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    The Dna Detectives: Working Against Time
    The Dna Detectives: Working Against Time
    The Dna Detectives: Working Against Time
    Ebook285 pages4 hours

    The Dna Detectives: Working Against Time

    By Anne Hart

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    About this ebook

    A scientist awakes in a theater with her memory erased, rain-soaked clothing, someone elses underwear, a new face, pregnant, and no identification, money, or shoes. Her only connection to reality is the business card she finds crumpled in the corner of her pocket that leads her to the molecular genetics department of a university medical school where the professor, a scientist and law man is rushing to save the life of a man on Death Row whose name was tagged on anothers DNA twenty years ago.

    New DNA technology has allowed former detectives to return to their cold cases decades later and use the new DNA technology to solve the old cases with new evidence. Now she must work with him in a race against time to save an innocent man whose DNA was tagged by clerical error or purpose to crime evidence DNA, landing him in prison for decades.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisheriUniverse
    Release dateOct 11, 2002
    ISBN9781532000447
    The Dna Detectives: Working Against Time
    Author

    Anne Hart

    Popular author, writing educator, creativity enhancement specialist, and journalist, Anne Hart has written 82 published books (22 of them novels) including short stories, plays, and lyrics. She holds a graduate degree and is a member of the American Society of Journalists and Authors and Mensa.

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      Book preview

      The Dna Detectives - Anne Hart

      9781532000447_epubcover.jpg

      The DNA Detectives

      Working Against Time

      Former Detectives Back on Job Solving Cold Cases with New DNA evidence

      Anne Hart

      Mystery and Suspense Press

      San Jose New York Lincoln Shanghai

      The DNA Detectives

      Working Against Time

      All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Anne Hart

      No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

      Mystery and Suspense Press

      an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

      For information address:

      iUniverse, Inc.

      5220 S. 16th St., Suite 200

      Lincoln, NE 68512

      www.iuniverse.com

      ISBN: 0-595-25339-3

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Prologue

      Deep in sultry sleep and slouching behind a column at the far right stage of the last balcony row, the young, barefoot woman dreamed motionless of a bleak and lonely plain, and a southwest sirocco that sent the summer temperatures up to a hundred nineteen for days at a time. Curvy, and of realistic weight, the figure in black twisted until she slowly became aware of the fading dream.

      The film over, lights dimmed to a muted indigo. Only the long arm of a custodial mop ritually tapped a compelling tattoo against the back of the seats, moving closer to her feet. Suddenly, the orange lights on the ceiling switched on for the mop brigade. Slowly, she stirred, from her deep slumber, blinded for an instant. She woke to the loud Spanish chatter of the cleaners.

      What’s going on? She craned her neck. Where am I? Confused and cramped from sleeping in a cinema mall complex chair for what seemed like an eternity, she blinked to connect to reality. From the back, she resembled a cello poised against an antique column. Her fingers reached for an instinctively private space, a purse or wallet, then a pocket. On bended knee, the swaying figure blindly searched the damp floor strewn with chewed popcorn floating on a sticky film of soda pop. She ran her hands along the floor mess and all around the nearby seats. Nothing. No keys or purse. Her wet feet stuck to the concrete floor and pulled away with a sucking sound.

      No shoes or stockings. No coat. She shuddered in the unheated theater.

      Her hands dove again into the deep pockets of her pants suit jacket, searching for anything to reveal who she was and what she might be doing there—any clue to what city this is or where she slept now and why. No money. Only a gum wrapper and a crumbled business card with canine bite marks, soggy and barely readable.

      She looked at the faded business card, probably passed through a washing machine and still damp. Holes in the card as if it had been chewed by a dog obliterated most of the writing, except the University of California address and a name and department, "Molecular Genetics.

      She could barely make out the letters in the glow of the theatre’s dim lights. The woman rode her panic like a mountain peak, leaving her pain standing forth, red-veined, bared, and dirty. Shattered, she looked around. Then the brighter lights overwhelmed her, and the cleaning crew approached.

      She couldn’t remember, not the time or the day or month, not her name, or anything before the moment she awakened in—what was this—an empty movie house? She heard only the Spanish conversation of the cleaning crew. It confused her. Where am I? What time was it? She glanced at her wrist as if to see a watch, but it was bare as her feet. As the soapy water began to flow toward her feet, the mop crew motioned for her to leave.

      The young woman pulled herself up and rigidly staggered to the restroom, where she looked at a face in the mirror that she didn’t recognize. She looked herself over only to discover her panties were put on backwards, but wait. It wasn’t her panties.

      She was wearing someone else’s green, faded cotton underwear and nothing on top except a too-tight, wet, black wool sweater under a pants suit jacket. The knitted tube revealed mounds of ivory flesh peeking through the warp and weave of the sweater. Either these itchy rags weren’t her own clothing or the wet wool had shrunk on her torso.

      A pang of recognition told her she would never go out wearing clothing so tight, that the seams began to come apart. And whose green panties twisted inside out and backwards was she wearing? They weren’t what any woman would wear.

      She backed closer to the mirror. It was clearly a man’s briefs with an opening in the front. Something was missing—a bra, a chemise, something she would have worn, but what?

      She couldn’t recall what she wore under her clothing—only that it wouldn’t feel so wrong. No, these were not her clothes. They didn’t fit. Looking down, white food or milk stains caked along the sweater and jacket on the inside as if they had been used as a rag. The clothes reeked of vanilla extract.

      She panicked, yet managed to hold herself together and calmly walked out, past the ticket podium. For a moment she thought about questioning the concessionaire. She skipped it, too embarrassed to say a word as she passed the theater clock in the lobby. Ten o’clock. Muted morning light streamed through sheets of rain.

      The woman bolted for the theater exit, looking around her for clues as to where she was. All at once the confusion became apparent. "Where am I? Who am I? What am I doing in this place? What city am I in? How’d I get here and when—in what looks like a shopping mall a movie theater complex?

      She touched her arms now in the cold, morning air, feeling the dripping, muddy wet water ice cold against her goose bumps and prickly hairs at the nape of her neck.

      Her shoulders sagged as if she’d been fished out of a body of water. Looking down, mud and animal bite marks covered her cold, wet feet. She fingered the white tape wrapped around a gum wrapper in her pocket and glanced at the array of numbers and letters scrawled in runny black ink.

      As she moved toward the exit, torrents of rain tumbled in sheets. What month, what day was it? My God, I don’t remember. Who am I? She exited the movie house and noticed a taxi with its engine loudly idling. She ran towards the cab, pulling anything out of her jacket pocket she could find—one business card and that taped chewing gum wrapper with bleeding chicken scratches.

      She signaled the taxi, and the driver opened the door with his hand extended to help her step from the swirling flood at the curb into the heated car. The woman sucked in a deep breath and handed the card to the driver.

      It was the only piece of information connected to her that she could cherish—her umbilical cord to reality. Nothing else linked her to her past, to whatever occurred an hour, a day, or a million years before she awoke in the fetid stench of the cinema. The taxi moved along ribbons of highway, rain-wracked by a thousand thongs. She squinted again at the gum wrapper sealed with a slice of white tape, blurred numbers and letters and a row of tildes. There was no way to decipher what the squiggles meant.

      What’s the name of that place you picked me up at?

      The Arden Fair Mall, lady. Biggest in Sacramento ‘til the Roseville Galleria was built. I saw you running out of that movie theater complex waving at me. Why is it important to know? Are you looking for a job in the mall this morning? My wife applied yesterday at the vegetarian buffet place as a people greeter. Now she’ll have to stand on her feet all day and take it out on me at dinner.

      What’s today? She asked hoarsely. Wind whistled through the windows.

      March third, he grunted. Guess you skipped your newspaper today.

      Can I see that paper on your front seat?

      Sure. He tossed it into the back seat. She looked up the weather section in the papers—49 degrees. The present year seemed natural enough, but she couldn’t recall the month or day of the week. Losing time was the worst.

      She glanced again at the year. It didn’t mean anything. She could have woken this year or fifty years ago. It wouldn’t have made a difference.

      What’s my name? What’s this city? Nothing was recognizable, not even her face, a stranger’s face in the rear view mirror. Who is this young woman in the mirror? She could have blinked into consciousness with the chiseled face of someone else and not known it. It’s not me. It’s plastic surgery. Everything before she woke remained hidden, occult, and inaccessible.

      How long has it been raining?

      Three days straight, he chided stubbornly after a long pause. Been out of town? She fell silent. Again she glanced at the taxi’s mirror in front of her, and didn’t recognize the face—young and blonde. She felt it should have been darker and older.

      The taxi blazed an impressive trail on the wet asphalt. She watched the snaking ribbons of freeway undulate. Then the long stretches of farmland came into focus, finally the train depot, and then rows of modest cottages and homes winding to the manicured campus lawns.

      The taxi pulled alongside the campus commons at the University of California, Davis, just outside of Sacramento County, California, and finally as the rain slowed, to the address on the card, a department office building called Molecular Genetics. The name on the card read, James Kallikrates, PhD, Forensic Biology. It didn’t ring a bell. What’s forensic biology? She wondered. How old am I? Am I a student here? Do I work here? Am I a patient? Maybe someone will recognize me.

      She raced to solve the most personal mystery of her life—who am I, and from where did I come? The young woman barged into Dr. Kal-likrates’s office, the taxi driver next to her, asking who will pay the fare.

      Hold on, she stalled, resentment riding the lump in her throat. Maybe someone can help me here. As you see, I don’t know where my purse or wallet is or even if I had one with me. I don’t recall leaving my house. Or even if I lived in a house or where it was. For heaven’s sake, she sobbed, Will somebody please help me?

      Dr. Kallikrates looked up from his computer. Do you know me? He felt his body falling into a hole as his spine stiffened. Jim Kallikrates familiarized himself with the curves of her body.

      Excuse me? Her large, green eyes met his soft hickory gaze. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her courage and determination peaked.

      Dr. Jim Kallikrates was taken aback by her iron will. His gaze fixed on her and moved up and down her curves as if he watched lights dying down a Christmas tree.

      Unable to break eye contact, he mulled over his crinkled business card that she thrust in his palm. A shock of black hair fell across his arched brow as Jim handed her a box of tissues. He felt something give in him as his lips curved in a heart-stopping grin.

      Please sit down. What’s going on? He slowly shut his office door. Who’s he? Who are you? Look, I’ll see what I can do to help you. For a moment he hesitated over the security button. Her constant gaze unmanned him as he slowly clenched his fingers and stepped back from the panic button.

      Why are all the nuts on campus gathering in front of my office door? He thought. Yet he chose to listen. Jim paused to think, instead of going with his heartfelt impulse to summon security. He had trouble shifting his eyes from her trustful stare.

      Damn, handsome Jim thought—another damsel to rescue. You can’t resist being a rescuer, an enabler again, can you, Jim? She was a contradiction of opposites at first glance. This one seemed more strong-willed than dependent, a Joan of Arc with the brain chemistry of an FBI agent, a little doll with blood-red lips.

      The taxi driver held out his hand. Ninety dollars for the fare, please. The lady’s wallet is missing.

      Does this card mean anything to you? I can’t remember anything, not who I am or where I’ve been.

      Sit down. I’m on break between two classes I’m teaching only for this semester. He poured two cups of tea. Take it easy, you guys. Jim Kallikrates raked his eyes over the card again.

      Where did you get my card? I haven’t given it out publicly yet. I’m new on this job. It’s only been a month since spring semester began. Last year I taught forensic biology.

      The woman spoke, the tone of voice revealing her curiosity, "This card and your name is the only piece of evidence I found on my person that connects me to you, to this campus, or to your work. Look at me, Doctor Kallikrates. Do you know who I am? Has anyone seen me here before?

      One thing I do know about myself. I’m not going to fall apart. I’m as strong as I am tough. There’s something powerful about the work I do. My problem is I can’t recall what it is at the moment, but somehow you must be involved. Will you help me find out?

      Start at the beginning. He moved his chair next to hers. The taxi driver paced back and forth. My meter’s running, man.

      C h a p t e r 1

      I’m telling you that I woke up in a darkened movie theater this morning in the Arden Fair Mall not knowing who I am. Her charisma made her memorable in spite of the fact that she was at a loss for her own memory. She animated and entertained him.

      No identification, no money, no shoes or stockings, no coat or umbrella, and no keys are in my purse or pockets—only your name on this card—Dr. Jim Raleigh Kallikrates—Molecular Genetics, the office hours, and this University campus address. Why would the only identification on my person be your card?

      I don’t know you. Dr. Kallikrates stopped himself from talking loudly to the driver with a finger to his lips. Her pants suit jacket swung open as she took a deep breath, and he ogled the barefoot, curvy blonde in the tight, rain-drenched black sweater.

      Jim Kallikrates found her exciting and full of enthusiasm for life. Joy simmered below the surface of her frenzy. He didn’t see sadness in her gaze, not even fear, but wild agitation. Her whole body exuded energy, and her eyes radiated passion.

      Stepping between them, the taxi driver thrust his feta-cheese scented upturned palm in the lawman’s face. Jim noticed creases of mud caking in the driver’s wet hand.

      That will be ninety dollars. Who’s going to pay me? The breathless taxi driver sounded annoyed. Ninety, please.

      Is this some kind of prank to get me to take out my checkbook or wallet?

      The young lady told me to drive to the address on this card.

      May I sit here? She swiped a stray blonde hair off her face.

      Please do. Are you one of my graduate students in genetics?

      The driver leered showing nicotine-stained, broken teeth. He narrowed his eyelids to slits, tensely furrowing his brows, arching and expanding them like bat wings. You addressing me?

      No, the young lady. His brows rose. Tall, athletic Jim Kallikrates paused to size up the two. I’ll pay your fare. Jim looked to his right and left, then sidled closer to the door. He opened it quickly.

      She hooked her hand behind Jim’s knee. Did you ever see me before?

      He caught the flash of pain in her face and felt as if the floor gave way beneath his feet. Jim shook his head, no—twice. She grimaced and loosened her wet jacket buttons, revealing cleavage deeper than the genetic split between ape and man. She suddenly felt aware of eyes on her torso and pulled up the neckline of her soaked black sweater.

      The sight of her curves suddenly aroused him harder than Manchu-rian arithmetic. The scientist didn’t want this fantasy at work. Jim cleared his throat, took a sudden interest in his sneakers, and gawked at a computer screen as his software examined and decided which peaks had the strongest color at each position, interpreting the DNA sequences along the top.

      She saw chicken scratches that looked like the blurred-ink tape twisted around the gum wrapper. May I have a pen and some note paper?

      Here. He handed her the writing materials. She quickly copied exactly the capital letters, numbers, squiggles, tildes, dots, and other barely visible figures on the piece of white tape twisted gently around the crumpled gum wrapper. Then she carefully placed the clear copy in her pants suit jacket pocket.

      Does this mean anything to you? She handed him the wrapper. That and the card are all I found in my pockets.

      He looked briefly and tossed the crinkled wrapper in his desk drawer. She saw he locked his desk.

      Well, what could it be? Any clue?

      Y chromosome and nuclear DNA sequences. Also haplogroup data, HV1 sequences from a world-wide DNA database. The genome project also had a goal of collecting DNA samples from as many people in the world as possible and putting the sequences into a giant database. It helps to understand how the world was peopled through expansions after the end of the Ice Age and long before. You have Paleolithic people and then the newcomers—Neolithic farmers. These sequences can help us understand who came first and who came last to various geographic locations around the world.

      But what of those squiggles?

      Sequences. He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, and then settled back in his seat, but he wasn’t able to take his gaze from her face or figure.

      You haven’t been sent by one of my undergraduate students planning a surprise birthday party for me? I expected them to send a belly dancer jumping out of a cake like they did last year. I heard this time my students were sending Meenay of Istanbul to dance at my birthday bash. Are you Meenay, the drama student?

      No. The city isn’t familiar, and I can’t recall the name of anyone, honestly. Do I work here? Would I be listed in your computers any way other than by name, like a fingerprint file?

      The tall, slender honey blonde sat, numbed to the whirling computer lights surrounding her in the shadows of a small red-brick building at the University of California, Davis Medical School. A millennium of tears flowed.

      She buried her face in his chest, sobbed and grunted. The young lawman-turned-professor studied her silken blonde-all-over skin, sea-green eyes, mannequin-chiseled nose, and honey-hued curls feather-cut in a waist-length Buster Brown do. The pleasure was enough to slay the idealistic gene hunter. She felt the warmth explode inside him. Startled, the strangers suddenly stepped back from a familiar threshold. Oh, please tell me you know me, she moaned.

      I will admit this is rather unusual. Jim took four twenties out of the petty cash box in his desk. The driver quickly grabbed the bills and turned to leave.

      Why molecular genetics? His rueful hazel eyes painted the woman’s striking symmetry of face and torso. "Is this some clever approach for an informational interview? Didn’t I see you apply for a job here a few weeks ago carrying a resume?

      Are you maybe from the media? If it’s an interview you want concerning my part in cracking the human genome code a few years ago, that wasn’t this Dr. Kallikrates. You want my father, Robert Kal-likrates. You want Timothy Kallikrates, my twin brother. He’s the psychiatrist. We’re identical in looks. Maybe that’s why I’m into forensic genetics research.

      It’s possible I’ve been given something to forget. Wait a minute! Call your brother and ask him to order a blood test. Wouldn’t traces of something nasty show up?

      Not if it disappears quickly from the system, like nitrous oxide mixed with some of the psychetropic drugs prescribed for psychotics who break with reality.

      I’d like a blood test.

      What should the technicians be looking for?

      Sodium pentothal, if someone wanted to give me truth serum before blocking my memory, or some of the newer anti-psychosis drugs. Check for the nasty stuff under current litigation used to scratch memory. Now how’d I know that?

      Think you may work in any of the scientific or legal fields, Miss?

      Is there anything about me that shows I understand what you’re talking about?

      Do you even know what we do here? Jim tried to sound casual.

      Test DNA? Teach? Counsel couples?

      I’m a law man and a forensic biologist. I’m all those things, but mainly, I’m into legal genetics.

      He paced around her with an agility and passion she’d never guess such a learned person could display at work. I’m on loan this semester only to teach forensic genetics to my graduate students in archaeoge-netics—all about the peopling of the world. That’s the history and geography of human genes—analyzing expansions after the end of the Ice Age. You need this background to tell a fossil from a homicide and also to testify and test DNA for the courts.

      Is any of this supposed to sound familiar to me?

      You came to me. He clenched his jaw. Why would my card be in your possession and nothing else? I had those cards printed only a week ago and don’t remember ever giving them out to anyone. They were on my desk for two days, in plain sight, but my office was locked—except for the cleaning crew. Anyway, why would I lock up my temporary faculty business cards? I’m only teaching for a year, and then I go back to being a lawman in forensic biology.

      Cleaning crew? Is it an independent contractor team, perhaps the same crew I awakened to in the movie theater?

      I can check that.

      Can you search your computers to see whether my ID photo is in there?

      Enjoying the preview?
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