Page 15 of The Devil's Advocate

Lead Analyst, Department of Forensic Biology.

Fingernail clippings taken from the victim’s right hand were supplied by Sunville County Sheriff Colt Lomax. He confirmed there was dirt and what appeared to be blood present under the fingernails. I examined the fingernail clippings provided in a sealed evidence bag marked CL12, and found the following:

Blood, skin, general detritus, powder residue.

The powder residue tested as particles of Anticholinergic (four parts), Sertraline (one part), Morphine Sulphate (four parts), Phenothiazine (most likely prochlorperazine) (one part).

Sheriff Colt Lomax also provided a DNA swab taken from suspect Andy Dubois, labeled CL28.

DNA Isolation was carried out on all samples. Genetic characteristics were determined by following PCR single locus technology analysis. Twenty-one PCR characteristic maker comparisons were carried out with both samples, along with a control test, separately isolated. The biostatistical analysis confirmed the markers of DNA from CL12 matched the DNA from CL28 to a probability of 99.9999 percent.

The powder residue didn’t cause me much concern – the victim was studying chemistry so I guessed she had contact with all kinds of stuff. The DNA was a killer. There is no such thing as a perfect DNA match. The report said that the DNA of the blood under Skylar’s fingernails matched Andy’s, as far as science was able to analyze them. Andy had a corresponding finger scratch on his shoulder. Deep enough to draw blood. It looked like Skylar scratched her attacker, and that attacker was Andy.

Andy had given Sheriff Lomax a full and detailed confession on the sixteenth of May. A day after Skylar’s body had been found. I couldn’t read most of it. What I read didn’t sound like it was written by a young man. It sounded like law enforcement. Probably the cop wrote the damn thing and got Andy to sign it.

But that wasn’t the only confession. His cellmate would testify that Andy confessed to killing Skylar because she wouldn’t sleep with him. I felt sickened, but also strangely hopeful.

There were not one, but two shaky confessions in this case. One written by a cop within hours of Andy’s arrest, the other supposedly came a week later and had been given by a jailhouse snitch. Why did they need two confessions?

I needed to talk to Andy. Get a sense of him. I needed to see him, face to face. I had to be sure he was innocent. I would know when I talked to him.

One thing was now beyond any doubt – if I decided I was going to defend Andy, this would be toughest case of my life.

CHAPTER SIX

EDDIE

We arrived at Mobile airport around eight, picked up our bags and I charged a rental car on the office credit card.

The rental company dropped Harry and I at the end of a huge parking lot next to a Prius that had seen better days. Stepping out of the golf buggy, Harry gazed at the Prius like it was a child of his who had just dropped out of Harvard to take up basket weaving.

‘I thought we were hiring a car,’ he said.

‘This is a car,’ I said.

‘No, it’s not. This is a battery on wheels, with a toy car engine. It’s got no soul.’

‘Neither do you. Let’s just put our bags in the trunk and get to Buckstown. I’ll drive.’

‘No,I’lldrive. It’ll give me an excuse to complain about the car and give you an excuse to complain about my driving. Then we’ll both be happy.’

The satellite navigation in the car seemed to operate on astrology and hope more than GPS, but by the time we found the freeway, it was a short enough hop into Sunville County. Harry kept putting his foot down and complaining about the car being broken.

‘It’s not broken, it’s a hybrid.’

‘A hybrid with what? A mule? I’m telling you this thing is busted.’

The exit sign for Buckstown sported three bullet holes, rusted around the edges. All of them in the ‘O’ in Buckstown. We came onto a two-lane stretch of blacktop surrounded by trees on either side. They soon gave way to open fields with low mist covering them. Then the mist moved. Gently undulating, as if there were a thousand ghosts rolling in the soil.

It wasn’t mist. It was something I’d never seen before.

‘Cotton fields,’ said Harry. ‘They look strange in the moonlight, don’t they?’

‘Spooky,’ I said.

‘My great-grandfather picked Alabama cotton. Back-breaking work. Except it wasn’t really work. He didn’t get paid.’

His voice grew softer, deeper, as he said, ‘Too much blood has been spilled on this land. This place feels … poisoned, somehow. My father preached all over Alabama. We were here for five years. Can’t say I ever missed the place.’