No Way Out - David Kessler

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      ‘I was at the front of the plane,’ said Alex, reciprocating the smile. ‘First one off.’

      ‘How are you doing, old buddy?’ asked Claymore, rejecting Alex’s outstretched hand in favor of a warm, brotherly embrace.

      Alex returned the greeting and then followed as Claymore led the way.

      ‘What’s happening with the show?’ asked Alex as they walked towards one of the exits.

      ‘The network renewed the syndication deal.’

      Elias Claymore was the next big thing in talk show hosts, after his California-based show had gone national last year. He was tipped by some to become the next Montel Williams. But others criticized this appellation in view of Claymore’s less than honorable past.

      ‘How’s the love life?’ Typical Elias, filling the silence with his cheeky humor.

      ‘You know I’m married to my work,’ said Alex with a twinkle in his eye. ‘That’s why I haven’t even got time to watch your show.’

      ‘Oh really? That’s not what I heard.’

      ‘What did you hear?’

      ‘Oh, a little bird told me something about you being in a relationship with a certain TV reporter.’

      ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear on the little bird grapevine.’

      ‘Then how come we’re meeting for breakfast not lunch?’

      ‘I thought you were shooting the show after lunch.’

      ‘You could come and watch that too.’

      ‘I’ll have to take a rain check. I’m seeing a…’ Alex’s smile was that of the proverbial angel caught out.

      Elias smiled back, ‘So the little bird was right after all.’

      ‘It’s early days yet. Anyway, these long-distance relationships don’t usually work out. She’s down here in SoCal and I’m up by the Bay.’

      ‘And you ain’t over Melody yet.’

      Alex remained silent. They had been friends ever since Alex had represented Claymore, negotiating a plea bargain over 20 years ago. And they had learned to trust and respect one another. But they had also learned to read one another.

      ‘Wait a minute,’ said Alex. ‘This isn’t the way to the parking lot.’ Alex was quite familiar with LAX and he had noticed that they were heading towards the curbside on the lower level.

      ‘No parking lot today, bro. We’re going by taxi.’

      ‘Taxi? Isn’t that carrying this incognito business a bit too far?’

      ‘My car was stolen.’

      ‘Stolen? When? How?’

      ‘Two days ago.’

      ‘Doesn’t your insurance provide a rental one in the meantime?’

      ‘They do when I have time to get onto them. So far I haven’t even had time to report it to the cops.’

      ‘When you say stolen, you mean like carjacked? At gunpoint?’

      ‘Heck no! If they’d given me half a chance I’d’ve nailed the bastards. I got out to buy a paper.’

      ‘I thought your Merc had digital ignition control? Isn’t that supposed to be hotwire-proof?’

      ‘Not if you leave the keys inside.’

      Alex looked at him, wide eyed. ‘You’re kidding!’

      Claymore held up his hands sheepishly. ‘I plead guilty to stupidity, Your Honor.’

      They both laughed and carried on their friendly banter oblivious to the storm that was brewing in the background.

       Friday, 5 June 2009 – 10.15

      The room was a cold, clinical white. It was supposed to be relaxing as well as hygienic but stepping into it felt like entering something out of science fiction.

      ‘Okay, now just hold still,’ said Doctor Weiner, holding the third swab between Bethel’s legs.

      Bethel held still and forced herself not to think about what was happening or what had happened. But the harder she fought to avoid it, the more painful the memories that flooded back.

      ‘I don’t understand,’ said Bethel, fighting back the tears. ‘How many swabs do you need?’

      ‘We try to take several,’ said Bridget, the twenty-something-year-old detective who was standing a few feet away.

      ‘But why?’

      Bridget could hear in Bethel’s voice the inner strength that the girl was trying to draw on.

      ‘Because sometimes the whole sample gets used up in the test and we may need to do back-up tests or give a sample to the defense in case they want to run their own independent tests.’

      Bethel Newton had already been photographed from all angles, examined by a female doctor and had vaginal swabs and nail clippings taken. They had intended to take combings from her pubic hair, but she was shaven. They had also taken buccal swabs to use as reference samples. Bethel’s body was now – in police investigative terminology – a crime scene. And the vaginal swabs and nail clippings constituted crime scene samples.

      ‘I don’t see what good this’ll do,’ said Bethel.

      ‘We can distinguish between different contributors. That’s what your reference sample is for. In fact, we now have powerful techniques for isolating DNA from sperm.’

      ‘But he used a condom.’ She remembered how deftly he had held her down with the weight of his body while putting it on, before he penetrated her. It was like he knew exactly what he was doing – like he had done it before. Some men are experts with bra straps. This man was an expert at rape – and an expert at minimizing the trail of evidence that he left behind.

      ‘We don’t expect to find any identifiable sperm in the vaginal swab,’ explained Bridget. ‘But we have to check anyway.’

      Bethel shuddered, but kept her mouth shut. She hadn’t expected it to be like this.

      ‘You scratched him too, don’t forget,’ Bridget added. ‘That could give us a skin sample or even a blood sample and that in turn will give us his DNA. Also we might find traces of the condom itself. He might have thrown it away nearby.’

      ‘So what?’ said Bethel, bitterly. ‘How does that help you catch him in the first place?’

      Bridget took a deep breath and spoke gently. ‘Okay, well let’s say we find an empty condom packet by the road near where it happened, if it has fingerprints on it, and if he has a criminal record, we’ll be able to identify him and issue a warrant. And let’s say we find some exchangeable traces from the condom in the swabs we took from you – that means substances like lubricants and spermicides and anti-stick powders – we can compare them for chemical similarities to any condoms we find in the suspect’s possession or for that matter any chemical traces in any condom that he discarded nearby. Or if he discarded the whole packet, we can analyze the exchangeable traces in them and compare them to your evidence sample.’

      ‘So what’ll that prove?’ Bethel spat out contemptuously. ‘That he has the same type of condoms?’

      Bridget put a comforting hand on Bethel’s shoulder. ‘Evidence is like a jigsaw puzzle, Bethel. If we can put enough pieces together we can nail him. And if we can match his DNA to the DNA from any other crimes then before you know it he’s going down on multiple counts of rape. And you’d be the one who can claim the credit for stopping him.’

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