“Okay, well, great.” I smiled, no doubt unconvincingly. “I should probably get going. Someone’s saving a seat for me inside.”
Deckler needed to know I was meeting someone, that I would be missed. Even if it wasn’t true. I expected to see Stella, but we’d made no plans to meet.
“By the way, did you get what you needed on that student?” he asked, looking off into the distance like he was—you know—just curious. “Rose, was it?”
Except I hadn’t told Deckler that.
“Yes, I did.” I smiled, backing toward the building and out of Deckler’s reach. “I have all the information I need now.”
“Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help.” His voice was flat and affectless. It made the hairs on my arms stand on end.
“I will, definitely. Bye!”
I spun on a heel and raced for the building without looking back, bracing myself for Deckler to grab me.
When I dove inside unimpeded, my heart was drumming against my rib cage. Steve was at a podium in the center of the gym floor. Next to him were Ben LaForde and Thomas Price, who kept checking his big watch like he had someplace he would much rather be. Anywhere else, probably. It was hard to blame him. It had been savvy PR, though, for the university to host the community meeting—Thomas Price’s idea, I suspected. Instead of distancing itself from the baby’s death, the university was letting itself be drawn further into the fray. Only an institution convinced of its innocence would do such a thing. But after my run-in with Deckler, I thought that confidence seemed woefully misplaced.
The meeting had gotten quite a turnout. People filled the bleachers on both sides. Folding chairs had been set up at each end. Many more were standing.
“I’m Ridgedale Chief of Police Steve Carlson. Thank you all for coming.” It wasn’t until then that I noticed the flyers making their way noisily around the room. “The purpose of this meeting is to update you on the status of our investigation into the death of an approximately newborn female infant found Tuesday morning near the Essex Bridge. There will be an opportunity for questions after a brief announcement. The infant remains unidentified, and we are still awaiting an official cause of death from the medical examiner. We do not believe this death is related to any other death.” That was in response to my story about Simon Barton, but I stood by its newsworthiness—anything that serendipitous was worth investigating, even if all I had was hysterical Harold as proof. “We are proceeding with an innovative program of voluntary DNA testing that we hope will expedite the identification of the baby.”
Well, that was carefully worded—as though the baby would be identified by the DNA samples of good, innocent people. In reality, the only person whose test results would matter would be the guilty party.
“As discussed in the flyers being distributed to you now, the test is painless and quick, takes less than five minutes. Nonmatching DNA samples will be discarded immediately and confidentially. To reiterate, they will not be kept in any kind of database. Details of where and when the DNA collections will take place are on the handout. We hope that you will all consider lending your help.”
There was rustling as people took the sheets, then a long pause as they read, probably having a hard time—like I was—digesting it. Especially galling was the fact that high school and college students were clearly intended to be included in the sweep of all Ridgedale residents age twelve and over. An asterisk provided that minors would be tested only in the presence of and with consent from their parents or guardians. A moment later, a bunch of hands shot up, and so did the amount of noise. People’s faces had darkened, along with the mood.
“You there,” Steve said, pointing at a squat man on the right side of the bleachers in an expensive-looking pumpkin-colored sweater. He was in his late forties, with thinning hair. By the time he stood, the sound had grown to a roar.
“Excuse me! Please,” shouted Thomas Price, an unexpected savior, but probably the only possible one. “We’ll all have to be quiet if anyone is going to hear!” Watching Price, I could see why the university had appointed him its unofficial spokesman: calm, authoritative, appealing. As a bonus, they could always claim he wasn’t an official university spokesman if things went badly. The volume dutifully dropped. “Thank you, everyone. Now, go ahead with your question, sir.”
“There are about a thousand ways a DNA sweep is one of the worst ideas I’ve ever heard.” The squat man looked wide-eyed around the crowd. “No one is going to consent, you know that, right? At least they shouldn’t. Trust me, I’m a lawyer. Don’t do it. At least talk to your own lawyer first. You’d be forfeiting your constitutional rights. Just because they’re saying they won’t keep the samples, there’s nothing to stop them.” He nodded back at Steve. “No offense. I’m not saying you personally. I mean in general.”
Steve glared at the man until he sat back down. Then he stayed quiet, eyes moving slowly over the crowd, letting the silence grow uncomfortable.