Salem Falls Part 48

100.

12, 12.

8,11.

200.

12, 12.

11,11.

Shirt 12, 12.

11,11.

Nails 12, 12.

11, (8).

Thigh N/A.

8, (11).

Item TH01.

VWA.

100.

6, 7.

17, 17.

200.

6, 7.

15, 15.

Shirt 6,7.

15, 15.

Nails 6,7.

17, (15).

Thigh 6, (7).

17, (15).

Item D16 S539.

D7 S820.

100.

12, 14.

9, 12.

200.

13, 13.

8, 8.

Shirt 13, 13.

8, 8.

Nails 12, 14, (13).

9, 12, (8).

Thigh N/A.

12, (8), (9).

Item D13 S317.

D5 S818.

100.

9, 13.

12, 12.

200.

11, 11.

10, 12.

Shirt 11, 11.

10, 12.

Nails 9, 13, (11).

12, (10).

Thigh 13, (9), (11).

12, (10).

"Line two hundred is the defendant's known blood sample. Each pair of numbers at those eight loci are alleles he he inherited from inherited from his his mother and father." She pointed to the row beneath that. "On the shirt Mr. Houlihan held up, I extracted DNA from the bloodstains. You'll see that at each location, the profile of the stains matches the profile of Mr. St. Bride." mother and father." She pointed to the row beneath that. "On the shirt Mr. Houlihan held up, I extracted DNA from the bloodstains. You'll see that at each location, the profile of the stains matches the profile of Mr. St. Bride."

"How many other people might have a profile that matches the evidence?"

"It's not possible to DNA-type everyone in the world, so I apply a mathematical formula that helps me predict the answer to that question. According to my calculations, that profile is found only once in greater than six billion, which is the approximate population of the world."

"Can you explain the next row to us?" Matt asked.

"I know that the DNA profile detected under Ms. Duncan's fingernails is consistent with a mixture, because at certain locations, there are three numbers-and a person inherits only two alleles. This isn't surprising. Ms. Duncan can't be eliminated as a possible cocontributor to the genetic material in this mixture, since I expect cells from her own hands were present. Of particular interest is whose DNA is mixed with hers. And based on the numbers in the profile of Mr. St. Bride-row two hundred-he cannot be eliminated as a cocontributor."

"What would have eliminated him, Ms. Martine?"

"If a number came up at a location that was nowhere in his own genetic profile."

"But that isn't the case in this particular mixture?"

"No," Frankie said. "It's two hundred forty million times more likely that the defendant is the cocontributor to that sample than a randomly chosen individual in the population."

"And the thigh line?"

She frowned. "That was a sample of s.e.m.e.n, found on the thigh swab. Here, two locations I tested yielded inconclusive results."

"What does that mean?"

"There wasn't enough DNA present to profile all eight loci," Frankie said. "In the remaining six, Mr. St. Bride could not be eliminated. It is seven hundred forty thousand times more likely that Mr. St. Bride is a cocontributor to the s.e.m.e.n sample than another person chosen randomly from the population."

"Thank you, Ms. Martine," the prosecutor said.

And the jury foreman winked.

First, the cat died.

Now, it wasn't such a big thing, taken by itself. Magnolia had been suffering with diabetes for three years, and twelve was pretty old for a cat. It had happened, her mother said, while Chelsea was at court, testifying on behalf of poor Gillian.

That afternoon, her little brother had fallen off a jungle gym and broken his arm in three places.

"When it rains," her father said, "it pours."

But they didn't know about the Law of Three; they didn't understand that all it took was one pebble to start an avalanche of dynamic proportion. What you did came back to you triplefold-both the good ... and the bad. Chelsea wasn't sure how much of that s.h.i.t she believed, but she did know some things: She'd sworn an oath in a court of law and had gotten on the stand, and this was what had come of it. Her pet, her brother-by karmic proportions, she had one more devastation coming her way, to make up for what she'd done.

At dinner that night, she stared at her parents intently. Her mother had a mammogram scheduled the next day. Would it turn out to be cancer? Her father was planning on driving back to work that night ... would he crash unexpectedly? Would she stop breathing, just like that, in her sleep? Would she wake up and find the Devil sitting beside her?

"Chelsea," her mother said, "you haven't touched your food."

She couldn't stand not knowing what tragedy was coming. Pushing away from the table, she ran upstairs and locked her bedroom door behind her and rummaged through her drawers, finally finding what she'd so carefully buried.

Could you wipe out your misdeeds with good intentions, like an abacus working in reverse? Chelsea didn't know. But she tied the small bundle tight, with three knots. She stuffed it into a padded envelope that had come from an online CD store. She scrawled a new address across the front, added stamps, and ran out of her house with her parents' concerned questions trailing her like the string of a kite.

She ran until she reached the end of the block, where the big blue mailbox sat. Collection times, it said, were at 10 A.M. A.M. and 2 and 2 P.M. P.M. With shaking hands, Chelsea dropped the packet into the moaning mouth of the box. She did not think of Gillian. She did not think of anything that might change her mind. Instead, she focused on climbing the slippery slope of hope, which promised her that by noon tomorrow, her life might turn itself around. With shaking hands, Chelsea dropped the packet into the moaning mouth of the box. She did not think of Gillian. She did not think of anything that might change her mind. Instead, she focused on climbing the slippery slope of hope, which promised her that by noon tomorrow, her life might turn itself around.

"You a.n.a.lyzed the pubic hair combings in the rape kit, didn't you, Ms. Martine?" Jordan said, getting up from his seat.

"Yes."