Chapter 3: The Taste of Evidence

3

I was baffled.

Logic told me Frank Watson was unlikely to lie; he had shown almost no signs of deception during questioning.

So why would Natalie’s parents lie? Even if they had wronged Frank Watson somehow, they were the victims now—the law wouldn’t hold it against them.

I realized this case might not be as simple as murder and dismemberment.

Natalie’s parents weren’t suspects. If they didn’t want to tell the truth, there was nothing I could do except hope my colleagues would find new clues.

About two hours later, my colleague called. He said Frank Watson’s butcher shop was covered in pig, beef, and lamb blood. Finding Natalie’s blood would be nearly impossible.

“All we can do is bring back the hundreds of pounds of sausages hanging in his shop for DNA testing. God, I’ll never eat mac and cheese again in my life.”

The precinct freezer filled up with sausage links, stacked in boxes usually reserved for evidence bags and confiscated narcotics. The lab crew joked grimly about starting a vegan diet. The freezer stank of pepper and pork fat, the boxes stacked so high they blocked the light. I caught the scent every time I walked past—pepper, garlic, something sweet—and felt my stomach turn.

Although collecting evidence was extremely difficult, none of us wanted to see a murderer walk out of the police station smiling. All the forensic doctors at the identification center volunteered to work overtime and managed to pick out thirty-six sausages containing Natalie’s DNA from hundreds of links.

Half the precinct gagged. Someone ran for the bathroom. I pressed my fist to my mouth and counted to ten. Frank Watson’s cruelty was beyond imagination.

The next dilemma was—how should we return this pile of sausages to Natalie’s parents?

I brought the station’s best psychological counselor to break the news. As expected, the moment Mrs. Jensen heard about her daughter’s horrific end, she let out a shriek and fainted.

Mr. Jensen’s eyes were bloodshot as he glared at me. “When will you sentence Frank Watson to death?”

“As long as the evidence is solid, the court can pass judgment that day. Once the judge signs off and the appeals are done, he’ll be on death row. Fastest I’ve seen is a couple weeks.”

“Fine. I believe you. If the law can’t kill that animal, I’ll do it myself.”

He stormed out, his dress shoes squeaking across the linoleum. The counselor quietly pulled Mrs. Jensen to a chair, fanning her face, murmuring the same phrases I’d heard at too many death notifications: "I know this is hell. We’re right here with you. Just breathe, okay?" But nobody really believed it.