My Sister's Prayer (26 page)

“That's really about it. I'm sorry there isn't more. We tried to figure this one out, we really did, but I'm afraid that unless something new turns up, there's nothing more we can do.”

I nodded, somber and disappointed but no longer angry, as I had been last week. Considering the lack of information and evidence, Detective Ortiz had done more than any of us had the right to expect, and I said as much now.

“Thanks, Maddee. I appreciate—”

“I don't understand,” Nicole interrupted, her eyes on the profile she still held in her hands. “I thought DNA could tell you all sorts of things about a person. This just says he was a male. Where's the other info about him?”

Detective Ortiz sat back in her chair and provided a lengthy response, one that had to do with profiling and confidentiality and legalities, the long and short of it being that yes, DNA forensic technology was capable of predicting, with fairly reliable accuracy in many cases, not just gender but also race, hair color, eye color, age, various medical conditions, and even some physical features.

“But that's a different type of DNA report,” she continued, “and one
I'm not at liberty to share. Though I will tell you this. On the way over here, I thought of one last thing we could pursue.”

We both looked at her, suddenly encouraged. So maybe the case wasn't completely inactive just yet?

“There is a company that specializes in a new but really promising area of phenotyping,” she continued. “Do y'all know what that is?”

We both shook our heads.

“Put simply, a genotype is the part of the DNA sequence that varies between individuals. That's what you're looking at, Nicole, and it's what we use to compare one person's DNA with another. But a phenotype is the
expression
of those genetic variants, the way they play out in the person's physicality. This company takes an individual's phenotype and uses it to generate an image similar to what he or she might actually have looked like. It doesn't always work, but in many cases, fairly accurate computer-generated likenesses of people have been created solely from their DNA phenotypes. The whole science is still new, but in situations of forensic identification it can be useful.”

“But we already know what the guy looked like,” I said. “We have Danielle's drawings.”

“Oh, right, the drawings.” Ortiz leaned over to pull a packet of papers from her case. “Here. We have to keep the originals as evidence, but I made copies for you.”

I accepted the small stack of paper and shared it with Nicole, both of us flipping through slowly, taking in the various sketches of the man on the cot, the blood, the cabin, the knife. These pictures had been drawn by our cousin Danielle in the weeks following the incident at the cabin simply as a coping mechanism. And though she'd been only nine at the time, she was already quite talented, almost an artistic prodigy, and we all agreed her renderings were extremely accurate. Once the case was reopened, Danielle had dug up these old pictures and handed them over to be used in the investigation. They weren't easy to look at, but I was glad they existed, just one more validation of our claim.

“If you check closely,” the detective said, “you'll see she never got all that detailed around the face. The hands and the knife are drawn repeatedly, but the face is always pretty much in shadow.”

I nodded, understanding as a psychologist that the day it happened Danielle's eyes had been riveted on the shocking parts of our discovery, and those were what she'd later drawn in an attempt to work through the trauma. “So even without a good sketch of the man's face, you're saying this company might be able to create a likeness anyway, just from his DNA?”

Ortiz nodded. “It's worth a try. I can't keep actively working this case, as you know, but I can probably talk the chief into letting me run this one last report. I'll keep you posted. Sometimes a good image can open up new doors of inquiry.”

“Thank you, Detective,” I said. “Anything you can do would be deeply appreciated by all four of us.”

We were wrapping things up, just chatting more generally about the situation, when I happened to glance over at Nicole and realized something was wrong. She had spread Danielle's drawings out on the table in front of her, and her eyes were darting from one image to the next, taking them in their entirety.

“Nicole? Are you okay?”

She looked up at me, her eyes wide, her expression one of horror. “I just…this is new to me. I can't explain it. I…”

Her voice trailed off. Watching her, I realized she was white as a sheet.

“What's going on?” I persisted.

“I…nothing…”

“It's not nothing. You look like you're about to pass out.”

“Yeah, I need to lie down.”

Hands trembling, she reached out and pushed herself away from the table. Because of her healing ribs, it hurt to wheel herself around in the chair, but at the moment she didn't seem to notice or care. She began propelling herself toward the living room.

“Wait, let me help,” I said, rising from my seat.

“If you really want to help, you'll put those drawings away somewhere. Please. I don't ever want to see them again.”

Confused and alarmed, I dashed around the table to stop her.

“What is it?” I asked, catching her chair and turning it toward
me. “Did you see something specific? Something that could help the investigation?”

She shook her head miserably. “No. It's just…I wasn't expecting…Maddee, this is the first time I've ever seen those pictures.”

I thought for a moment and realized she was right. We hadn't even known about them when we were younger, and though I had gotten a look this past July when Danielle dug them out for the police, Nicole was back in Norfolk by then, living the wild life as usual, oblivious to the progress of the investigation.

“I'm not like the rest of you,” she said, crying now, tears streaming down her pale, pale face. “I was younger than y'all when it happened. I don't have any memories of that day, not really—or at least I didn't think I did. Until now. I was sitting there looking at them and…I don't know…they just…I
remembered
. I remember the blood, the knife. I remembered him. He wouldn't wake up. I shook him by the shoulder, but he wouldn't w-wake up.”

Her words sent shivers down my spine, the memory of that encounter etched permanently into my brain. As we three older cousins stood and gaped at the fellow on the bed with the knife in his chest, we'd all known he was dead. But as a six-year-old, Nicole hadn't quite caught on. For some reason, despite the tremendous amount of blood, it just didn't click for her right away. Before I thought to stop her, she'd stepped forward and was tapping the man on the shoulder, telling him to wake up.

I could still hear her little-girl voice, could still feel the rising panic in my throat, could still smell the coppery stench of the blood. Within seconds, she seemed to understand what was actually going on, that the man was dead. Then she let out a bloodcurdling scream. She'd been standing in the sticky red liquid, but now she turned and ran away, her little white boots tracking the blood across the floor. I could still see it, vividly.

And even though I'd heard her say this before, that she didn't remember it much at all, I hadn't really understood until now. Undoubtedly the incident had stayed with her, but on a less-than-conscious level. All these years, while the rest of us had been able to think about it and
process it and work through the trauma in our own ways, Nicole hadn't had that luxury. Though the incident was tucked away somewhere deep in her brain, she'd been left with the nearly impossible prospect of overcoming a trauma she couldn't even recall. No wonder she was so messed up.

My heart nearly breaking for her, I asked the detective to excuse us for a few minutes and then I helped Nicole the rest of the way into the living room. After pulling the curtain closed behind us, I knelt down and wrapped my arms around my sister and held on to her until her trembling eased. And though she didn't hug me in return, she buried her face against my chest and sobbed as she gasped, “That man in Danielle's drawings…that's how my nightmares always start. I never see the details of his face, but the image is the same, his dead body…just…lying there. In the dreams I see him exactly like that. Then I realize that whoever killed him is coming after me next. I run and I run, but he's always after me, always trying to kill me too.”

My stomach lurched at the thought. These were details she had never shared.

“Oh, sweetie,” I said, rubbing her back. “How awful. I had no idea.”

Before the murder, when Nicole was a carefree child, we would tuck in our favorite dolls every night in their miniature beds, smoothing their blankets under their chins so they would sleep better. But then the nightmares started, and she wanted nothing to do with that ritual. Or much to do with me.

Those dreams kept us both awake, night after night. Her room was next to mine. I still remember her screams, the nightmares she would wake up from that would make her body tremble. I couldn't do anything to help her. Only our parents could calm her down. Soon I began to feel that I had done something wrong. I hadn't protected her at the scene of the crime. And I couldn't protect her from its aftermath either.

I hugged her tighter now, saying, “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Nicole eventually managed to calm down, and I was able to help her into the bed. After I'd tucked the covers around her, I stayed, sitting on the edge of the mattress and holding her hand until she fell asleep.

When I finally emerged from behind the curtain, I was afraid the
detective might be gone, but she was still sitting at the table. I rejoined her, and though I tried to apologize, she wouldn't let me. She just gave me a sympathetic look and assured me that she understood Nicole had been through a lot—then and now. Glancing down, I noticed that Ortiz had gathered up the drawings and tucked them underneath my pile of papers.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. Is she going to be okay?”

I thought for a long moment and then nodded, realizing this might actually have been a good thing. If part of her drug habit really was driven by the need to keep those memories at bay, now that they had broken through, maybe she could begin to deal with them at last.

“Lucky for her, she has a psychologist for a sister, right?” Ortiz flashed me a small but encouraging smile. “I mean, I know you can't work with her directly on this, but at least you're in a position to connect her with all the right resources.”

“That's true. And trust me, I will make sure she gets the help she needs, no question about that.”

It was late, and I knew the detective had to go. Antsy from the commotion as well as from all that had proceeded it, I grabbed a jacket from the hook and offered to walk her to the car. As we went, she asked me a bit more about Nicole's accident, which had happened southeast of here, far from the detective's area of jurisdiction.

I described the incident and answered her questions, but then I was surprised when she asked where things stood from a legal standpoint.

“What do you mean?” I pulled my jacket more tightly around me in the chilly night air.

“With the police. I assume at some point your sister will have to face charges?”

The thought surprised me, but even as she said it I vaguely remembered some discussion between my parents about this that first night at the hospital. I'd assumed the police would let it go because it was a single-car accident and no one else had been hurt. Yes, Nicole had been driving impaired at the time, which was no small matter. But given the seriousness of her injuries, I couldn't imagine the long arm of the law
slamming down too hard on her. Only now did I realize how naive that assumption had been.

“So what's the worst that could happen?” I asked, not sure if I wanted to hear the answer.

“Well, clearly, no one's going to do anything until she's out of those casts and walking again. After that, it depends on the DA—and on other mitigating factors, such as whether or not she was in possession at the time, if she has any priors. Things like that.”

She looked at me questioningly, but I just shrugged. I didn't know.

We stopped beside a dark Buick. “Best-case scenario,” she said as she dug for her keys, “her attorney is already working on some sort of deal. He or she will probably try to negotiate for rehab in place of incarceration. Might even be able to get the charges dismissed entirely if she successfully completes the program.”

“Do you think the DA may be more sympathetic if he understood the extenuating circumstances? The situation with the case you've been working on?”

She paused, seeming surprised by the question. “My investigation? That crime happened twenty years ago.”

“Yeah, but you saw her in there just now. It's not hard to understand how she ended up going down the path she did. I'm not saying that early trauma excuses her actions now, not by any means, but it definitely makes them a little more understandable.”