Chapter 3 Of A Whisper In The Static

 At 8 AM the next morning,  Keith and I made our way to the lab with all our evidence, and criminalist Tony Barrett greeted us while analyzing samples under his microscope.  "Morning, detectives," Barrett said, not looking up from his eyepiece. "You're here early. Someone lost a limb?"

Keith dropped the yellowed files onto the counter. "Worse. We're digging up ghosts from '76."

Barrett finally looked up, his brow furrowing as he saw the dated evidence bags. "A forty-year-old cold case.”

"Sixteen-year-old girl," I added. "We’ve got a partial on the buckle and a B-Positive semen sample. Run it against the modern database—let's see if our guy finally tripped up and got his DNA into the system."

“You got it,” Barrett said, though his eyes stayed on the clock. “Just keep in mind we’ve got a backlog out the door. The powers-that-be want results on cases from this century, not the Stone Age. If the Lab Director catches me running DNA for a 1976 cold hit, he’s going to have my head.” “That’s okay, Tony,” I said, giving him a weary nod. “We’ve got fifty years of ghosts to track down anyway. Witnesses, family, coworkers... by the time we find someone who still remembers 1976, maybe the machines will have something for us.”He slid the evidence file into a "High Priority" bin (even if he shouldn't). "All right, go track your ghosts. I’ll get the sequencers started. If a name pops, you’ll be the first to know—."  “Thanks, Tony, you’re the best,” I said as we left the lab and headed to the car.

“Got any family or witnesses left?” I asked, tossing the car keys.

Keith didn't look up from his notes, adjusting his glasses. “The trail's thin. Detective Calloway is five years in the ground. The mother, Sheila Taylor, passed from a heart attack back in '82. The father followed in '87—drank himself to death. There’s an older brother, Mark, who inherited the NYC house, but the only witness we’ve got is Trisha Moore. She was a classmate and fellow waitress at the steakhouse. She confirms Melanie clocked out early that night, but that’s where the trail ends—nobody actually saw her leave the building.”  “Well, let's talk to the brother first, then the friend,” I said. “Sounds like a plan,” Keith replied.

Chapter 2 of A Whisper In The Static

  About a month after Christie’s death, I decided to end my emergency leave and go back to work. I was going stir crazy, and thought that getting back to some sort of normal would do me good.  On my first day back, I visited my best friend, Detective Keith Perry, a 20-year veteran detective with the Cold Case Squad, at his office on the fourth floor.   I’ve known Keith for over 15 years, and during Christie’s illness, he was my rock, always ready to lend a hand or shoulder when I needed him. We gathered around his desk, enjoying coffee and sandwiches for lunch while relaxing together.  “So, what’s on your plate?” I asked Keith. “Got a cold case from 1976,” Keith said, handing me a thin folder. “Give me your fresh eyes on it?”

I glanced at the header—Melanie Ann Taylor—and stopped short. “I was just at the cemetery. She’s buried right behind Christie. What happened?”

“July 22, 1976,” Keith replied. “She was found in an alley three blocks from her house, behind the steakhouse where she waitressed, raped and strangled. We have a semen sample, but since DNA testing didn't exist then, the lab could only give us a blood type: B-positive. It left us with a million suspects and zero leads.”

I flipped the page, the sound of the heavy cardstock echoing in the quiet room. The first thing that hit me wasn't the text, but the black-and-white crime scene photos. They were grainy, high-contrast shots that turned the shadows of the alley into bottomless pits.

"She was only sixteen," I muttered, tracing the edge of a photo.  Melanie was a strikingly beautiful girl with long blonde hair and bright blue eyes.”Sixteen and a half," Keith corrected, his voice dropping an octave. "She was a top student at her high school, played on the girls’ softball team, and wanted to go to college to be a journalist.  Those files in the back? Those are the original witness statements. Dozens of people were at that steakhouse that night, but nobody saw her walk out the back door. It’s like she stepped into the alley and just… evaporated."

"This is the whole hand?" I asked. "A common blood type and a cold trail?"

   Keith leaned into the lamplight, his eyes tracking the faded ink. "That, and a partial on the buckle. Too smudged for the stone-age tech they were running back then. But the world's changed. We have AFIS now—forensic genealogy that can find a needle in a haystack of cousins. Who knows? This guy might be in the system for some crime, or maybe he has a close relative who has. We have absolutely no solid suspects. Her boyfriend, Tim Phillips, who was also 16 at the time, had an ironclad alibi: He and his parents were in Miami for his grandmother’s funeral. He didn’t have a driver's license at the time, and plenty of other family members confirmed to investigators that he was in Florida the entire time, from when they arrived at the grandmother’s house to when they went to the airport to leave, two days after Melanie’s body was found. " He looked up, a grim smile tugging at his mouth. "I think it’s time we introduced this 'B Positive' ghost to the 21st century.

I glanced at the clock. The shift was bleeding out, and so was I. "It’s a plan. Tomorrow morning, we drop this on  Barrett’s desk. If anyone can find a ghost in the machine, it's him."