Page 161 of Swept for Forever
And thank God even more for Susan Nolan. We had enough evidence for the trial to move forward. And not just for Deborah’s disappearance, but her murder.
Today, the trial continued.
I wasn’t at the front, and I wasn’t cross-examining or hammering a witness. For once, I was just a spectator. But inside? I was pacing the floor, breaking apart arguments, and slamming objections, if only in my head.
Autumn gave me a tiny nudge. “Cool it, courtroom cowboy,” she whispered. “Let the man do his job.”
Just beyond the rail, Allan Spears sat hunched at the defense table, a crumpled version of the smug bastard who’d nearly taken Otter and me down for good.
His wife was behind him, wringing a tissue until it shredded. His brother, David Spears, the cleaner of the two, kept darting glances toward the exit like he was ready to bolt.
Across the aisle, Deborah Sinclair’s parents sat motionless, their hands clutched tightly. I didn’t need to look straight at them to feel their grief.
The judge had ordered a closed trial. So no cameras, no reporters, no circus. Just facts, evidence, and the long, cold road to justice.
Susan Nolan took the stand today.
I leaned forward before I caught myself, my muscles taut.
Even from back here, I watched the County Attorney the way a hawk watches the wind.
Every question mattered.
Every damn pause.
Susan adjusted the microphone, her voice carrying steadily through the courtroom.
“We extracted multiple samples from the soil residue found inside the bag,” she said. “Advanced spectral analysis confirmed organic material consistent with human blood.”
The County Attorney walked closer to the stand. “And what did further testing reveal?”
“We isolated a DNA profile. It matched Deborah Sinclair.”
Across the gallery, Deborah’s mother broke first with a gasp, then a shudder. Her husband gripped her tighter, folding around her like he could shield her from hearing it again. Sheriff Colton, sitting not far from them, stood quietly and helped steady them without a word.
The prosecutor nodded. “Were there any signs of contamination or mishandling?”
Susan’s response came fast. “No. Chain of custody remained intact from the moment the soil was collected to the final sequencing.”
My grip on the bench tightened.Come on, drive it home.
The prosecutor asked, “Is there any way Deborah Sinclair’s blood could have ended up in that bag by accident?”
“No,” Susan affirmed. “Both the soil and grass clippings recovered from the duffel showed clear compression patterns consistent with being pressed inside the bag by external objects, likely boots or heavy clothing. There were no signs of secondary transfer. In my professional opinion, the biological material entered the bag directly, not by contamination.”
Then, she paused briefly before adding, “It’s worth noting that one of the key witnesses observed the duffel appearing almost full at the time it was buried. That observation supports the compression patterns we documented.”
The prosecutor nodded. “And based on your findings, what’s the probability that the DNA recovered belonged to an unrelated individual?”
Susan answered without pause. “The probability of an unrelated person matching the recovered DNA profile is approximately one in seventeen billion.”
Across the room, Spears’ lawyer shifted, rattling papers in a weak attempt to look composed.
But it was already over. There was no contamination, no doubt, no escape.
It was a knife through the heart of Spears’ defense.
He had no answer, just tears, playing the same stress card like he was some fragile ornament who couldn’t bear to exist under a little pressure.
