Linda Fairstein - Likely To Die

The British were way ahead of us in their use of DNA and genetic data banking. And although their volume of sexual assault cases was far lower than ours in the States, they had already begun the process of developing the genetic fingerprint from crime scene evidence in every single case of reported rape that occurred in the Greater London area. The lecture had some fascinating suggestions for future uses of the technology and I busied myself at note taking so I could bring the ideas back to Bill Schaeffer, who had done such great work establishing and running the DNA lab in our medical examiner’s office.

It was almost eleven when Windlethorne announced the midmorning break. I explained to him that I would be absent for the following session because of some business Chapman and I would be conducting locally. He assured me that he quite understood and I went back to the room to pick up my folder of materials on the Dogen case.

When I returned to the reception area, Creavey had just finished introducing Geoffrey Dogen to Mike. I approached and Dogen extended a hand. “You must be Alexandra. Lovely to meet you. Thanks for coming over. Commander Creavey told me you’re Benjamin Cooper’s daughter, aren’t you? I had the pleasure of hearing your father speak, uh-it must have been at the medical conference in Barcelona last year. He’s a remarkable man.”

“I think so, too. Thank you.”

Creavey directed us to one of the adjacent outer buildings, which the staff had prepared for our use. He walked ahead with Dr. Dogen, who was smaller than I had expected, about sixty years old, thin and wiry, with a balding head and ears that were a bit too large in proportion to his other features.

“By the way, while you were in school this morning your boyfriend called.”

“What-?”

“Drew. That’s the guy’s name, isn’t it? Said it was four or five in the morning at home. Just called to say hello-said he couldn’t sleep and hadn’t been able to reach you ‘cause of your travel schedules. Lucky he called when he did-woke me out of a deep sleep.”

“Great. You told him who you were, didn’t you? I mean, that you’re just my fr-I mean, that we’re only sharing, you know-”

“What’d you expect me to tell him? Sorry, I don’t know the Wellesley etiquette. They probably taught you rules for all this kind of crap. Should I have said, ‘Not to worry, I’m a gay cop,’ or ‘Jesus, I wouldn’t nail Alex Cooper on a bet, would you?’ The guy woke me out of a heavy slumber, Blondie. I took a message and told him to call back. Yesterday, he pissed you off and you’re thinking he’s a murderer ‘cause Dogen butchered his wife-now you want his calls. Go figure. Let him think there’s a little competition in the field, like you’re here with the Prince of Wales or Sean Connery or something. No common sense for a smart broad, really.”

Forget about Drew Renaud and everything else in your personal life for the moment, I reminded myself. Get to work.

We entered a miniature duplicate of the boardroom. In it were a rectangular table with six comfortable seats, slide and video projectors with which to display our photographic evidence, and enough water and coffee to keep us afloat for days.

“Perhaps you and Alexandra might begin by telling me what you know at this moment,” Dogen suggested, drawing his chair up to the table and giving us his most earnest look. “Do you know who killed Gemma?”

“I’d rather do it the other way ‘round, Doc, if you don’t mind,” Mike replied. “It would help, I think, if you just talk to us a while about Gemma. Even what might seem to you to be irrelevancies. I don’t want whatwe know or don’t know to direct your thoughts. After you’ve sketched in more of the background for us, I promise we’ll bring you up to where we are in the investigation.”

That ought to be impressive, I thought to myself. Mike could bluff almost anyone about almost anything but this situation seemed beyond even his best bullshit ability. We’re more confused today than we were the first time we had called Geoffrey Dogen last week.

“Understood. I’ll begin, then.”

He pulled his chair close into the table and leaned his elbows on it, supporting his bowed head with his hands as he recalled Gemma’s family background for us. Nothing struck him as unusual about the story. Her parents had moved to Broadstairs from London as hostilities flared across Europe and Gemma was born there in ‘39. Only child, raised by her mother after her father’s death on the battlefield- Dunkirk. I scratched notes on a legal pad, doubting the significance of this part of the conversation but recognizing that Chapman’s interest would be even more engaged simply by virtue of the remote link to World War II.

Geoffrey took us through her schooling and scholarship to University, where she excelled in the biological sciences and won prizes for several experiments that captured the attention of the academic community. He met her a year later, when she entered the medical school at which he was already enrolled.

“Actually, I had seen her at the school. Couldn’t miss her in those days. She was quite a striking figure then,” he smiled, obviously bringing back to mind an image of the young woman with whom he had fallen in love. “But I first met her somewhere else. Tower Bridge.”

I shot a glance at Mike and Creavey’s sharp eyes followed as ours met.

“I was there with a group of Australian students. They were visiting our medical school, and wanted to do the usual tourist things at the weekend. Beefeaters, the Crown Jewels, the Bloody Tower, and Traitors’ Gate. You’ve done all that, have you?”

I nodded while Mike regretted that he hadn’t yet had the opportunity.

“Pity to be so close to London and not have the time to see some of it. Can’t you take the weekend off?”

“Sorry, no. We’ve got to get back directly, after you’ve helped us, Dr. Dogen.”

“Of course. Well, I’d almost finished showing my Aussies the sights but they were determined to climb to the top of Tower Bridge. Three hundred steps at least. Dragged me along with them. Got to the pinnacle and there’s only one person up there with us. I recognized her from the medical college. It was Gemma, standing at the window and staring downriver, oblivious to the rowdy troop of us that piled in behind her.

“I introduced myself, explained the connection to school, and learned that she was called Gemma Holborn.”

Mike was impatient. He didn’t particularly want the love story, if that’s the direction in which Geoffrey was headed. “Why was she there? Any special reason?”

“For her, growing up in the countryside, Tower Bridgewas London. It is for many people. Sort of a symbol of this city. For some it’s Big Ben or Buckingham Palace, but Gemma didn’t care for those because you just look up at them. They didn’t give that curious child an enormous structure that opened its windows onto a faraway world. The bridge did. It’s a newcomer really, compared to the Tower itself, which is almost a thousand years old. But its structure is so identifiable, wouldn’t you say, Commander? Sort of represents old London to lots of people.”

Creavey agreed.

“It was the first place Gemma remembered visiting as a young girl after the war, climbing both of the towers to see how far up- and downstream the river went. Probably believed she could see America ‘til she got old enough to know better. When she had anything to dream about or fancy, she’d take herself up to those rooms, or out on the catwalk, and wish to her heart’s content.”

“D’you ever go back there with her?”

“I had little choice, Mister Chapman. It’s where I proposed to Gemma, two years later. That way, I knew she’d accept,” Geoffrey said, smiling at us, a bit more relaxed as he continued his storytelling. “She’d go there the night before her big exams. Never mind that she’d studied more hours than all the other students combined, she needed the comfort of some moments of solitude in her tower.