Chapters (65)
- Title Page
- Copyright Notice
- Dedication
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty–one
- Twenty–two
- Twenty–three
- Twenty–four
- Twenty–five
- Twenty–six
- Twenty–seven
- Twenty–eight
- Twenty–nine
- Thirty
- Thirty–one
- Thirty–two
- Thirty–three
- Thirty–four
- Thirty–five
- Thirty–six
- Thirty–seven
- Thirty–eight
- Thirty–nine
- Forty
- Forty–one
- Forty–two
- Forty–three
- Forty–four
- Forty–five
- Forty–six
- Forty–seven
- Forty–eight
- Forty–nine
- Fifty
- Fifty–one
- Fifty–two
- Fifty–three
- Fifty–four
- Fifty–five
- Fifty–six
- Fifty–seven
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgments
- Also by Becky Masterman
- About the Author
- Newsletter Sign-up
His look must have changed into one of sheer befuddlement, because she said, more kindly, “I’ll bring you a Bud.”
His meal arrived. While chomping through it, and dipping his fries in extra ketchup, another luxury on the outside (there were so many!), he thought about the conversation in the prison some years before that had started him to worry again.
It was some small-time loser who was doing fifteen on an armed robbery conviction. He talked about how they were doing so much with analyzing folks’ DNA. That it was putting a lot of guys in, sure, but getting some off, too. He was going to appeal his case because there was a bit of evidence that might have someone else’s DNA on it.
“You think this could get you out?” Beaufort had asked.
“Doesn’t hurt to try,” the guy answered.
“Did you do the crime?” Beaufort asked.
The guy shrugged. As far as Beaufort knew, the loser was still doing his time, but late at night when he tried to sleep he kept thinking the words it was putting a lot of guys in, sure.
Then he heard that they had started reinvestigating cold cases with the new DNA techniques. Rapes and homicides that had occurred years ago. Nicole Brown Simpson. JonBenét Ramsey. Especially high-profile cases like that, that had never been solved.
Like the cases no one ever pinned on him.
It got so he was running through every second of those long-ago events every time his mind tried to rest. Where he might have shed a cell. Whether his semen could still ID him. Even apart from that there was now some massive fingerprint database, all computerized, that he heard could find a match within seconds. He couldn’t decide if he should worry more about the DNA or about the fingerprints. It got to be an obsession. He wanted to know if anyone still thought about the case. But he didn’t want to know. But he wanted to know.
There’s some who would say, Hey, give it up, guy. You’re nearly seventy years old, coming to the end anyway. What difference does it make if you go back to prison now? What difference does it make if you spend your final days on death row? You don’t have that many final days left.
Funny thing was, you think about the future more when you’re old than when you’re young.