Linda cared about one single thing. We’ve got her DNA.
“I hate leaving you with all these dirty dishes,” Susannah said. “Let me help you clean up. Please.”
“Next time,” Linda promised, holding a firm open palm against Susannah’s chest. She ushered the couple out into the hall. “See you Sunday.”
The door closed behind her, and she crumbled against it exhausted. Linda exhaled, imagining a balloon deflating. “We’ve got her.”
“Roger that,” Malachi’s deep voice crackled in her earpiece.
50
MONDAY, JULY 14, 2003 ST. CHARLES, MISSOURI RUTH PERKINS’S HOME
Emma arrived promptly at noon for lunch with her mother. At least we’re speaking again, Emma thought with a sigh of relief. She parked and immediately saw that the drapes were still drawn. Her mother always liked lots of light coming into her house. She rang the bell and waited. Minutes passed, and her mother didn’t appear. Emma noticed her hands quivering.
She had a key, but hardly ever used it. She dug deep into her purse to retrieve it. The door unlocked with a loud click, and Emma stepped inside.
“Mom? It’s Emma. Did you forget we’re going to lunch? Mom!” Her words reverberated inside the house. Emma walked toward the back of the house to Ruth’s bedroom. She caught a glimpse of her mother’s makeup on the bathroom counter. She surmised her mother was in the process of getting ready and simply didn’t hear her.
“Mom! It’s Emma. Where are you?”
Emma moved into the bedroom, her level of anxiety increasing. The bed was made, Ruth’s clothes laid out. Then she viewed feet sticking out along the other side of the bed and rushed to her mother’s side.
Crumbled on the floor and still in her bathrobe, Ruth stared blankly at her daughter.
“My God, what happened to you?” Emma knelt beside her mom, but only incoherent words came from Ruth’s mouth.
“Jesus!” Emma grabbed the phone off the nightstand, calling 911. “It’s my elderly mother. She’s fallen or something. I don’t know what’s happened! She needs help. Please hurry!”
The dispatcher calmly verified Ruth’s address and stayed on the line with Emma.
“They’re on the way, ma’am. I need you to listen to me.”
Emma sputtered. “Uh—of course! She’s my mother! Should I move her?”
“No, no. I need you to take her pulse. Do you have a watch with a second hand?”
“Y-yes,” she stammered.
“Put your middle and index fingers on the inside of her wrist, below her thumb. You should feel her pulse.”
Emma cradled the receiver under her chin. “Yes, I feel it.”
“Count your mother’s pulse for sixty seconds,” the dispatcher instructed. “A normal pulse should be from sixty to a hundred beats per minute.”
The beats seemed very fast. Emma had difficulty keeping up. At the end of a minute, she told the dispatcher, “Very fast—two forty.”
“I’ll alert the paramedics. Is the door locked or can the EMTs walk right in?” the dispatcher inquired.
Emma felt as though her next breath was out of reach. “The door’s unlocked. They can come on in.”
“What are her symptoms?”
Emma looked closely at her mother and exhaled loudly into the phone. “She was talking gibberish, and there’s liquid coming out of her mouth. The left side of her face is drooping.”
“When the EMTs get there, you need to get all of her medications and bring them to the hospital. Can you do that?”
She kept tripping over her words. “S-Sure, I can do that.” Emma scribbled that note on a piece of paper on her mother’s nightstand. She held Ruth’s hand. “I’m here, Mom. It’s me, Emma.”
The sound of wailing sirens in the driveway announced the arrival of the EMTs. Emma stepped aside as her mother was moved to a stretcher. When they asked Emma what had happened, she explained her mother’s speech was garbled and her face drooping. Oxygen and an IV were started.
Jim was the senior EMT, a middle-aged man with a mustache. He questioned Emma about her mother’s medications and medical history.
Emma was relieved that she knew the answers but had plenty of questions for them. “Mom turned eighty in March; and other than the usual signs of getting older, she’s healthy as a horse. Walks every day, plays bridge at the senior center twice a week, and loves to work in her garden. What’s happened to her?”
“Our preliminary observation is that your mother suffered a stroke. We’re taking her to St. Joe’s.”
The day had started like any other ordinary Monday, but this sultry summer afternoon had turned into anything but unremarkable. “Can I come along in the ambulance?”
“No,” Jim said, politely, but firmly. “Your mother’s vitals have to be monitored, and a lot could change in route. Meet us at the hospital. Bring all of her medications.”
The three paramedics brought the stretcher up as a pale and confused Ruth stared at the emergency equipment and people she didn’t recognize. Emma watched them load her mother into the ambulance, departing with emergency lights flashing and sirens blaring.
Emma stood motionless in the driveway, oblivious to the neighbors gawking and whispering among themselves as the ambulance pulled away.
51
SATURDAY, JULY 19, 2003 ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI LINDA’S CONDOMINIUM
Linda turned the key in the lock and slowly opened the door. Malachi had left a message earlier that he would meet at her condo. He’d let himself in and was waiting in the living room.
She dropped her purse on the floor. “Hi. This must be important for you to want to meet in person.”
He removed wrap-around sunglasses, and she noticed his eyes were dull, not lively as they normally were. He also carried a large courier’s pouch. “I’ve got news, both good and bad.” He set the glasses and baseball cap on the coffee table and opened the pouch.
Linda shrugged out of her coat, tossing it over the back of a chair. Her mind immediately focused on the word “bad.”
“Can I get you something to drink?”
Malachi placed sheets of numbers and photos into neat stacks on the table. “I’m good. I’ll dive right into the serious stuff.” The muscles tensed into a frown on his face.
Linda crossed the room and seated herself next to Malachi on the cream sofa. “What’s happened?”
Malachi rubbed his bearded chin, brown eyes intense. “Susannah’s DNA was apparently contaminated in the lab. It matched another individual whose DNA was being tested at the same time.” He exhaled in irritation. “The crime lab has a huge backlog, and not to make excuses, but that may have contributed to sloppy procedures. We’re going to need to get her DNA again.”
Linda slumped against the cushions, not believing what Malachi was telling her. “Get her DNA again? That makes me very uncomfortable.”
He sat forward. “I am truly sorry about this. Use the excuse that you’ve decided you want to choose your window after all. Meet in a public place, preferably a restaurant. We’ll cause a distraction to obtain her DNA.”