The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (32 page)

"Damn," she muttered. "Why did I let
Felix talk me into leaving my car in Cape May?"

She hailed a cab and told the driver to take her to
the car pound at Delaware and Spring Garden.

At the pound, sure enough the first thing she saw was
the shiny Jaguar inside the high wire fence. She paid the cab driver
and marched inside the old bus terminal that served as headquarters
for the lot.

A uniformed policeman looked up and asked if he could
help her. When she told him she wanted to pick up the car he asked
for the registration. Of course she didn't have it. She tried
bargaining, descended to pleading, then a mild threat of journalistic
revenge, never very smart with any member of the gendarmes. No cigar.

Finally she said, "Call George Sloan in
homicide. He'll straighten it out." She could only hope he was
still there. The uniform couldn't dismiss that so easily. He picked
up the phone and dialed. When Sloan came on the line he talked for a
moment, listened, handed her the phone.

"What the hell now?" Sloan asked
impatiently.

She started to tell him, he interrupted and asked for
the officer again.

The officer listened, started to hang up.

"Wait. I need to talk to him again."

He handed the receiver back to her.

"Any news yet, George?"

"No. I'll call when we know something. If we
do."

She handed the phone back to the officer. "Lady,
you've got friends in high places," And to one of the drivers he
said, "Bring the Jaguar out."

As she turned to go he said, "That'll be seventy
dollars."

Laura paid it without a
word.

* * *

At her desk she went through her messages. The second
one in the pile was from Sloan, in Gene's handwriting.

"Gene," she called out across the room,
"when did Detective Sloan call?"
 

"Five, ten minutes ago at most."

The drive to the paper had taken some twenty minutes.
Her hand was shaking as she returned the call, and she was barely
able to keep her voice steady as she asked for Sloan.

As soon as she heard him say, "Laura," she
knew it was trouble.

"Two of my men talked to her, two of my best
men. At first she didn't want to go into it, but then she told them.
You were right. She did loan the car to someone, several times. But
the someone was Felix Ducroit."

She was going to be sick.

"No, goddamn it. She's lying and—"

"I don't think so, Laura. There's no evidence .
. . And you, Laura, have plenty of motive for wanting to nail Missy
and clear Felix."

"It can't be," Laura was saying. "Terri
and Marie were only the latest of that string of missing South Philly
girls. He has to be innocent. My God, George, he's only been in town
a few months. You know as well as I do this thing goes back. It
couldn't have been him."

Sloan felt sorry for her, enough to lay it out gently
as he could.

"Laura, we don't know that Terri and Marie were
the latest. Just because they were found and their names appeared on
the missing persons sheet doesn't, I'm afraid, prove anything. I
think you know that as well as I do. We've never found any trace of
the other girls. For all we know they're still alive, and Terri and
Marie were the only two killed. Could well be the rest of them are
out in Hollywood trying to get in the movies—"

"You can't believe that—"

"Laura, look, I just can't talk about this
anymore right now. I know how you feel, and why, and I'm sorry. But I
can take this just so far. I did what you asked. Now I'm going home
and get some sleep before I pass out. You have my home number, but do
me a favor and don't use it."

Laura hung up, stopped the
tears that had begun to form. Come on, this was no time to lose it.
Felix needed her. She needed him. But what to do? So far all her
moves to help had backfired, got him in even deeper trouble. Okay,
she needed help, expert help. It was on the fifth floor.

* * *

Outside Will Stuart's office, Martha, his sixtyish
secretary, was passing the time leafing through a copy of Vanity
Fair, the everpresent unfiltered Camel smoking in her right hand.

"Is he in?" Laura asked.

"Yes, but very busy—"

"I've got to see him."

"Tell me about it," said Martha. When Laura
finished, Martha said, "You're right. You need to see him. Wait
here."

A few minutes later three men in shirtsleeves,
department heads, came scurrying out with file folders tucked under
their arms. A moment or two after that Martha reappeared, patted her
tight, gray curls. "He'll see you now. Good luck, kid."

Will Stuart was seated behind his desk. He, too, was
in shirtsleeves, but unlike the men who'd just left his office, his
tie was still knotted at his throat, and he was wearing pale yellow
paisley suspenders. He didn't seem too happy about the intrusion, but
told her to have a seat.

"What can I do for you?"

She quickly decided from his manner it would be best
to approach him on a professional basis rather than as a friend
asking help. "It's about the Felix Ducroit story.

"Yes, a nice piece. We'll run it Sunday."
He seemed relieved that a reporter's ego was all that was at issue
here.

"l think you'd better hear what l have to say
before you do," she said. And before he could stop her, she
rushed to tell him everything from start to finish, leaving out
nothing, including her personal feelings for Felix Ducroit. He
listened without a comment, with building interest. "Laura, this
is a story. A story, hell . . . maybe a major scoop . . . You're
right, we'll have to kill your piece on him, at least until we get a
resolution. But we need something for the next edition. What have you
got?"

"Nothing, because it's not over yet. Don't
worry, the other papers don't know about it yet."

"You're sure?"

"l'm sure."

"Okay, go ahead. But don't you think combining
personal and professional is a bit dangerous? Let's concentrate on
the facts, ma'am. It might help us both to give me the pertinent ones
again."

She did, and Will listened without interrupting. When
she was finished he said, "What you're saying is that to satisfy
the police that Mr. Ducroit is not the guilty party, you either have
to get Miss Wakefield to change her story, or you have to prove
scientifically that it couldn't have been Ducroit—that it was
someone else's sperm in her. Right?"

"Right." Whatever he said, even if she
didn't quite understand it, was progress. He was lining up on her
side . . .

"Also, from what you tell me, you've taken two
shots at Miss Wakefield, and nothing. If anything, they made matters
worse."

"Right, again."

"Doesn't surprise me. It sounds like maybe the
lady's in a corner. To change her story now and tell the truth could
make her look bad, going on speculation at this point, about how
she's involved in these murders. If somehow she knew only about the
first two—the teenagers—that's one thing, but if she used what
she knows to cause the third one, well, that's something else . .
.For her to come clean in that case could mean she'd go to prison,
maybe worse, along with the killer. No, she's got too much at risk.
If you're going to do anything, you've got to do it from the other
angle."

"You mean, the sperm?" She never felt
comfortable with that subject. No time to be squeamish now, though.

"Yes. What have you done about that?"

"Nothing yet."

"Figures." He picked up his phone, saying,
"I'm going to get you started. After that, it's up to you.
You're supposed to be the reporter."

When his party answered he said, "Let me speak
to him," waited a moment or two, then said, "Charlie, it's
Will. I've got a reporter here who needs a crash course in sperm,
spermology, whatever the hell you call it. I'm going to send her
right over."

He listened for a moment. "You're damn right,
it's important."

Looking at Laura he added the flourish: "Charlie,
I think I can say this one really is a matter of life or death."

He hung up and scribbled something on a piece of
paper that he handed to Laura. "That's the address of Charlie
Christian, one of the city's top urologists. Never you mind how I
know him. He's expecting you. Keep me posted."

Laura nodded and hurried out the door. In less than
fifteen minutes she was in the offices of Dr. Charles Christian. The
doctor was in his early fifties and wearing a white lab coat. He
shook hands with her, sat down at his desk and got to business. "Will
and I are old friends. He says it's serious. I believe him. Tell me."

She related the meat of the story to him, being
careful to omit names.

When she finished he said, "I think I see what
Will meant. Before we go further I should tell you I've worked with
the police on several rape cases, so I am familiar with the
territory. Let's start with the simplest first."

Laura started to bring out her tape recorder, but he
shook his head. "I'm not talking on the record—I don't want to
be in the paper or in court as a witness. I'm talking to you because
Will Stuart is an old dear friend. We've played cards for over twenty
years. You've got to be a good friend to manage that."

"Agreed," Laura said.

"Good." Softening his tone, he said, "Will
has often talked about you. He's very fond of you, you know."

No, she didn't, but it pleased her to hear it. She
doubted that Will would appreciate having such a confidence aired,
though. Not good for the "Front Page" image.

Switching back to a more professional tone, he began:
"In a case of rape, when you're dealing with a mature woman, the
presence of sperm in the vagina is often the only way to verify that
a sex act has actually taken place. With a virgin, of course, it's
different—"

Laura's thoughts immediately went to Terri and Marie,
both virgins until almost the moment of death.

"—But with a mature woman the vagina has
sufficient elasticity to take the most vigorous penetration, and
without the presence of sperm we're left with no medical way to
determine that penetration has occurred."

When he began to go over what she already knew about
secretors and non-secretors and blood types she became impatient . .
. "Yes, I know about all that. What I need to know is, are there
any tests that could eliminate Felix as a suspect? That could maybe
prove he's innocent? Genetic factors that might not necessarily match
him up with the killer?"

"Well, yes, there is. But it's a long shot. It's
also rather complicated to explain. The ABH factors that determine
blood types are part of a group called antigens. Antigens stimulate
the production of antibodies. Which brings us to the Lewis factor."

"What's that?"

"The ABH factor is a red cell antigen. The Lewis
factor is a plasma antigen. Like the ABH factor it's also water
soluble and can be secreted into other bodily fluids such as sperm or
saliva. The saliva or sperm is mixed with saline solution, boiled and
spun in a centrifuge, then tested for the Lewis factor by its
reaction to known chemical agents."

"What will this prove?"

"There are two Lewis groups that may show up:
Lewis A or Lewis B. If he's a Lewis A he will be a secretor—not of
the ABH factor, that's something entirely different, but of the Lewis
factor. And if he's a Lewis B he will be a non-secretor."

"Let me see if I understand. You're saying that
just because he matched before with the ABH test, it doesn't mean
anything when you do the Lewis test. It's sort of a new ballgame. The
killer could be a Lewis A, and Felix could be a Lewis B. If that
happened they would have to let him go, because . . . genetically he
couldn't be the killer?"

"That's correct," he said. "You're a
quick study."

"You said something about a longshot. How long?"

"Is the subject black or white?"

"White. Does it make a difference?"

"Yes, about seventy-five percent of the black
population falls into the Lewis A category. About ninety-five percent
of the white."

Laura felt her hopes sinking. "That means
there's only about a five percent chance the two of them will be
different—"

"And I'm afraid that's not the worst of it. If
it turns out that both samples tested are Lewis B, then that in
itself could be a damaging piece of evidence. Only five people out of
a hundred will be Lewis B. I know enough about forensic medicine to
say most juries would tend to believe both samples were from the same
man . . ."

"There's nothing? A test with better odds?"

"I'm afraid not, Miss
Ramsey."

* * *

Outside, she left the car in the parking lot and
walked, trying to absorb what this new information meant. And no
matter how she added and subtracted, it always came out the same . .
. A five percent chance to clear Felix, and another five percent
chance the tests would almost certainly backfire and convict him.