Reprisal (12 page)

Steve dropped his arms and leaned forward over his desk. Energy popped off him. “And you should hear ’em demand their rights! The truly innocent victims—the kids, the rape victims, the old people who get mugged—that’s what bothers me. That’s why I keep working on this treadmill.”

Zehra shifted in her seat. This talk could go on all afternoon. Better to save it for a happy hour somewhere else. “Steve, we’re here to give you notice of an alibi witness BJ found. We’ll file the formal notice and give you the whole statement when our secretary finishes the transcript, but we wanted to talk about it first.”

Suddenly, Harmon’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned over the desk. The light stuff was over. This was business, and he changed completely. “What alibi?”

BJ started, “I’ve been checking and found a guy who says that during the murder, he was with El-Amin at a mosque. He’s an imam and knows El-Amin well.”

Harmon gulped a big breath of air. “Yeah … yeah. Have you checked this guy out? He’s probably a cousin to El-Amin, putting-up for him.”

“Oh, I know, but in the end, Steve, he’s gonna alibi the defendant.”

“Details, man.”

BJ stretched his long body out in the chair. “I’ll give you the whole Q and A, but the long and short is the imam knows our guy, met him often at the mosque, and on the night of the murder, met him and even had tea—Oolong China tea, he remembers specifically.”

“Sounds like a drug deal to me—Oolong China?” Harmon chuckled at his joke.

“He remembers ‘cause they saw the TV news about the murder.”

“Well … I’ve seen this a hundred times. How do we know your guy didn’t put the imam up to this?”

“The witness says no.”

“Bullshit.”

Zehra leaned forward. “I don’t think you can say that in front of a jury. What if they happen to believe this dude?”

“Bullshit.”

“Look, Steve,” Zehra continued. “I’m not sure what my guy wants, but it’s part of my job to at least check it out. What kind of an offer can you make to avoid trial?”

“Yeah, I got a great offer for this animal: plead guilty. We won’t ask for hanging, which is what he’d get in his own country. Guys, he butchered a young, innocent boy. Wait ‘til the jury sees the photos …” He had a nervous forced laugh. “Heh, heh.”

Zehra remembered it and knew it offered a peek into Harmon’s occasional lack of confidence that he tried hard to cover up.

“Maybe so, but doesn’t the alibi witness make a difference? Can’t you let him plead to something less serious?” Zehra asked. She knew the answer and didn’t blame Harmon at all. Still, as the defense lawyer, she had to ask.

Harmon shook his head. “Don’t bust my balls on this.”

“Remember, dude, the killer was wearing a mask,” BJ said. “Your eyewitness can’t give a great ID.”

“So what? I’ve also got the DNA. You see that?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a match. That’s a conviction in my book. You can call all the alibi witnesses you want. I got the DNA. And jurors all watch TV—DNA’s air-tight proof.”

He was right. Neither Zehra nor BJ said anything for a while. Zehra knew a prosecutor would only drop charges for two reasons: either the evidence was so weak they knew they couldn’t prove the case or because of sympathy for the defendant. Neither applied in this case.

The meeting was over. Zehra stood. “Okay, Steve.” She reached across the desk and shook firmly. BJ bumped fists with him. “Later,” he said.

Back on the public level of the Government Center, Zehra turned to BJ. “Remember we’ve got an appointment at the BCA lab in forty minutes? We’ve gotta hurry, ‘cause I have to prepare a closing argument for that rape case.”

BJ’s thick eyebrows pinched down over his eyes. “What trial is that?”

“Oh, I got a guy who raped his teenage cousin—allegedly. He pled not guilty and waived a jury so the judge ordered us back tomorrow at eight-thirty to make the final arguments. The judge already heard all the evidence.”

“How can you keep these cases straight?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. I wish I had enough time to give them adequate attention. I always feel like I’m just hanging on by my fingernails.” She looked up into the air above them. The Government Center had two parallel towers with an open atrium in the middle that rose to the top, twenty-fourt floors. “This guy’s even creepier than El-Amin.” Zehra shrugged her shoulders and asked BJ. “How can you keep so calm all the time?”

He smiled. “Faith, baby. Most old cops are angry or screwed-up. That almost caught me too, ‘til I found my faith in Jesus again. That and my music. Maybe I should talk to you about it someday,” he half-kidded her.

Forty minutes later, they squealed into the parking lot before the sprawling Bureau of Criminal Apprehension forensic lab on Maryland Avenue in St. Paul and rocked to a stop. Built in 2003, it boasted mostly glass for walls, surrounded by red brick, and stood three stories tall.

By going directly to the scientist who did the testing on the mask found at the crime scene, Zehra hoped to find a sliver of something she could use in her defense. It was like trying to find a door just barely cracked open. One she could push open to discover what was behind it.

As they gathered briefcases and notes, they walked to the entrance. Beside the double glass doors stood stone sculptures that resembled ancient Mayan art. A warm breeze blew Zehra’s hair over her face and lifted her spirits. She always got a jolt of BJ’s peace when she was with him. Grateful for his presence.

BJ checked his watch. “Chill, Z. We’ll make it.”

They were directed to wait in a large, glass-enclosed atrium that stretched up two stories and was capped by a glass roof. Sun flooded around them and lit up the space. When Zehra sat, the room darkened. She looked up to see puffy, thick clouds moving across the sky. They passed, and the room blazed again.

Of course, everyone in the room stared at the sculpture on the second floor level at the end. It was titled, “Exquisite Corpse.”

Zehra had seen it before but was always amused at the sense of humor the artists used. A line of about twenty large aluminum frames, looking like magnifying glasses, balanced on their handles. Inside the row of empty glasses stretched a model of a human body sliced into thin sections from foot to head as if it were awaiting scientific analysis. The slices were colorful, full of blue, green, brown, and blood red sections. Holding the “slices of the body” inside the round frames was a spider web of metal filaments. The most creative part, she thought, was that each slice showed the different types of testing the lab performed: molecular models of heroin, bullet holes, blunt object hits, gas chromatography, and two DNA double-helix models.

The artwork made her feel almost reverent.

She turned to BJ. “Hey, got any new gigs coming up that I can hear?”

“The Dakota. Next Tuesday night.” He paused to smile. “’Course we got the slow night and the nine o’clock time slot but hey … I’ll blow anytime.”

In ten minutes, Dr. Betty McWhorter approached them from across the room. Zehra and BJ rose to shake her hand. She said, “BJ, haven’t seen you since you left the force. You want to see the respirator for the Ahmed victim?”

“Yes. Thanks for taking your time,” Zehra said.

They trailed behind her to a desk in the corner where they received temporary security badges. Through two locked doors, and down a long hallway, Dr. McWhorter led them to a small room. Inside it was empty except for the white table, three chairs, and a sealed box on the table.

“Have a seat,” the doctor offered.

Shiny metal trim surrounded the door and the edges of the table. The air conditioning seemed to be on high. Zehra shivered at the chill. She asked, “What can you tell us about the testing you did on the facemask?”

Dr. McWhorter shrugged. A tall woman with bleached-blonde hair cut short under her chin, she moved her bright blue eyes from one to the other. “Well, as you may know, we here in the Biology section conduct several types of serological examinations on evidentiary materials. That includes blood, seminal fluid, saliva, urine along with immunological tests and microscopic exams. For instance, hair, tissue, skin cells, blood, semen, and other bodily samples.” She lifted her chin and sniffed.

“Uh … what about the DNA testing?”

Dr. McWhorter turned her large body in the chair to face Zehra. “Once we obtain the samples, we perform nuclear autosomal and Y-chromosome STR DNA tests. We compare the DNA types obtained from the questioned materials with DNA types obtained from known sources. In this case, we took samples of the saliva from inside the respirator. There was also a little blood; probably the perp bit his lip.” She marked the date and time on the outside of the box with a pen, initialed it, and opened the cover. “Then, we took a swab sample from inside the cheek of the defendant, Mr. El-Amin. Our testing uses capillary electrophoresis to check the match. After you’ve done a few hundred of these, it’s really pretty simple. The technology does most of the work.” She sat up straighter in the chair.

“Bottom line, does the saliva inside the mask match the DNA of Mr. El-Amin?” Zehra asked.

“Respirator,” she corrected Zehra. “But you’re right. Here. You can take it out.” She pushed the container closer to them.

Zehra lifted up the small object. “This isn’t a mask?”

“A layman would call it that. But this is better, more effective than a mask.”

Zehra turned it over. The white cup had 3M 8000 stamped across the top and to the side. She read it—N95. It had a pliable metal strap inside the cotton for a nose clip and four yellow elastic straps around the edges. Looked like a typical face mask, to her. She handed it to BJ.

“What would you use this for?” Zehra asked.

“Oh … if you were doing a home project, like sanding and wanted the best filtering protection, this is it. They’re routinely used in hospitals. It’s designed to fit tightly around the face and has an electrostatic charge in the micro fibers to enhance the filtration.”

“Wow. This is top drawer, huh?” BJ whistled quietly.

“It’s the best you can get without using a full head mask,” Dr. McWhorter said.

“Plus, it fits tightly around the face, so it won’t fall off when you’re killing someone violently,” BJ said. “And, it covers up almost everything. Look …” He held it in front of his face without touching his skin.

Zehra agreed it hid most of his face—perfect for a disguise. “But BJ, you’ll have to shave your goatee before you become a serial killer.” She laughed, and then turned back to the doctor. “I know this is a dumb question, but are you certain about your testing?”

The doctor smiled and dropped her eyes for a moment. “DNA identification is the gold standard, my dear.”

“Yeah, I know, but do you think the criminal justice system is relying on this testing too much?”

Dr. McWhorter stood and placed the mask into the box. She taped it shut and cradled it in her arm. With her other arm, she opened the door for them. “We should rely on it—it’s foolproof.”

Thirteen

The day rains had ended in November. The plains to the west of Mogadishu remained green and offered a few more weeks of grazing land before the driest of seasons descended in December. As the land dried out and the vegetation shriveled, the two shepherds were forced to work their goats further and further from the camps.

The trick was to feed them as much as possible, get through the drought, and make it to the
gu
rains, the next season, starting in April. The desert would blossom once again into a green and fertile land and the people would celebrate as they had for thousands of years.

They both wrapped themselves in long cloths to protect themselves. It wasn’t particularly hot, but the wind could do damage quickly.

Most of the days were boring and monotonous. The shepherds didn’t mind because tending the goats was their work as it had been for their fathers and the fathers before them. At least they could provide for the clan.

The ground rolled in long, flat scrubland. Flowers that only a few weeks earlier had decorated the hills with color drooped in anticipation of no more water. The goats spread out further than the men could see. That was all right with them, since there wasn’t anywhere for the goats to get lost.

Ismir, the younger herder, volunteered this afternoon to round-up the stragglers before they made their camp for the evening. In the desert, night fell quickly and with cold winds. They wanted to have the fire and dinner ready before then.

Ismir scuffed over the worn paths that led to the west. The last of the rain clouds scudded out toward the ocean behind him. He searched into the setting sun to the horizon for the small clumps in the distance that would be the remains of the herd. Far to his left, he noticed something flash.

Unusual. He didn’t think there was anything out there. Ismir trudged over the hill to get a better look.

He saw the stragglers from the herd. But to his astonishment, just beyond them, he spied a series of low mud huts. Surrounded by a wire fence, the compound had a more permanent wooden building at one end. This was very unusual. Wood was so scarce out here, no one could afford to use it for something as mundane as shelter.