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“What about DNA?” Morgan asked, unable to tear her gaze off the photos. “My mother’s purse was rifled. My father fought with the killer, so he had to have prints on his clothes.”
“None clear enough to lift. And nothing that matched our database. Believe me, I’ve already called my old precinct and told them to rerun your parents’ personal belongings for new DNA evidence. They’re tearing through red tape to get what they need.”
“Red tape.” Morgan’s tone was bitter. “Manhattan and Brooklyn will still be embroiled in a turf war and you’ll have solved the case.”
“That’s the plan. Let them fight it out. It’ll keep them busy and off my back.”
“You don’t think the DNA testing will show us much.”
Monty shrugged. “I wouldn’t rule anything out, but DNA testing wasn’t nearly as sophisticated in the eighties as it is now. Not to mention, the turnaround time sucked. So did the number of facilities capable of doing it. Talk about a hassle—the evidence had to be driven up to a lab in Massachusetts, and it took two weeks to get our answers. Now everything’s different.”
“So…”
“So it all depends on what we have to work with.”
The vagueness of his response wasn’t lost on Morgan. “In other words, we’d have to exhume the bodies to find anything concrete. Even then, we’re grasping at straws. My mother probably never touched him. And my father might have punched him out, but that doesn’t mean we’d find skin cells or hair, especially not after seventeen years.”
“You’ve been watching forensics shows on TV.” Monty tried for some dry humor.
“Just reading up on a subject that’s integral to my life.”
“Well, you’re right. So, no, I don’t think our answers are as likely to lie there as with the file and the photo negatives. Mostly with the negatives, and Lane’s expert analysis.” Monty watched her studying the photos. “And with you.”
Morgan extended her hand, palm up. “In that case, let me see the rest of the photos.”
“No.”
The adamancy of Monty’s refusal startled Morgan, and her head came up.
The look on his face left no room for argument.
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no need for it. It wouldn’t add anything to the investigation. You’d been escorted from the room when crime scene took the photos. There’s nothing positive that can come out of your looking at them now.”
“Tell me what you’re not letting me see.”
“Not necessary.”
“It is to me.”
Monty’s stare was piercing—and uncompromising. “There’s not a single thing in these photos that’s as gruesome as what you saw when you walked into that basement. You have my word on that. But you’ve done your homework; you know how crime-scene photos work. After the initial shots, the bodies are shifted around so different angles can be photographed.”
“And? Was my father brutalized during the fistfight? Was something more done to my mother than I know?”
“No and no.” Monty blew out a breath, ran a hand over his face. “Look, Morgan, what goes on during the crime-scene procedure appears very dehumanizing, especially to someone who loved the victims as much as you loved your parents. It’s no secret that we’re all dust in the wind. But there’s no need to shove that in our faces. Remember your parents as they were—caring, vital human beings.”
“As opposed to objects, bodies without souls.” Morgan lowered her gaze, staring at the carpet as she tried to cope with the indescribable pain lancing through her. “You made your point. In which case, I’m not sure how much more help I can be. I described everything as I saw it. After that, I fuzzed out. You probably remember more of what came next than I do.”
“What about before?”
“Before?”
“Before the party preparations. Before that night. Any memories come to mind? Think about it.” Monty rose, went into the kitchen, and returned with a bottle of springwater. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” Morgan took the bottle with a tight smile. “Are you sure you’re not a therapist? Mine asks the same kind of questions. He even gets me water when he wants me to have quiet time to think.”
“Did it work—not with your therapist, with me?”
