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He examines each hair under the scope. Then he sighs.
And I sure don’t like the sound of that sigh.
“I’m afraid there’s no viable root on any of these hairs. I thought we might have one, but under the scope, it’s a no.”
“What now?” I ask.
“Let me look at the panties, though I doubt there will be anything there.”
“Okay.”
He takes the panties, puts his magnifying glasses back on, and examines them.
Minutes tick by.
He’s not leaving any stone unturned, that’s for sure. Either that or he likes touching women’s panties.
Just when I’m sure he’s about to tell me he has nothing—
“Here we go. One pubic hair.” He pulls it out. “Damn. She was a real redhead.”
I dismiss the ick factor. I don’t give a shit what this man says. I just want to know if this pubic hair has DNA attached.
He pulls the hair from the panties with tweezers, removes his glasses again, and turns to the microscope. He examines it for what seems like hours but is only a few seconds.
“Shit,” he says.
“Bad news?”
“No viable hair root. I’m sorry.”
I sigh. “Well, I guess that’s it. All that’s left in there are some roses. Dried-up roses.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Any stems?”
“Yeah. Short stems.”
“Another long shot, but let me see the stems.”
I hand the box to him, and he puts his glasses back on and intricately examines the stems.
“I’ll be damned,” he says.
“What?”
“Right here, by the thorn. A tiny speck of blood.”
A spike of hope shoots through me, until—
“That blood could be the Englishman’s,” Jackson says. “It may not be the girl’s.”
“Pretty much a fifty-fifty shot, though, wouldn’t you say?”
Jackson removes the magnifiers. “True enough. But we still have limitations. The speck of blood is probably over sixty years old.”
“And is that a problem? I mean… I don’t know anything about DNA extraction.”
“It’ll be difficult,” he says. “But we at least have a sample. Will we get anything from it? More likely we won’t, but at least it’s something I can try.”
