But she just nodded firmly. “Yes. I want to do this. I want us to write this book, do everything in our power to either solve the crimes, or at the very least to show the advances in criminal investigation.” She adjusted the straps of her tank top, her hair smoothed back and contained in a twisted ponytail of some kind. “I believe in forensics. I’ve always enjoyed the satisfaction in my job of taking an unknown substance and identifying it. Giving the investigators the facts they need to connect the pieces of the puzzle and convict a criminal. Maybe you and I can’t achieve that here, but we can try, and regardless of the outcome, when we write ‘The End’ and you turn the manuscript in to your editor, I’m going to have gained some sort of personal closure. That’s what I want. To be done. To move forward.”
If it were only that simple. Gabriel had often wondered if closure was a psychological myth. Nothing ended, ever. Things simply faded, hurt less, but stuck to the side of your subconscious forever, altering your thoughts, your essence, your future.
But all he said to Sara was “Okay. Here’s what we have. A lock of John Thiroux’s hair, courtesy of Mrs. Jane Gallier. One fingerprint in the sketch of Anne Donovan’s arm. Blood flakes from the knife found at the crime scene, as well as blood found on the absinthe spoon lying on the floor. That’s it. That’s all we’ve got. And maybe, if we’re incredibly lucky, we can trace Anne Donovan’s child on down to a descendent, though that’s probably wishful thinking. And even if we could find a descendent, who is to say they’ll agree to give us a sample?”
Sara made a face. “I suppose a lot of people would find it disturbing to be approached with something like this.”
It was possible he might offend someone, but Gabriel thought it was time he set aside irrational feelings and aggressively pursued every angle he could. “Dealing with the dead is disturbing to the living.”
He was leaning against his desk, feet crossed, arms over his chest, and he watched Sara, took great pleasure in seeing her fingers pull her ponytail over her shoulder and absently stroke the ends of her hair. Her orange tank top clung to her br**sts and Gabriel remembered the way she had felt, pressed against him, every curve of her body clinging to his. It was a good thing the timing had been so incredibly inappropriate, because he was becoming more and more tempted.
“It almost seems as if everything is disturbing to the living.” Sara’s eyes went a little wider and she asked him, voice low, “What do you think is out there? Where do you think the dead go?”
“To heaven.” He could say that without hesitation. He had seen it, lived it, felt it. He had never wanted to leave, had wanted to spend eternity in his palace of light, where visitors found answers, where he felt generous and wise. Then he had come down to earth and had been overwhelmed by suffering and despaired of his ineffectiveness, until he had found his palace again in the bottom of a bottle.
“I hope so,” Sara said quietly. “I hope so.”
But before he could respond, she straightened. “So. Anyway. So we have John Thiroux’s DNA and possibly Anne Donovan’s. We have blood from the weapon and blood that was on the absinthe spoon, which was found on the floor. Presumably both will be Anne’s blood, but possibly the murderer’s. The fingerprint is useless unless we can find prints for John or Anne, and for the same finger that touched the sketch, which is highly unlikely.”
They had John’s fingerprints since they were his own, and he now knew they didn’t match, but Gabriel couldn’t exactly reveal that little fact to her.
“Where are the samples? Have you submitted them to the lab? How did you get them anyway?”
“Everything is already at the lab. I should hear something soon actually. I’m hoping early next week.” He ignored the question about how the items had been acquired. He couldn’t tell her that he had the lock of hair because he was John Thiroux and Jane Gallier had mailed it to him. That it was his hair. Or that he couldn’t really explain why he had kept Jane’s letters, including the hair that had accompanied the one, stuffed in his desk for all these years. Nor could he tell her that he had never engaged in an affair with Jane beyond a few dinner dates and one kiss, despite her words to the contrary. That his demonic appeal altered women’s behavior drastically, made them see and feel what wasn’t there, what wasn’t real.
“It’s a shame the coroner’s report is so inadequate. A lot could have been determined from the blood spatters, a better description of the injuries, a more accurate time of death.”
“That’s the point. To show precisely that.” He wanted to compare Anne’s case to her mother’s, to illuminate the progress forensics had made in criminal investigation, but show that ultimately, the human factor couldn’t be removed from the justice system. It was people who solved crimes, who convicted or acquitted, not physical evidence.
She pursed her lips before saying, “You want to show the autopsy report from my mother’s case, don’t you?”
“It would be the best way to illuminate the difference forensic science has made in criminal investigation. But only if you’re comfortable with that.”
“It’s okay. It’s not like it’s a secret how she died. The papers and the news trotted out every gory detail.”
And she had gotten the pictures to prove it.
Chapter Eleven
“So we need to list the similarities between the two cases.” Gabriel was frustrated by the limitations on what he could tell Sara, but he had to be realistic in how he could write the book anyway. His personal knowledge of a lot of facts couldn’t be explained.
“Boyfriends that were the last one to see them alive. Facial and upper body mutilation. Use of a bowie knife. Attacked while in bed. No sign of forced entry. No sign of sexual intercourse.” Sara typed into her laptop computer as she spoke. “Anything else you can think of?”
“Does Rafe have a drinking problem?” He had wondered about that since the very first article he’d read.
Sara looked at him like he had completely lost his mind. “No. Not even close.”
“Is he religious?”
“No. You asked me that before and I told you no. Honestly, I’ve never known him to go to church or to even mention God.”
That struck Gabriel as completely odd, given the quote he’d read in the online article. He was tempted to open it in the folder he’d stored it in on his computer and read it to Sara, but he resisted. “So, in your opinion, where did the investigation into your mother’s death go wrong?”