Execution of Innocence by Christopher Pike

he muttered as he photographed it before removing it from the trunk. He searched the trunk carefully; Mary normally kept the space clean. Later the tech boys would go over it carefully but to his unaided eye there wasn't a sign of blood. There was, however, a half-used box of plastic garbage bags. Few items would have been more effective at containing blood spills. Riles muttered Mary’s name again but this time he added a curse.
    Inside the station, he found Kohner and Sharp sitting in his office. From the expressions on their faces, they had the results of the initial blood typing and the information wasn’t good, or at least, not good for the case he was trying to build. For relatives of Mary and Hannah, the information might have been wonderful. Riles plopped down in his chair.
    “Give it to me,” he said.
    “All of our young contestants have been treated at Maple Memorial at one point in their lives,” Sharp said. “Their records are as follows: Dick is type A; Hannah is type B; Mary is type AB; and Charlie is a universal donor, type O. Because they are all different, the positive and negative RH factors are unimportant.” Sharp paused. “Are you ready for this?”
    Riles shrugged. “Sure.”
    Kohner spoke. “The first puddle of blood you found at the Crossroads is type A. That must be from Dick. The second larger puddle you found closer to Whistler is also type A. So, you are right, Dick was probably killed there and then dumped at the Crossroads. The second puddle out there is type O. Again, you're probably right that it belongs to Charlie. They both must have died within moments of each other, certainly within a few feet of each other.”
    “What about the blood in Mary’s hair?” Riles asked impatiently. That was what mattered most at the moment. Connecting at least one of the girls to the dead and the missing. Sharp and Kohner glanced at each other before Sharp answered.
    “The blood on Mary’s hair is type AB. She has a cut on her head. It seems to be nothing more than her own blood.”
    “Did you ask her how she got the cut?” Riles asked, feeling a sinking sickness in the pit of his stomach. There was no question—Pierce would have to let the girls go. Riles reflected on how unlucky they were; each of the people involved had a different blood type. The odds were against that, but not excessively so.
    “She said she couldn’t remember,” Sharp replied.
    “Naturally,” Riles mumbled. He held up the bottle of Lysol he had found. He still had his gloves on. “In the trunk of Mary's car.”
    “It’s something,” Sharp said.
    “It ain’t much,” Riles growled. He turned to Kohner. “How did the stain on their skin go for powder marks?”
    “I used only a fraction of our samples,” Kohner said. “I'm sending the bulk of them out to private labs. They'll do a much better job than I can here. But they may not be able to get past the Lysol. I was unable to.” He paused. “There's no clear sign of expelled powder on either of the girl's hands.”
    “Is there any sign?” Riles persisted.
    “Yes,” Kohner said. “But it's so faint and so compromised by the other chemicals, I doubt that it would be allowed in a court of law.”
    “Who had it on her hands?” Riles asked.
    “Hannah,” Kohner said. “On the left hand.”
    “Hannah is left-handed,” Riles said, remembering.
    “It's another piece of the puzzle,” Sharp said hopefully.
    “Pierce is too old to play with puzzles,” Riles said.
    “Spelling has a lawyer out in the hall,” Sharp said reluctantly. “He wants to talk to you.”
    Riles stood and set the Lysol down. He tore off his gloves. Sharp would take care of the bottle without being told—he was a master when it came to such details.
    “I don’t want to talk to him,” Riles said. “I will speak to the girls for a minute and then we will release them.”
    “Unfortunate,” Sharp said. “They’re our best leads.”
    “They will be our only suspects,” Riles