True Colors

Dr. Olliver barely paused. “Of the nine pubic hairs found at the scene, six were microscopically consistent with the defendant’s.”

“Meaning that, judged side by side, by a trained professional doctor, Mr. Raintree’s pubic hairs were scientifically the same as the killer’s?”

“Objection. Sidebar,” Roy said, shooting out of his seat.

Winona watched as the attorneys approached the bench, argued back and forth, and then retreated.

Ms. Hamm said, “Dr. Olliver, is it your expert testimony that Dallas Raintree’s pubic hairs are microscopically consistent with those found at the scene?”

“It is.”

Roy came forward when the prosecutor sat down. “You cannot prove that the pubic hairs found at the scene came from Dallas Raintree, can you?”

“I can testify that the hair samples when viewed at the tiniest microscopic level are entirely consistent with Mr. Raintree’s.”

“But not that they in fact came from him.”

“Not conclusively, no, but as a medical professional—”

“Thank you,” Roy said. “You’ve answered my question.”

Ms. Hamm stood up. “Dr. Olliver, is it your considered medical opinion that the hair samples found at the scene could have come from Mr. Raintree?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Thank you.”

The rumor in the courthouse on the fifth day of trial was that the prosecution’s star witness was expected to testify. Speculation ran rampant; everyone was trying to guess who it would be. Excitement was a buzzing, tangible presence as people walked into the courtroom and took their places in the gallery.

Winona sat in her regular seat, watching her sisters walk past her.

This week had taken a toll on Vivi Ann; she moved slowly down the aisle, no longer able to look anything other than weary and afraid. Her blond hair, usually so shiny and cared for, hung in a lank, boardlike sheath down her back. She’d given up on makeup, and without color, her face appeared wan and pale. Her green eyes looked startlingly bright by comparison.

Winona longed to be beside her, helping Vivi Ann, but she wasn’t welcome there.

The judge walked into the courtroom and took her seat at the bench. As soon as the jury was seated, the proceedings began.

“The state calls Myrtle Michaelian.”

A wave of whispers moved through the courtroom, so loud that the judge reminded the gallery to be quiet. Winona was as surprised as everyone else. She’d been certain that the star witness would be one of the seedy men who frequented Cat’s house on the weekends.

Myrtle walked into the courtroom, trying to look confident, but the attempt only emphasized how frightened she was. Already her hair was damp with sweat. In her floral polyester dress, she looked like an aging legal secretary.

“State your name for the record.”

“Myrtle Ann Michaelian.”

“Your address?”

“One-seventy-eight Mountain Vista Drive, in Oyster Shores.”

“How do you make a living, Ms. Michaelian?”

“My parents opened the Blue Plate Diner in 1942. I took over management in 1976. My husband and I opened our Ice Cream Shop in 1990. That’s down on the end of Shore Drive.”

“And where is the ice-cream shop in relation to Catherine Morgan’s home?”

“Down the alley. You go right past us to get to her place.”