All Acts Of Pleasure: A Rowan Gant Investigation (24 page)

He simply shrugged and continued devouring
the taco.

“You know,” I finally said, looking back over
to Ben after taking another swig of coffee. “I hate to be an
ungracious host, but earlier today you made out like there was some
big reason for us to be having a secret meeting. Or, was I just
dreaming all that?”

“The skulking around was Storm’s idea,”
Constance offered. “He’s worried I’m going to get myself booted out
of the Bureau.”

“Well, dammit, at the rate you’re goin’ you
are,” he admonished, almost choking on his food before he could
blurt the words.

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” she returned. “At
worst I’ll get a letter of censure. And that’s only if I get
caught.”

“You just got one a’ those for losin’ your
damn sidearm,” he chided. “That’d make two in a row, and even I
know that ain’t good.”

He was correct. One of the strings Constance
had pulled when getting Felicity out of the assault charge against
her was somehow talking her superior into recommending a letter of
censure go in her own file. Effectively, she had taken the blame
for the situation and glossed over a few damaging facts in order to
get my wife off the hook. On paper, what my wife had done had
somehow been turned into Constance being reprimanded for
temporarily misplacing her government issued weapon. How she’d
pulled that off was anyone’s guess, but I suspected it was better
if I didn’t really have that answer.

“Well, no offense, Constance,” I interjected.
“Because, you know I appreciate everything you’ve done. I really
do, and so does Felicity. But, right now I’m afraid I have to admit
that she is way more important to me than your career, as harsh as
that may seem. So, if there’s something you know that might
help…”

“Don’t worry, Rowan, I understand,” she
replied with a nod. “Honestly, clearing Felicity is more important
to me too.”

“Okay, so why this secret confab? What is it
you know?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” she replied. “But I
ran across something that sent up a flag…for me anyway…How much do
you know about DNA, Rowan?”

“I know how to spell it,” I replied.

“God, Storm really is rubbing off on
you.”

“Yeah, it does seem that way, doesn’t it,” I
agreed.

“All right you two, who’s doin’ the pickin’
now?” Ben grunted, but left it at that.

“Actually, I do know the basics,” I spoke up
again. “If I remember high school biology correctly, it stands for
deoxyribonucleic acid. Everybody has it, and a lot of it is the
same, but there’s a part of it that’s as unique as a fingerprint.
When it comes to being used as evidence, it can be pretty damaging.
Other than that, I know it’s the reason my wife has been taken from
me and charged with crimes she didn’t commit.”

“Yeah, well it might interest ya’ ta’ know
that when it comes to evidence, there’re a coupl’a different kinds
of DNA,” Ben added. “Mitochondrial and autosomal.”

I turned my head, quickly shifting my gaze
from Constance and fixing it back on him. His expression was enough
to tell me that my own face was showing more than just a little
wonderment.

“Don’t look so goddamned surprised, Row. I’m
not really as stupid as ya’ seem ta’ think I am. I just let
everybody think so.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Ben’s right,” Constance chimed in.

“Thanks,” he chirped. “About time ya’ stuck
up for me.”

“I meant the part about the DNA,” she
said.

“What? You think I’m stupid too?”

“Look, I never said you were stupid!” I
interjected, a sharp note of exasperation sounding in my voice.
“Now, I would really like to get back on subject
here…Jail…Felicity…DNA…”

“Ben actually did hit on the point I’m trying
to make,” Constance volunteered. “Mitochondrial versus autosomal
DNA.”

“Okay, I’ll admit to my own stupidity on this
one. I’ve heard the term mitochondrial but that’s about it. I don’t
really know what it means.”

“Well, in basic terms, mitochondrial DNA
comes from your mother,” she explained. “Autosomal, however, is not
gender specific and can come from either the mother or the father.
When using DNA for identification, the preferred method is
autosomal unless there is no other choice.”

“Why?”

“Because it is where the true DNA profile
actually resides. Mitochondrial is not as unique, and it just gets
you into the ballpark. Let me give you an example. I inherited my
mitochondrial DNA from my mother, she inherited hers from her
mother, her mother’s came from her mother, and so on. Since
M-T-D-N-A doesn’t change, if you were to compare samples from all
of the women in that line, the mitochondrial DNA strand would be
identical. No way to distinguish between us.”

“So, you’re telling me the DNA used to ID
Felicity is mitochondrial?”

“Yes and no,” she answered. “The problem is
that’s the only kind of DNA that can be found in the shaft of hair.
While it can be used as evidence in a crime, usually to narrow the
field of suspects, it isn’t an absolute identification of an
individual since it will be prevalent throughout a maternal family
tree.”

“Okay,” I struggled to contain my impatience.
“So what about the yes and no thing? Which is it?”

“I’m getting to that. As you know, the DNA
samples we are working with came from hair. Autosomal DNA, the kind
used for positive identification can be extracted from the actual
follicles or roots. Using something called polymerase chain
reaction, or PCR, the DNA is replicated—or what they call
amplified—then separated and compared.

“What they look for are matching alleles at
given points in the strand, called loci. The standard for CODIS,
the Bureau’s Combined DNA Index System, in order to guarantee the
match is thirteen unique loci. Unfortunately, when dealing with
degraded samples, the best result they can get is sometimes eight
or nine.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the biology
lesson,” I remarked. “But, you still haven’t answered my
question.”

“I just want you to understand how this
works, Rowan,” she explained. “In Felicity’s case, the samples
taken directly from her match exactly on the mitochondrial DNA with
all the others. However, of the samples taken from the three crime
scenes, there is a variance on the autosomal profile. On one of
them there was a full match of the thirteen core markers…”

“Tell me that was the Wentworth homicide,” I
said.

She nodded. “Yes, it was.”

“That makes sense,” I offered. “She was
actually present at the scene, and it’s entirely possible for her
to have lost a hair or two while shooting the photos, especially
the way she had to contort herself to get a couple of the
shots.”

“Agreed. However, she did have an autosomal
match with the sample from the Hobbes crime scene. But, it was only
partial and that’s where the variance comes in. On that sample they
hit on seven markers. Not all thirteen. The Myrtle Beach sample was
only a mitochondrial match, but that was simply because all they
had was a small sample of a hair shaft, and no root.”

“Well, then doesn’t that prove it isn’t her?”
I asked hopefully.

Constance shook her head. “Not necessarily.
Remember, I said this sometimes happens with degraded samples, and
that’s what they were dealing with. While it definitely does cast
some doubt on a positive match, given the state of the samples,
it’s enough for a prosecutor to take to court if there is other
supporting evidence.”

“So this is the big secret?” I asked. “Isn’t
this something our attorney would be privy to anyway?”

“Eventually, yes. But they are keeping the
details under wraps for the moment, at least until they see if
there are matching DNA profiles from any of the other scenes that
were kicked out by NCIC. In fact, I only found all this out by
accident.”

“Accident?”

“Yes. I accidentally saw the results from the
lab in DC.”

“Why am I thinking your use of the word
accident may be a bit facetious?”

“It’s not my fault the door was unlocked, and
the folder was right there on the desk.”

“See what I’m sayin’ about hot water, Row?”
Ben chimed, gesturing toward her.

“Yeah,” I replied. “But you would have done
the same and you know it.”

“That’s different.”

“Different how?” Constance demanded.

“I dunno, it just is.”

“So, are there actually more DNA profiles?” I
queried, pushing the conversation back on subject.

“That’s what we’re hearin’,” he said. “But,
truth is we’re both bein’ kept outta the loop a bit.”

“Of course, that’s to be expected,” Constance
added. “Given our personal relationships with both you and
Felicity.”

“So they’ll use that to their advantage
when it
is
an advantage, but
when it’s not…” I said, leaving the rest of the sentence unspoken.
I knew Constance would pick up on my inference about her recently
being asked to use her friendship with us in an attempt to get
information during a jurisdictional turf war between the FBI and
local law enforcement.

“Pretty much,” she agreed, without missing a
beat.

“Okay, well, this is all well and fine,” I
cast my glance back and forth between the two of them. “And, while
I appreciate the help, all you’ve really told me is that they have
what they consider a smoking gun.”

“Not really,” Ben interjected again.

“Not really, how?”

“Like I said, the match is close, but not
positive,” Constance said with a shrug. “That opens things up for a
world of doubt. The gun might be warm, but it’s not smoking.”

“Well, I’ve been saying that all along,” I
returned. “So, out of curiosity, do you think the samples may have
been tampered with?”

“I doubt it,” she said, shaking her head.
“Ben told me that was your theory, and while I won’t discount it
entirely, I really don’t think it’s likely. Mainly because the
easiest way to do that would have been to substitute her hair for
the original samples from the unsubs, which would have given a full
positive match across the board.”

“Doing that would have been a bit obvious,
wouldn’t it?”

“Not really. And, besides, if you’re going to
tamper with evidence, you sure don’t want to get too complicated.
The KISS principle is usually the best way to keep from getting
caught.”

“Okay, but let me ask this. You’re telling me
the mitochondrial DNA actually was a full match across the board. I
understand it won’t work for positive identification, but isn’t it
pretty damning?”

“All it really means is that the killer and
Felicity share a maternal link somewhere in their ancestry. That’s
not actually as uncommon as you might think, especially when you
consider ethnic origin and those sorts of factors. Still, you could
be talking about a relative, close or distant.”

I let out a frustrated breath and sat back in
my chair. “I’m really afraid all this conversation has done
is…”

I wasn’t allowed to finish the sentence. The
angry pounding that suddenly issued from my front door didn’t let
me.

The dogs began barking immediately;
vociferously defending their territory against the mysterious would
be intruder. However, my gut suspicion was that they could bark
until they were hoarse, and it wasn’t going to scare away the
person on the other side of the door.

“That don’t sound like a very happy knock,”
Ben ventured. “You expectin’ company, or did ya’ just piss somebody
off?”

Now it was my turn to give an ambiguous
answer. “Yes and no.”

“Yeah, and that means?” he prodded.

I was already getting up from my seat. “It
means no, I wasn’t actually expecting anyone. Well, not that I
invited, anyway. But, yes, I’d say it’s a good bet he’s angry with
me.”

“Sounds like you think ya’ know who it
is.”

“Judging from the knock, I’d say it’s
probably my father-in-law.”

“I’ll bite. Why’s he pissed at you?”

“Other than the fact that he just generally
hates me? At the moment, he blames me for Felicity being in
jail.”

Constance gave her head a confused shake. “He
blames you for this? Why?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, if you’d rather not deal with it, I’ll
be happy to get the door for you,” she offered.

“No, better let me,” I replied. “If it’s him,
there’s no reason for you to be stuck in the middle of a family
squabble. I know how you law enforcement types feel about those
things, and I don’t blame you.”

The hammering echoed through the house once
again, coupled with a muffled shout that sounded something like my
name. The dogs had quieted momentarily during the brief lull but
now renewed their bid to repel the noise with some of their
own.

Giving my head a shake that was the obvious
product of embarrassment, I strode out of the kitchen and through
the dining room. Both Ben and Constance followed along a few paces
behind. I guess if I took into account the concern they’d shown for
whether or not I’d been eating, their watchful attitudes in this
situation were to be expected.

Shushing the canines as I waded between them,
I reached for the lock. Out of habit, before turning the deadbolt I
put my eye to the peephole even though I was certain I knew whom it
was I would see. However, the distorted countenance on the other
side of the fisheye came as a total shock. Instead of finding my
father-in-law as I had expected, there was someone else entirely
standing on my front porch, pummeling my door.

“What the…” I mumbled.

“What’s wrong, Row?” Ben asked.

“Well, apparently I was wrong,” I replied.
“It’s not Shamus; it’s Austin.”

“Who’s Austin?”

“My brother-in-law.”