Now You See Her - Michael Ledwidge [63]
The worst of it was the excessive victim-impact testimony the judge had allowed during the sentencing portion of Harris’s trial. A total of sixteen family members, friends, and classmates gave over three hours’ worth of sobbing, heart-wrenching, emotional testimony as to the damage done by the loss of Foster. No wonder the jury had voted unanimously for the death penalty.
By the afternoon, we’d both pretty much gone over everything. We even got down on the Oriental carpet and arranged Foster’s original 1994 homicide case file, compiled when her body was originally found, beside the 2001 file, begun when the case was reopened.
I stood there, rubbing my eyes. All the photos, evidence lists, time lines, alibis, and lab reports seemed like one giant postmodern art installation. One that was making my brain ache as I tried to make heads or tails of it.
I knew I needed to try everything to come up with a way to clear Harris, but after a while, even I was starting to lose hope. I yawned, fighting exhaustion. We needed something. Anything.
“Look at this girl, would you?” Charlie said, sadly shaking his head as he waved his hand over the list of Jump Killer victims. It felt like I’d just had a shot of espresso when I realized he was pointing at my picture.
“What a beautiful young woman,” he said, suddenly looking at me. “She remind you of anyone?”
I stared back at him, wide-eyed.
He snapped his fingers. “Renée Zellweger,” he said. “A young Renée Zellweger.”
Renée Zellweger? I thought, relieved but suddenly frowning. Renée was OK, but how about a young Gisele Bündchen?
I jumped back as Charlie suddenly threw the rugby ball against the wall, almost knocking down his Harvard diploma.
“I got it!” he said, pacing back and forth. “I could slap myself. How could I be so stupid? Why the hell didn’t I see this before?”
“What? What?” I said, standing.
“The hairs. Where the hell are the hairs?”
“What are you talking about, Charlie?”
Charlie knelt down and pointed to the evidence list from the 1994 file.
“Right here. Look. There were three hairs found on Foster’s body underneath the paracord ligature she was bound with,” he said, pointing at the original file.
“But here,” he said, indicating the 2001 lab report, “there’s no mention of them. They test the semen found on the girl’s panties, but not the hairs. Why not?”
“They forgot?” I offered.
“Maybe,” Charlie said as he lifted his phone. “Or maybe they tested them and then deep-sixed the results when they came up inconclusive. Maybe the cops and DA conveniently left out the lab report when it didn’t match.”
“Who are you calling?” I said.
“The airport,” Charlie said. “We need to be on the first flight up to Boca tomorrow morning to get our hands on those hair samples in the old case file. We need to have them tested. Maybe you should head back to your hotel and get some rest. I know I need some. The cops up in Boca are a real pain in the butt. We’re going to need to kick ass. Speaking of ass-kicking, I want to thank you for kicking mine.”
“Anytime,” I said. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Chapter 78
I HARDLY RECOGNIZED CHARLIE when he picked me up in an airport taxi wearing a crisp blue serge suit.
“You own shoes? Wingtips? I’m in shock,” I said.
“I shaved and even took a shower,” he said as he lifted his bulging briefcase. “But if you tell anyone, I’ll categorically deny it.”
Our plane was on time, and so were we when we arrived at ten sharp at the Boca Raton PD station, about 150 miles to the north. We had an appointment to meet with the detectives who originally arrested Justin Harris, but we had to sit in the department’s lobby for the better part of an hour before Person Crimes Unit Detectives Roberta Cantele and Brian Cogle buzzed us in.
Instead of going back to their office area, we were seated in an interview room by the front door, as if we were suspects.
“What’s this about?” Cogle, a tall