Red Mist

13

She lets me know happily, confidently, that DNA results from recent retesting of evidence connects Dawn Kincaid to the Jordan murders.

“Swabs and samples taken in the Jordan house, including blood from the handle of a knife, samples that came back as unknown at the time of the murders, are a match,” Jaime explains, as I check my iPhone for messages and deny her the reaction she expects from me.

Gratitude. Relief. What can I do to thank you, Jaime? Anything you want. You just name it.

“Dawn Kincaid was definitely there,” Jaime states, as if there can be no doubt. “She definitely was inside the Jordan house at the time of the murders. She left pubic hair and urine in the toilet. She left skin cells and blood under the fingernails of five-year-old Brenda, who apparently clawed the hell out of her.”

She gives me a moment to feel the weight of what she’s just said, pausing for effect as I think about another matter entirely.

You okay? Where are you?Benton has just text-messaged me. Who or what the hell is Anna Copper LLC?

“I guess I can understand your interest in Kathleen Lawler,” I say to Jaime, as I answer Benton with a question mark.

I don’t know what he means. I’ve never heard of Anna Copper LLC.

“I’m sure Kathleen hopes there’s a deal to be had if she cooperates with you,” I say to Jaime. “Maybe you can finagle a reduced sentence or influence a pardon board.”

“She’s been very cooperative,” Jaime answers. “And yes, she wants her life back. She would do just about anything.”

“Does she know about the DNA? That new test results point at her biological daughter?”

“No.”

“How can you be so sure? I get the feeling the GPFW is keenly interested in everything said and done in there.”

“I’ve been careful.”

“Did Lola Daggette have injuries when the police arrested her shortly after the murders?” I inquire. “Was she checked for injuries? For abrasions, for scratches or bruises? Was she given a forensic physical examination?”

“Not that I know of. But there were no obvious injuries, and that should have been a clue,” Jaime says, and she’s right. “There was no question Brenda struggled with her assailant and scratched this person badly enough to draw blood. So it should have been problematic for the police that Lola had no scratches.”

“If she had no injuries, then it should have been a clue,” I agree. “And if the DNA of this biological evidence recovered from underneath Brenda’s fingernails didn’t match Lola’s DNA, that should have been another clue. A very big clue, and a very big problem.”

“Yes, it should have suggested that Lola didn’t do it.”

“Or that she didn’t do it alone.”

“It’s called people having their minds as closed as a steel vault,” Jaime says. “People around here wanted these murders solved. They needed them solved for their own peace and safety, and to feel order and sanity had been restored to their lovely little city.”

“Unfortunately, that happens. Especially in extremely emotional, high-profile cases.”

“It was Dawn who killed the Jordan family and got clawed and scratched and made a sandwich and used the downstairs toilet,” Jaime summarizes. “And ironically, the reason I know this for a fact is because of what happened to you in Massachusetts. Dawn’s DNA profile was entered into CODIS after her arrest for your attempted murder, and when I had DNA from the Jordan crime scene retested and entered into CODIS, we got a hit. It’s a shock, I realize that. It’s stunning.”

“Maybe not a shock.” I refuse to give Jaime that. “Kathleen Lawler indicated Dawn might have been in Savannah when the Jordan murders were committed. January of 2002, she said to me, when I was talking to her today. Supposedly that was the first time the two of them met. Do you think Kathleen might have any idea what her daughter did?”

“I can’t imagine it. Why would Dawn confess such a thing unless she was hoping to get caught,” Jaime answers. “This is such a tremendous break in more than one case. We know for a fact that Dawn Kincaid was here in Savannah. She had to be. It won’t matter if she continues her lies about what happened at your house on February tenth. If she had any credibility, it’s about to be gone.”

“So I should be doubly motivated to help you make your case,” I say.

“Justice, Kay. On more than one front.”

“When did you get the DNA results?”

“About a month ago.”

“No news about it, as far as my case is concerned, or I’d know,” I comment. “I haven’t heard a word. But that doesn’t mean other people don’t know.”

“Neither Dawn nor her counsel knows her DNA’s been connected to the Jordan case, to multiple homicides committed nine years ago,” Jaime says, with confidence I don’t feel.

“What lab did you use?” I ask.

“Two different independent ones in Atlanta and Fairfield, Ohio.”

“And no one knows,” I say skeptically. “The FBI doesn’t know? I’m assuming the attorney general of Georgia allowed the retesting?”

“Yes.”

“And the AG doesn’t know the results?”

“He and other key people understand the importance of not releasing information until the case has been prepared. And I’m still in the early stages of that.”

“One of the biggest threats to any investigation is leaks,” I remind her of a fact that would have been obvious to her not so long ago.

She is full of herself. Or maybe she’s desperate.

“And it seems to me in this particular case, the threat level would be very high for leaks,” I add. “Extraordinarily high, in fact. There are a lot of people who have a personal interest in the Jordan case, including powerful people in Georgia’s state government who might be embarrassed that a New York lawyer came down here and discovered one of their most notorious murder cases had been mishandled and a teenager was sentenced to death for a crime she didn’t commit.”

“I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck.”

“No, but maybe you’re being idealistic. You’re excited about this case, understandably, but I wouldn’t be much help to you if I didn’t point out that you very likely aren’t flying under the radar or operating under a mantle of secrecy.” Tara Grimm is on my mind, and I wonder if she’s aware of the new test results.

She knows retesting was ordered. Who told her that?

“So you’re willing to help me. I’m delighted to hear it,” Jaime says, but she doesn’t look delighted.

She looks tired and haunted, her eyes getting sleepy and not as bright as I remember them from times past. She seems uncomfortable in her own skin, constantly shifting her position on the couch, tucking her feet under her and placing them back on the floor. Restless and fidgety and drinking too much.

“I’m helping you now by reminding you there may be people who know about the new DNA results and might try to interfere or already be interfering,” I say to her. “The DNA evidence you retested was entered into the FBI Laboratory’s Combined DNA Index System and got a hit in the Arrestee Index, and next Dawn Kincaid’s identification was confirmed. Therefore, you can’t say with certainty that the FBI isn’t aware that Dawn Kincaid, who is of intense interest to them, might be linked to nine-year-old murders in Savannah. If the attorney general knows, it’s possible the governor does, and the governor seems quite invested in having Lola Daggette executed. When I talked to Tara Grimm, it was clear to me that she knew about evidence retesting and that there might be, and I quote, ‘a jailbreak’at the GPFW.”

“They record everything in there,” Jaime replies matter-of-factly, as if she’s not at all concerned about what I just said. “I knew damn well when I sat in that contact visit room in Bravo Pod that every word was being recorded, which is why I resorted to writing notes on my legal pad when it was critical that what I communicated remain confidential. Kathleen is motivated to be careful what she talks about, but I admit Lola is another matter. She’s very limited intellectually and has poor impulse control. She’s given to boasting and flaunting herself, will do almost anything for attention. While she knows we’ve retested evidence, I’ve not told her the results.”

“I’m just wondering if she knows them anyway. It might explain her hostility toward Kathleen, the mother of the person whose crimes Lola has spent the last nine years paying for,” I suggest.

“My bigger worry is this hitting the media before I’m ready,” Jaime says.

“I don’t think that should be your biggest worry. I notice you’ve installed a security camera, an alarm system.” I don’t add that she might be carrying a gun. “Maybe you should be worried about your professional and personal safety,” I add.

“And I imagine you would have a first-rate security system and camera surveillance if you were working down here. Or someone would do it for you,” she adds, and I wonder if she’s referring to Lucy. “As soon as I have more forensic facts and am completely sure of my case, I’ll file a petition to vacate Lola’s capital-murder convictions. I’ll redirect prejudice to the facts. I’ll redirect a lust for revenge to hard science, and hopefully you’re going to help me.”

She pauses as if expecting me to tell her I will, but I don’t offer that assurance.

“There was never any evidence to link Lola to those crimes except for the bloody clothing Dawn Kincaid obviously instructed her to dispose of or to clean or maybe planted in her room to frame her,” Jaime says. “But I need details. I intend to be fully armed when I go forward.”

“How did Lola and Dawn know each other? Or do we know if they did?” I inquire, as Benton text-messages me again.

Where are you? Not answering in your hotel room.

I’m safe,I text-message him back.

Call when you can. (Anna Copper has a tarnished rep.)

I answer him for the third time with a question mark as Jaime says, “Let me interject that I’m not violating privilege. Lola has given me permission to discuss the details with you.”

“Why? Besides the fact she likely would do whatever you said.”

“Your influence would be taken seriously by the courts,” Jaime answers. “What we lack is a recognized and reputable forensic expert who will stick his or her neck out.”

She means Colin Dengate isn’t going to stick his neck out. Or at least that is what she believes.

“It’s not a popular position to take in light of the outrage over these murders,” she adds. “Public sentiment is nothing less than hateful, even after all these years. The beauty in proving Dawn Kincaid murdered the Jordan family is it also helps you,” she makes that point again.

She’s trying to bribe me into doing the right thing, and maybe that’s what is offending me most.

“If Dawn Kincaid slaughtered an entire family in their sleep, she’s certainly capable of committing the crimes in Massachusetts, and no one is going to believe a word she says about you,” Jaime concludes an argument that isn’t necessary or complimentary in what it implies.

“Has Lola mentioned Dawn Kincaid? Has she admitted or insinuated that Dawn is the mysterious accomplice she refers to as Payback?” I ask.

“No.” Jaime cradles her drink and looks at me from the corner of the couch, where she is restless and getting drunker. “She says she doesn’t have any idea. She woke up in her room at the halfway house the morning of January sixth and discovered articles of her own clothing on the floor, clothing that was covered with blood. Terrified she would get in trouble, she tried to wash them.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Lola’s afraid. That I do believe. She is terrified of this person she continues to refer to as Payback.”

“Terrified of a person or a devil or a monster? Maybe something she’s imagined?”

“I think it’s possible Lola met Dawn on the street and got enticed by an opportunity for money or drugs. It’s possible Lola didn’t know the real name of this person who got her mixed up in something that resulted in her being set up and framed.”

“She would have been in the halfway house at the time Dawn came to Savannah and the murders were committed.” I remind her that someone remanded to a halfway house because of drug charges might not be permitted to wander the streets with impunity.

“An uncontrolled halfway house,” Jaime says. “The residents were allowed to come and go with permission. Lola was in and out, supposedly looking for a job, supposedly dropping by a nursing home in Savannah to visit her ailing grandmother. She had plenty of opportunities to meet someone like Dawn, who probably used an alias, or perhaps she offered the nickname Payback,and that may very well be the only name Lola ever knew. Disguising her identity would make the most sense when you think about what Dawn intended to do. But it’s irrelevant. DNA doesn’t lie. DNA doesn’t care about aliases.”

“Have you asked Lola if the name Dawn Kincaid might be familiar? Might be a name she’s repressed out of fear?”

“She wouldn’t admit it — assuming she remembers. But I have asked her if the name Dawn Kincaid means anything, and she says no. I’ve been very careful. I haven’t mentioned the DNA results,” Jaime repeats.

“She’s that afraid of whoever Paybackis. Even after nine years.”

“She says she hears Payback’s voice,” Jaime answers. “She hears Paybackdescribing the terrible things she’ll do if Lola ever crosses her. Now Lola doesn’t have to talk or tell us who Paybackis,” Jaime says, and I can’t help entertaining the possibility that Paybackis made up.

A scary fantasy in the head of an emotionally damaged young woman with an IQ of seventy who is scheduled to be executed on Halloween.

“The DNA is the only voice we need to hear,” Jaime says. “And Dawn Kincaid is safely locked up and will stay locked up.”

“She knows Dawn Kincaid is locked up and will stay locked up? That at some point she’ll be going to trial?” I want to make sure.

“She knows that Dawn has been charged with multiple counts of homicide in Massachusetts,” Jaime confirms. “It’s been in the news, and I’ve mentioned it. It’s not a secret at the GPFW that Kathleen Lawler’s daughter is at Butler and facing trial.”

“I’m sure you’ve talked about Dawn with Kathleen.”

“I’ve interviewed Kathleen, as you know. Of course we’ve talked about her daughter.”

“Dawn’s locked up, and yet Lola is still too afraid to talk.” It doesn’t make sense to me, no matter what Jaime explains.

If Lola’s been on death row for the better part of a decade for crimes she didn’t commit and the real killer, Dawn Kincaid, is locked up in Massachusetts, why is Lola still terrified of her, and why is Kathleen Lawler terrified of Lola? Something is wrong about all of this.

“Fear is a powerful emotion,” Jaime says confidently, beginning to slur her words, “and Lola’s had a very long time to be afraid of this person on the outside, of Dawn, who is alive and well and unimaginably cruel. You’ve seen what she’s capable of. She was only twenty-three years old when she slaughtered the Jordans in their own beds. Because she felt like it. Because it was a blood sport. Because it was fun. And then made herself a sandwich and drank a few beers and set up a troubled and intellectually impaired eighteen-year-old girl to take the blame.”

“You could have just asked me, Jaime,” I say to her. “The rest of it wasn’t necessary. You didn’t need to manipulate me or entice me, and it concerns me that you might think you need to bribe me. I can fight my battles with the FBI or anyone else, and I think after all we’ve been through, you should have known I’d help if you asked.”

“You would have come to Savannah and been my forensic expert in the Lola Daggette case?” She looks at her glass as if considering a refill. “You would have intervened with your redneck colleague Colin Dengate, who’s given me a lot of yes-no answers, and that’s about all? You would have taken him on?”

“Colin’s not a redneck,” I answer. “He just very convicted in his opinions and beliefs.”

“I didn’t know how you’d feel about it,” she replies, and she isn’t referring to my questioning Colin Dengate’s findings.

Jaime’s thinking about being almost family.She’s wondering if what happened between Lucy and her would obviate my being helpful or even civilized.

“Lucy doesn’t seem to know you’re here,” I answer the question Jaime should have asked. “She got somewhat upset when I called her after Kathleen gave me your cell phone number this afternoon. I asked Lucy if she’d told you I was coming to Savannah, if that’s how you knew. She said no. She indicated she’s not talked to you.”

“We haven’t talked in six months.” Jaime stares past me, and her voice is tight and edgy.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened.”

“I told her I never wanted to see her again, and not to contact me for any reason,” she says coldly.

“You don’t have to explain,” I repeat.

“Obviously she hasn’t told you why.”

“She moved to Boston and you were no longer around or mentioned. That seems to be the extent of what she’s explained to anyone,” I reply.

“Well, it’s not anything she did intentionally to cause what should have been damn predictable if she’d given it a second thought.” Jaime gets up, headed back to the kitchen and the bottle. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to hurt me. But that doesn’t alter the fact that she managed to destroy everything I’ve built and seemed to have less insight about the damage she caused than even Greg did.”

Greg is Jaime’s ex-husband.

“At least he understood the demands of my career,” Jaime says from the kitchen as she pours Scotch into her glass. “As a lawyer and a mature and reasonable human being, he knows exactly how things work and that there are certain rules and realities one can’t disregard simply because one assumes they don’t apply. Through it all, Greg was at least discreet, smart, even professional, if one can use the word professionalabout behavior in a relationship or during the dissolution of one.” She returns to the couch and settles back into her corner. “And he was never so reckless as to do something in the name of helping me that would ensure my ruination.”

“You don’t have to tell me what Lucy did. Or what you perceive she did,” I say quietly, carefully, so I don’t show what I really feel.

“Why do you think I know about Farbman’s data cheating?” Jaime meets my eyes, and hers are dark like open wounds, her pupils large. “Just why do you think I might know it as a fact, not simply suspecting it based on statistics that don’t quite ring true?”

I don’t answer her, because I’m already imagining what she’s about to say.

“Lucy somehow hacked into the Real Time Crime Center, into whatever server or mainframe or data warehouse she had to get into.” Jaime’s voice catches. For an instant I see her devastation over a loss she refuses to admit. “While I can appreciate her feelings about Farbman, about all of the complaints she heard ad nauseam behind closed doors in the privacy of our intimate times together, it wasn’t exactly my expectation that she would take it upon herself to hack into the NYPD computer system so she could help me prove a point.”

“And you know without a doubt that she did such a thing.”

“I suppose I should blame myself.” She stares past me again. “The fatal error I made was to succumb to her vigilantism, her complete lack of boundaries, and let’s face it, her sociopathy. I of all people know what the hell she’s like. For God’s sake, you and I both know. What I’ve had to extricate her from, which is how I got tangled up with her to begin with …”

“Tangled up?”

“Because you asked me to help.” She sips her drink. “Poland, and what she did over there. Jesus God. How would you like to have a relationship with someone you can’t know everything about? Someone who’s … Well, I’m not going to say it.”

“Killed people?”

“I know more than I wish I did. I’ve always known more about her than I wish I did.”

I wonder what’s changed Jaime Berger. She didn’t used to be so self-absorbed, so quick to place blame on everyone but herself.

“How often do you think I’ve told her ‘Not another word’? I don’t want to hear it. I’m an officer of the court. How could I be so stupid?” she says awkwardly, as if her tongue’s not working right. “Maybe because of my loathing of Farbman. He wanted to be rid of me for years, but what I didn’t realize is he’s not the only one who felt that way. When Lucy gave me the information and I knew exactly what data Farbman had falsified, I went to the commissioner, who, of course, demanded proof.”

“Which you couldn’t exactly give.”

“I didn’t think he’d ask for it.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Emotions. Being caught up in them and making an irreparable miscalculation. I became the accused. I was the one compromised. Nothing was said directly. It didn’t need to be. All certain people had to do was drop Lucy’s name into the discussion at strategic points. They knew. A forensic computer expert considered somewhat of a rogue, fired by the FBI, by ATF, in her earlier life. Everybody knows what she’s capable of, and I can’t control what you tell Lucy. But I don’t advise …” she starts to say.

“It’s best you don’t advise me about anything to do with her,” I reply.

“I didn’t expect you to agree with—”

“It’s not for me to agree or disagree,” I cut her off, as I get up from the couch and begin collecting dishes. “You had your relationship with Lucy, and mine is different, has always been different, will always be different. If what you’ve told me is what really happened, it was terrible judgment, an outrageously stupid and self-destructive thing for her to do.” I carry dishes into the kitchen. “I should let you get some rest. You look tired.”

“Interesting you would say it that way.” She clumsily sets wine-glasses and the empty bottle by the sink. “ Self-destructive.And here I was thinking that I was the one who got destroyed.”

I turn on hot water and find an almost empty bottle of dishwashing soap under the sink. I look for a sponge, and Jaime says she forgot to buy one as she leans against the stone peninsula, watching me clean up after a meal she did nothing to provide beyond making a phone call and walking a few blocks to the restaurant to make sure she wasn’t in the apartment when I arrived. So Marino could set the stage for her. So she could make a grand entrance. So she could continue to direct what she has scripted.

“Unfortunately, I’m not good at banishing people,” I remark, as I wash dishes with soap and my bare hands. “Maybe when they’re finally dead and I decide it’s a damn good thing because I’ve had enough, and I tell myself it’s damn good they’re gone. But it’s probably not true. I probably don’t mean it. I’m probably quite flawed that way. Maybe you could find a dish towel in this unlived-in rented apartment of yours and help me dry.”

“I need to get those, too.” She reaches for a roll of paper towels instead.

“We’ll just leave them to air-dry in the rack,” I decide.

I stuff empty take-out containers into a trash bag. I cover the pungent mac-and-cheese and tuck it inside the empty refrigerator, and decide that Marino’s right about truffles. I’ve never liked them, either.

“I didn’t know what else to do.” Jaime’s not talking about cleaning up after dinner or her getaway place down here in the Low-country. She’s talking about Lucy. “How do you love a liability?”

“Who are you talking to?”

“You’re her family. It’s not the same. I’m afraid I’m going to have a terrible headache in the morning. I don’t feel so good.”

“Obviously it’s not the same. I love her no matter what, even when it’s not convenient or helpful to my politically correct image.” I return to the couch, grabbing my shoulder bag, so angry I’m afraid of what I might do next. “And who the hell isn’t a liability?”

“It’s like loving an amazing horse that will break your neck someday.”

“And who goaded it?” I walk back into the kitchen. “Who spurred it into acting dangerously?”

“You don’t really think I asked her to do something like that?” She looks at me sleepily.

“Of course not.” I enter Marino’s number into my phone. “I’m sure you didn’t ask her to hack into NYPD’s computer any more than you asked me to come to Savannah.”