Her pulse kicked. “Yes?”
“We managed to obtain two nuclear DNA profiles from the two different semen samples—the old lab samples had been well enough packaged and preserved. We also obtained a profile from the blood evidence on the teddy bear and the dress. The blood DNA is a unique match to the sample you provided here at the lab. You were in that cradle, Angie.”
She swallowed as she steered into a hairpin curve. Her tires slicked slightly on black ice. She corrected, slowed. “Is it possible the blood could also be my twin’s?”
“Yes. Possible. More complex testing could determine that, if necessary.”
“And the hair evidence?”
“Insufficient DNA for routine STR typing, but we did obtain mitochondrial DNA profiles for both the long dark-brown hair and the short ash-blonde hair. The ’86 lab reports indicate that the hairs were examined by microscope at the time, but since the nineties, mtDNA analysis has been made possible on hair samples that were historically unsatisfactory for STR profiling. However,” he cautioned, “mitochondrial DNA is not a unique identifier in the way that nuclear DNA is—it’s maternally inherited. All a woman’s offspring, her siblings, her mother, and other maternal relatives will have the same mtDNA profile. It can, however, rule out a maternal connection if there is no mitochondrial match.”
Angie hesitated. “Does . . . my profile show a mtDNA match to the dark hair?”
“It does.”
Her stomach tightened. So did her hands on the wheel. “So the long dark hair could have been my mother’s?”
“It’s not ruled out.”
Emotion burned in her eyes and nose, her feelings so close to the surface. She was not used to this. Clearing her throat, corralling her self-control, she said, “What about the ballistics report?”
“The two bullets retrieved at the scene were a .45 caliber. Rifling shows both were fired from the same gun. We ran the results through our own growing database, but no hits.”
“Can you forward the DNA profiles and ballistics report to the personal email address I provided you?”
“Hitting SEND as we speak, files attached.”
“Thank you, Jacob.” She wavered slightly before asking the next question. “That underwater study you’ve got on the monitor in your office—do you have any info on how far a disarticulated and buoyed foot could float in the Salish Sea?”
“That foot could have come from anywhere, Angie,” he said softly. Kindly, she realized. “Those currents in the Strait of Georgia are highly variable and fed from rivers all over the place, from Alaska down to Washington, with a maze of islands and inlets in between. It could theoretically even have drifted across the Pacific from the Far East.” He paused. “Okay, looks like the email has gone through—should all be in your inbox.”
“Thanks again.” She killed the call, saw a pullout ahead, and slowed. Drawing off the highway, Angie came to a stop. She checked her email via her phone as the raw wind buffeted her Nissan. As soon as she saw that Anders’s emails had come through, she forwarded them to Stacey Warrington’s addy at the MVPD station. She then called Warrington’s work number and left a message.
“Stace, it’s Sunday—I know you’re not there—but I’ve forwarded some DNA profiles and ballistics imaging to your email. Any chance . . .” It struck her right then and there, like that ice-wind hitting her Nissan . . .
I’ve been terminated. I’m not a cop anymore. I’m not working an MVPD case. My badge and clearance is invalid. Stacey can’t do this for me.
“That you could run them through the system for me? If there is . . . any problem, please, let me know. I . . . I’ll owe you, Stace.”
She hung up, blew out a chestful of air. New game. New rules. This was going to be her new life. How she would fill it afterward, she didn’t know. All she could do now was go forward one step at a time. She reached down and re-engaged the gears. Checking her rearview mirror, she pulled back onto the highway. This section of road felt lonely all of a sudden on this chill winter Sunday morning. Nothing but snowy pastures, forest. Not even a cow in sight. As she descended the pass, the snow faded into brown grassland. Cowboy and cattle country. Nerves and adrenaline rustled under her skin as she caught sight of the frontier-style town nestled along a twisting spine of river. Beyond that town lay Kelvin Max Security, gray and sprawling like a scar across the earth.
Angie took the off-ramp.
CHAPTER 46
Angie signed the visitor register form. She handed it back to the correctional service staffer, who then checked her police ID and handed her an official visitor card, which she pinned to her shirt. She’d left her phone in her car. Weapons were not an issue because she was not carrying. Once she’d passed through a metal detector and ION scanner for drugs, a female officer escorted her to the inmate visiting area.
“How long has Semyon Zagorsky been in the general population wing now?” Angie asked her correctional service escort as they passed through a second set of electronic security gates. They shut behind her with a clang. Keys jangled on her escort’s hip as they walked down the corridor, fluorescent lights flickering slightly above them.
“Four years,” the officer said. “He’s a model prisoner. Teaches woodwork and sewing. They make their own uniforms, plus jeans and lingerie for companies that contract with the prison for labor.” She opened another electronic door into the general population visiting area. It was arranged like a cafeteria, with round tables painted a primary blue and bolted to the floor. Round seats were affixed to the tables—some tables with two seats, others with four. A handful of inmates occupied various tables with their visitors. Security personnel watched from behind the mirrored glass of an observation room.
“That’s him over there.” The officer pointed to lone male sitting with his back to the door. He wore a sweatshirt and loose-fitting pants. Broad back. Thick neck. Bald.
Adrenaline crackled through Angie. “Thank you,” she said.
The officer departed, the electronic security door closing behind her.
As Angie approached the lone male, she moved her loose hair so that it hung forward over her shoulder, obscuring her visitor ID card. She stopped behind him.
“Semyon Zagorsky?” she said.
He turned, looked up. Bright-blue eyes met hers. A bolt of recognition slammed through her as shock twitched through Zagorsky like an electrical current.
It’s him. Definitely him. The man who gave me the shoes in the box with the big purple bow. A voice sounded in her head as she looked into his eyes. Deep, sonorous, rising up from her buried past as if the iron door locking her childhood secrets in a subterranean basement had just creaked open. For my Mila, and a matching pair for Roksana.