was killed in the line of duty.
She continued reading. An ex-con named Richard Campbell had been arrested skulking around the upscale neighborhood of Hortense Place where the Kendalls lived, on that Christmas Eve twenty years before.
In a statement to the press, then-Detective Hammond had reported that Campbell had two previous convictions for burglary. He’d been out on bail when the murders occurred. Based on Campbell’s rap sheet and the preliminary investigation, Hammond said the murders appeared to be impulsive rather than premeditated, perhaps a robbery gone bad.
An eyewitness placed Campbell close to the Kendall estate that evening, carrying jewelry and rare coins, later found to be from nearby houses he’d broken into.
Rachel read another couple of paragraphs but the only additional bit of evidence mentioned was that Campbell had scratches on his right arm and Marie Kendall had tissue and blood under her fingernails.
Of course Campbell swore he was innocent and also that the scratches had happened as he had crawled out the window of the last house he’d burglarized.
“Didn’t anyone check the window for blood?” she muttered. She’d need to pull the case file to check on that, and she was pretty sure she wouldn’t be granted access to it, not now.
She took another tiny bite of cracker as she double-checked the date of the murders. She shook her head. Twenty years ago DNA profiling was in its infancy—newborn in fact. The vast storehouse of specific identification information that Rachel took for granted hadn’t even been dreamed of when the Kendalls were killed.
But damning circumstantial evidence plus public outrage over the cold-blooded murder of a prominent St. Louis couple had resulted in a quick conviction. Campbell had received two consecutive life sentences.
Dear God. Rachel sat back in her chair, her hand over her mouth. Now, DNA had exonerated Rick Campbell. Twenty years ago, not one but two families had been destroyed—the Kendalls and the Campbells. Now, one family, the Campbells, was healed—scarred but healed, while the other, Ash’s family, was being destroyed all over again.
“What?”
