Page 58 of Fatal Fame
Hugh nodded slowly, conceding the point with the reluctant acknowledgment of someone who'd made similar arguments decades earlier. "I understand your logic. Your father won't, but I understand it. Now, what have you uncovered? Anything interesting?"
"A few things," Mia said, feeling the conversation shift toward safer ground. "I was actually hoping you could help me understand chain of custody procedures. How evidence is handled from collection to trial."
Hugh set down his coffee cup and adopted the instructional tone he'd used when Mia was younger and asking questions about police work. "Before any evidence can be admitted at trial, it has to be authenticated. The prosecution needs to establish that the evidence is exactly what they claim it to be. If they're presenting a bag of drugs or a weapon seized from a suspect, they need to prove its authenticity through proper documentation."
"And chain of custody is part of that authentication process?"
"Exactly. Chain of custody means accounting for every person who handled the evidence between seizure and trial. The purpose is establishing that this is the same piece of evidence, in substantially the same condition, rather than a different item that was confused with the original or the same evidence in an altered or contaminated state." Hugh paused to take a sip of coffee. "The legal standard varies by jurisdiction, but generally, we need reasonable assurance that the evidence is authentic and hasn't been tampered with."
Mia leaned forward, her investigative instincts engaging. "When an investigator finds physical evidence at a crime scene that needs testing, what's the proper protocol to ensure it's handled correctly?"
"The collecting officer places the evidence in a sealed container and attaches a chain of custody form," Hughexplained. "That form includes the officer's name, date and time of collection, and a description of why the evidence was collected—for example, 'shoe found at crime scene.' As the evidence moves through the system, each person who handles it signs the form with their name and the date and time they received it. Each link in the chain is documented so we can track the evidence from collection to trial."
"What about gaps in the chain of custody?"
"Minor gaps aren't necessarily fatal to admissibility. In the absence of specific evidence of tampering, chain of custody issues become something for the jury to consider when weighing the evidence. A defense attorney might argue that improper storage or handling calls the evidence's reliability into question, but it wouldn't automatically exclude the evidence from trial."
Mia felt pieces of a puzzle beginning to click into place. "In the Hale case, why wouldn't they process all the DNA evidence? I mean, they analyze one sample but not another?"
Hugh frowned. "What do you mean?"
"DNA was found under Jacob Hale's fingernails and was tested, but no match was found in any database or CODIS. Yet a source of mine has indicated that DNA from a latex glove found in the Hale house was never tested. Why not? Surely they would have processed both samples simultaneously—either to match the DNA under Jacob's fingernails with the glove or to determine if there was a second perpetrator, one who wore gloves and another who didn't." Mia's voice gained intensity as she developed her theory. "Testing DNA ten years ago is one thing, but testing it today opens new possibilities. Running it through current databases could yield new hits. The person responsible might be sitting in jail now, or they might have been swabbed for another crime, or they might have uploaded their DNA to a genealogy database. Genetic genealogy is solving cold cases every month."
Hugh was taken aback by the thoroughness of her analysis. "Hold on," he said, cutting her off. "Who is this source of yours, Mia?"
Mia realized she'd revealed more than intended. "It's not my source directly. A friend of mine has a contact on the inside."
Hugh's frown deepened. "Who?"
Mia shrugged, trying to appear casual. "I was never told the specific identity. Look, it doesn't matter who provided the information. What matters is that I think the answers to the Hale murders might be sitting in the evidence locker, and it appears the original investigation didn't do its job properly. No wonder no one has been caught in ten years."
Hugh sat back in his chair, and a smile slowly spread across his weathered face. "You know, Mia, you're going to make one hell of a cop someday, whether it's here or elsewhere. I'm proud of you."
Mia felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the morning sun. "I appreciate that, Grandfather. So what do you think about the DNA evidence?"
Hugh chuckled, a sound that carried genuine affection. "You're like a dog with a bone, just like your father. Look, the Sheriff's Office handles hundreds of cases—some active, some cold. Resource allocation comes down to time, manpower, and budget constraints. The public thinks we should have teams dedicated to every case around the clock until it's solved, but that's not realistic. We do the best we can with what we have."
Mia stared back at him with the intensity of someone who wouldn't be deflected by bureaucratic explanations. "You were sheriff when the Hales were murdered. Do you know who handled that evidence and was responsible for ensuring it got tested? Would their name be on the chain of custody documents?"
Hugh nodded slowly. "If you think something was overlooked, I believe you. You could speak with Deputy Thorne or Detective McKenzie—they both work there now. They could look into it for you. I'm gathering that one of them is your source?"
"I'm not at liberty to say," Mia said, employing the kind of protective discretion that Hugh had taught her through example.
Hugh smiled with obvious pride. "Spoken like a true Sutherland. But word of advice for the future—don't be dropping this kind of information on just anyone. It's liable to get you in trouble with the wrong people." His expression grew more serious. "I'll make some calls today and see what I can find out. Who handled the DNA evidence, when it was last tested, whether they can run updated database searches, and if the DNA from Jacob's fingernails matches the latex glove. Sound good?"
Mia felt a surge of excitement at the prospect of real progress. "That would be incredible. Thank you."
"In the meantime," Hugh said, gesturing toward her plate, "eat your breakfast before it goes completely cold." He chuckled. "You really are your father's daughter, you know that?"
As Mia resumed eating, she felt the satisfaction of having moved the investigation forward through proper channels while maintaining the protective discretion that law enforcement work required. The morning sun continued its climb over High Peaks Lake, promising a day that might finally yield answers to questions that had been buried for far too long.
21
St. Joseph's Catholic Church rose from the center of High Peaks like a monument to permanence, its Gothic Revival architecture defying the modest scale of everything around it. The red brick facade and soaring bell tower spoke to the ambitions of nineteenth century Catholic immigrants who'd built something grander than their means should have allowed. Stained-glass windows depicted biblical scenes in jeweled colors that transformed ordinary sunlight into something approaching the sacred.
Mia pushed through the heavy oak doors and found herself in a nave.
Rows of wooden pews stretched toward an altar adorned with carved angels and polished brass fixtures that caught light from the clerestory windows high above. The scent of wood, candle wax, and the lingering trace of incense from recent services filled her nose.
