Chapter 41 The Bite Mark
A month later, I stepped into my birth city for the first time, a place that belonged to my past but not my memories. I had scheduled a meeting with the cold case detectives assigned to my mother’s murder at the Berkeley Police Department.
They were already waiting in a small interview room when I arrived.
The older detective stood first. Late fifties, gray at the temples, eyes that had seen too much.
“Detective Raymond Holt,” he said.
The younger man followed. “Detective Lucas Moreno.” Early forties, alert, serious, a legal pad already open in front of him.
They sat across from me. Between us lay a thick file, its edges softened from years of handling by people who had never finished the job. Photographs. Diagrams. Lab reports. Evidence logs.
“This is your mother’s case,” Detective Holt said.
I nodded. Seventeen years ago, my mother had been killed in her own home. I had been found unharmed in the nursery. That much I had known.
Detective Moreno opened the file and began walking me through the facts.
“The residence showed clear signs of a violent struggle,” he said. “Most of it was concentrated in the bedroom. Furniture displaced. Items knocked over. This was not a quick assault. It escalated.”
“No forced entry,” Detective Holt added.
That detail mattered.
It suggested my mother had known her attacker, or at least opened the door for them.
The first photograph slid across the table.
It was a wide shot of the bedroom. Yellow evidence markers dotted the floor, each numbered. A large bloodstain spread across the wood. Bedding was torn and half dragged from the mattress. A nightstand lay overturned. A handgun was on the floor.
“That was hers,” Holt said, tapping the photo lightly. “It wasn’t fired.”
The gun meant there had been a moment. At least one. A moment when my mother believed she might need it, or reached for it and never got the chance.
“The scene suggests movement,” Moreno said. “The struggle didn’t happen in one place. It ended on the floor.”
Then Holt looked at me carefully. “Do you want to see the photographs of your mother?”
I said yes.
Moreno slid another photo toward me.
“This is how your mother was found.”
I didn’t flinch. I had pictured this moment too many times.
“She was face down,” Holt said gently. “Blunt force trauma consistent with repeated strikes. She also sustained multiple stab wounds.”
Moreno added, “The murder weapon was never recovered. We searched the residence, the yard, the surrounding area. Nothing. Whoever did this took it with them.”
Holt pointed to a mark visible in the image. “There was also a bite mark on her right forearm.”
“Defensive injuries were present,” Holt continued. “She resisted. She did not submit.”
“She fought hard,” I said quietly. She had done everything she could to stay alive. To stay with me.
Everything about the scene suggested a personal, intense attack.
Another photograph followed, a close-up.
“That’s the bite mark,” Moreno said.
I leaned closer.
“It was swabbed at the time,” he continued. “Preserved correctly.”
Holt picked up from there. “The amount of biological material was extremely small. And back in the early 2000s, forensic technology simply was not sensitive enough to work with a sample that size. The testing kits available then needed far more material to generate a usable DNA profile.”
“So it was sealed,” Moreno added. “Logged. Stored.”
Waiting for science to catch up.
“Years later,” Holt said, “DNA analysis improved. Samples that were once unusable became viable.”
Hope flared in my chest before I could stop it.
Then Holt looked down at the file.
“About ten years ago, during a transfer of evidence storage from one facility to another, the sample was misplaced.”
“What?” I asked. “How does that happen?”
Moreno exhaled. “Chain-of-custody errors. A mislabeled box. A shelf logged incorrectly. We can’t say for sure.”
“Best case scenario,” Holt said, “it was misfiled with another case and will turn up during a review.”
“And worst case?” I asked.
They exchanged a glance.
“Worst case,” Moreno said, “it was destroyed. Lost permanently.”
I breathed out slowly.
“Any leads now?” I asked.
“We’ve been re-interviewing colleagues and friends,” Holt said. “Over the past year, we contacted your father several times. He declined to come in.”
“And Marissa?” I asked.
Moreno flipped a page. “Marissa Colins?”
“Yes,” I said. “The mistress. She goes by Marissa Richards now. My father married her seventeen years ago.”
That earned a pause.
“She also declined to speak with us,” Holt said. “All communication through her attorney.”
Then he continued, “There were multiple witness statements regarding tension between your mother and Marissa.”
My attention sharpened.
“At the office where your father worked,” Moreno said. “And where Marissa was employed. Witnesses described open hostility. Arguments. Raised voices.”
Holt nodded. “Your mother confronted her there. Security was alerted. It was memorable because it was ugly and public.”
“No formal incident report,” Moreno added. “But enough people remembered it for it to matter.”
“After the murder,” Holt said, “Marissa produced a doctor’s note. Seven months pregnant. On modified bed rest. Claimed stress-related complications.”
“There was no physical evidence placing her at the house,” Moreno said.
“With the pregnancy,” Holt continued, “the injuries inflicted on your mother would have required significant strength. A prolonged physical struggle. Blunt force trauma. Stabbing.”
He chose his words carefully.
“No jury would convict based on circumstantial evidence alone,” he said. “Especially given her condition at the time.”
“So she was ruled out,” I said.
“Not ruled out,” Moreno corrected gently. “Deprioritized.”
“And my father?” I asked.
They paused.
“He was considered a person of interest early on,” Holt said. “But again, no physical evidence. An alibi window that couldn’t be conclusively disproven.”
“And the bite mark,” I said quietly. “That was the only real chance.”
“Yes,” Moreno said. “It was our strongest biological lead.”
“And it’s gone.”
“For now,” Holt said.
Silence settled between us.
Finally, Holt leaned forward slightly.
“We’re not closing this case,” he said. “Not now. Not ever.”
Moreno nodded. “Cold cases don’t mean forgotten cases. We review. We recheck. We wait for new technology, new witnesses, new information.”
“If anything changes,” Holt said, “if the evidence turns up, if a lead surfaces, you will be the first person we contact.”
He met my eyes.
“Your mother deserves justice,” he said. “And we don’t stop looking just because time passes.”
I nodded once.
They stood as I did.
“You have our direct numbers,” Moreno said. “If anything new comes up. From your family, from documents, from anywhere. Even if it feels small. You won’t be bothering us.”
Something clicked.
“There is something else,” I said. “I did a DNA test at home. It showed that Marissa is related to me. Most likely a half-aunt or a first cousin.”
Both detectives stilled slightly.
Moreno pulled out a small notebook, already writing. Holt exchanged a quick glance with him before focusing back on me.
“That’s important,” Moreno said. “Do you still have the results?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll want a copy,” Holt added. “Chain of custody matters, but this gives us a direction.”
Moreno finished his notes and looked up. “We’ll follow up on this.”
I nodded again.
“We’ll be in touch,” Holt added. “I promise.”