“I’m with you, but I guess I’d say that if it shows up in the database, then it probably isn’t too unusual. I mean, that’s what the database is for—to evaluate how common a given sequence is. Or am I missing something?”
James Scott was getting increasingly nervous, and he shuffled his printouts over and over again. He chewed the inside of his cheek and blinked several times in quick succession, obviously unsure of how to best proceed. “No, you’re right, but…but this is like a real unusual sequence. Right? And what would you say if I told you that it matched a reference sample in the database in a way it shouldn’t? That there’s some…some things in common.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Hypothetically, what if a reference sample from the database and the sequence from the evidence came from the same town?” He blinked rapidly again.
“Is the reference sample connected to a CILHI case?”
Scott nodded. He had stopped blinking and his eyes were now fixed on Pierce’s.
“Then hypothetically, I’d say you have no business even knowing who the CILHI sample is from or where it’s from. You know full well that those samples were collected to identify war dead and can’t be used for criminal cases. You shouldn’t know the where, when, who, or how-come about any of those samples. Did you look that information up somehow? You did, didn’t you? What in the world were you thinking, Jim?”
“What I was thinking is that there was some explanation. I never thought there was a connection between the two when I started. Figured it for an error. I was reviewing the latest database additions when I saw this unusual sequence. So unusual it popped out on the page, ’cause I’d just seen the same exact sequence from a cold case we’ve reopened.”
Thomas Pierce took a deep breath and looked out his window. He was still watching traffic on the interstate when he spoke. “Probably just a coincidence anyway. It’s mitochondrial DNA, after all, and…”
“Oh for crying out loud, Tom. You got a calculator? Do the math.” James Scott had finally stopped shuffling his papers and had arranged them neatly on the desk, turned at an angle so that they both could view them. He began jabbing a highlighted entry on a status report with his finger.“Yes, it’s mitochondrial DNA, butNo, it’s not a very common sequence. Look at that—a C in place of a T, and right next to a G instead of an A. You ever seen that before? Not at those loci, you haven’t. And look here…and here…and…look at this.” He stabbed at each polymorphism in turn. “Get one of your analysts in here if you don’t believe me, let them run the likelihood ratios,” he said. He was referring to several rare base pair changes that had shown up on the two supposedly unrelated samples. “That’s why at first I figured it for a data entry error.”
“It probably is an error of some sort. What’s the other connection—you said that there was something these two have in common—though I probably shouldn’t be hearing this, should I? This is still hypothetical.”
“Call it what you want. You want a connection? The fact is, both samples come from the town of Spit Wad, Arkansas, population of like a dozen. One is a CILHI case, one is our cold case, and they’re separated by forty-some odd years.”
“A coincidence.”
“Some coincidence. Maybe to you, but to me, that’s a not-very-likely occurrence, and a not-very-
likely occurrence usually means a connection. And there shouldn’t be a connection here.”
“A connection, or more likely some sort of conversion error,” Pierce quietly replied. He had stopped watching traffic and had focused his full attention on Scott’s printouts. “You got to admit this smells more like a data conversion error, duplicated data, duplicated cells in the spreadsheet. This is exactly the sort of thing I’ve been complaining about for six months. If the database isn’t reliable, what use is the database to anyone? What software version did you use to convert the data?”
“Five-point-two, but the answer is,Nope, I checked this case before I left my office. I even went back to the spreadsheet you guys sent—if it’s an error, then the data were all cocked up before we got it.”
Since the AFDIL had resumed responsibility for the initial data entry of its samples, Pierce knew that the blame had just been volleyed back to him and his people.
“Maybe,” Pierce agreed calmly without conceding. He was always calm. He leaned over the table to study the figures more closely, and then rocked backward adjusting the distance. He had reached that age where he had to simultaneously get close to and move away from something in order to read it. “You’re sure it isn’t a repeated entry? Easiest explanation is that it occurred when the data was converted. Sequence data just slid down a row. You’re sure the conversion was clean?” As the FBI was responsible for data conversion, Pierce was trying to lob it back into Scott’s court.
“Positive.”
“Well then, I guess the first question I’d ask is, what’s the probability that it’s a legit match? I wonder what the real size of this town, this…” he read the address on the status form, “Split Tree is?”
“Two thousand, one hundred and thirty-five—last census. Already checked.”
Pierce sighed and studied the tabletop for a moment, tapping his fingers as he ran the numbers in his head. “I’ll admit that that isn’t a very big town, but it is Arkansas. You ever been there? Sometimes the old family tree doesn’t have as many branches as it should.”
“You agree that there’s a connection?”
“No, but I’m not simply going to assume one of my people made an error entering the data. And you say that the conversion is clean. So we’re at a standoff. I think it’s worth taking another look at the raw data.”
“And?”
“And?” Pierce echoed.
“And if the data check out? I still don’t think it’s an error. For my money, they’re connected—I’m not sure how—but they are. So if the data check out, will you agree that we may have a connection?”
“We’ll see.”
“Okay, okay.” Scott nodded quickly. “We’ll see.”
“I will tell you this, though,” Pierce said as he leaned back in his chair, “if they are connected, you’ve got yourself a very big problem—hypothetically speaking, that is.”
Scott hesitated as he was putting the spreadsheets back into his briefcase. He looked up at Pierce. “What’s that?” he asked.
“You can’t use the database to make the match in your cold case. You know the protocols better than I do. The database entries are to be anonymous.”
“I know,” Scott said as he stood up. “We need new evidence. That’s why we have an agent down in Spit Wad right now.”
Chapter 10
U.S. Army Central Identification Laboratory, Hawaii
TUESDAY, AUGUST16, 2005
Over the years, Kel had developed an almost Pavlovian response to the sound of a telephone ringing.
When he’d been young and courting his wife, he’d lingered for hours on the phone with her—much to the displeasure, he was sure, of his future mother-in-law and anyone else needing to use the phone in the evening. But that had been almost thirty-five years ago. Now the sound of a phone ringing made him salivate with dread. Phone calls equated to problems; some brush fire that required stomping out. He was long past appreciating any enjoyment that the adrenaline rush of crisis management used to bring.
It was his third day back at the office. His wife, recognizing the symptoms of an imminent crash and burn, had suggested that he ought to take some extra time and drop their boys off at school on his way in, and it was almost eight-fifteen when he finally eased into his desk chair.
And then the phone rang.
Whatever, whoever, it was, he knew it probably wasn’t good. Phone calls first thing in the morning usually meant Washington—six hours ahead and in the middle of their crisis du jour.
And Washington meant Headquarters.
And Headquarters meant put on your fire-fighting boots and prepare to start stomping becau
se the brush fires were about to flame up.
“Central ID Lab, McKelvey.” He closed his eyes as he answered the phone, as if shutting out the light would help brace against the incoming impact.
“Well hello, Bubba.” It was Washington all right, but not Headquarters. Instead Kel heard the soft, Old Dominion drawl of Thomas Pierce.
Kel smiled. Pierce was one of his favorite people in the world. They had first met years ago when they worked together at the CILHI, before Pierce had moved on to become the Director of the AFDIL, and the interfingering of their work ensured that they maintained contact, though not as much as Kel would have liked. No matter what the topic, he enjoyed talking to Pierce.
“Hey, Doctor, what’s shakin’ with you?”
“What isn’t? I need to start exercising again.”
“Yeah. Tell me about it,” Kel replied. “I’m beyond things shakin’ anymore, it’s more like the quiverin’ ripples.”
“Thanks for the image; that one will stay with me for a while. Listen, I’ll only keep you a minute—I’ve got an out-briefing with one of our Scientific Advisory Boards in about five minutes, so I can’t talk long.”
“Well, in that case, I’m the one who won’t keep you—I know how enjoyable those meetings can be. So what’s up?”
“What’s up is that you can expect a call from the FBI.”
“FBI? Your clearance up for review again?—seems like we just went through that nut roll not too long ago.” Kel and Pierce listed each other as references on their respective security clearance reviews and always gave each another some advance warning when they were about to be interviewed. “You still a heroin addict or did this last stint at the halfway house clean you up this time?”
“No, I’m staying clean, but I’m still beating my two lesbian wives.”
“Too bad. I always kinda liked them.”
“For once it’s not about my clearance. Scott’s going to be calling about a CILHI case.”
“Jim Scott? Why would he be callin’?” Kel asked. “We don’t have anythin’ out with them right now, and they don’t have anythin’ here that we’re lookin’ at for them.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Pierce said.
“As usual, you seem to know somethin’ I don’t.”
“As usual,” Pierce acknowledged. “It’s case number…let’s see…” Kel could hear him shuffling through some papers. He knew from frequent visits to Washington that Pierce’s desk was only marginally cleaner than his own. Much more organized, but only marginally cleaner. Pierce was one of those types that could keep a box of squirrels well organized. “…it’s case AFDIL05-084—of course that’s our case number, I don’t have the CILHI accession number at hand.”
“I may,” Kel said. “Hold on, I think I’ve got a status report right here.” He briefly surveyed the strata on his desk before plucking a thin, stapled report from a layer about an inch down from the top. It was the most recent CILHI case status printout, and it had several different colors of highlighting making it easy to spot amid the clutter. He had made significant progress the day before in bringing a semblance of order to the accumulated work on his desk—he’d even picked the files up off the floor. He hadn’t done anything with them, but he’d at least gotten them off the floor. “Here we go…let’s see, zero-five-dash-oh-eight-four…oh-
eight-four…oh-eight-four, let’s see,” he leafed through the first two pages. “Ahh. That would be, let’s see, that would be CILHI…” It took another moment to cross-reference the AFDIL and CILHI case numbers. He looked again. “That would be…no…huh uh, can’t be…read me that number again.”
Pierce repeated the case number and Kel grabbed a ruler from his drawer and held it under the case number on his report printout to make sure that he was reading across the line correctly.
“Nope, it can’t be,” he finally responded. “That’s a Vietnam War case—there’s no FBI connection at all.” He thought back to his conversation with D.S. the previous day about the ID tag and the mismatched DNA and the possible explanations. “We got a few bugs we’re workin’ out, but there’s no FBI involvement. None at all.”
“Well,” Pierce cut in, “the FBI disagrees. In fact, I spent an hour in a meeting yesterday with Scott, mostly because of this case.”
“If I know Jim, it probably only seemed like an hour.”
“No, it actually seemed like four. And this case was the main topic.”
“You’re jokin’, right?”
“I wish. Seems they’re working on some forty-year-old civil rights murder and the blood sample from their evidence matches the DNA from CILHI’s reference sample.”
“Civil rights? No way.” Kel remembered from reading the personnel folder that Chester Evans was black; he’d also had a checkered past with regard to the law—but he recalled nothing that even vaguely seemed associated to civil rights or anything that the FBI should be interested in.
“Way.”
“No way.”
“Way.”
“This is the Trimble and Evans case. You know it? Trimble was awarded the Navy Cross, for God’s sake. Civil rights? How can he be connected? You remember that case? Quang Nam Province. He called in a napalm run on his own ass. Saved a whole slew of folks.”
“I hear you, but the FBI thinks that there’s a link.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Well, here’s how Jim explained their reasoning to me. First, Trimble’s reference DNA sequence is unique to the database…” Pierce began.
“Okay. That’s a good thing.”
“Right, that’s ordinarily a good thing, but it also matches the DNA from this forty-year-old murder case.”
“Yeah,” Kel countered, “but it’s still mitochondrial DNA, it could match any number of people even if it’s unique in the database. The database is just a statistical sample used to evaluate the weight of the evidence…”
“Thanks for the biology lecture, Doctor, now I’m qualified to run my own lab. Believe it or not, however, I said the same thing to Scott.”
“Okay, okay, sorry,” Kel said. “And second? If that was first, what’s the second point?”
“And second is the fact that—and I admit this is a little harder to understand—his second point is that the murder sample and your reference sample for Trimble—from his mother, in fact—not only match, but both come from the same little town.”
“How does he know that? I thought the database was supposed to be anonymous—at least with regard to criminal cases?”
“Long story, and, yeah, you’re right, it is. But let’s speak hypothetically, shall we?”
“But…”
“But just do me a favor, okay?”
“Okay, we’ll save that one for later…maybe over a gin and tonic. So…okay, so you’re sayin’ that hypothetically they come from the same town. So?”
“And it’s a little town.”
“Yeah, well…I’ll admit that makes it a little more unlikely, but it’s not impossible—improbable, maybe, but not impossible. You sure the samples didn’t get mixed up somehow? How about a data entry error?”
“Give me a break, Kel. I had to listen to the FBI try to pin that tail on this donkey’s ass for two hours yesterday.”
“Thought it was an hour.”
“An hour.”
“Sorry. So where’s the town—you said it was small. That’s relative. What you callin’ small?”
“Try about two thousand.”
“Hmm, that’s small. Where is it?”
“Well now, curious that you should bring that up. I thought you might be interested in that, seeing how it’s your old stomping grounds and all.”
“Arkansas? No way.” It took Kel by surprise. He had read the Evans part of the file in depth since Evans was the individual they were trying to find and identify, but he’d never paid much attention to Trimble’s file. Trimble had been identified and buried during the war, and Kel had never had any reason to find out where the Trimbles were
from.
“Yes way. But it’s some little place in east Arkansas, I think. Funny name Jim was saying—Hang Nail, Split Nail, Split End…”
“Split Tree?” Kel sat up straight in his chair.
“Yeah, that sounds right. Split Tree—you ever heard of it?”
“Yes,” Kel said. “My father was born there.”
Chapter 11
Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery, St. Louis, Missouri
FRIDAY, 4 NOVEMBER1966
The green-and-white-striped canvas sagged low from the accumulated rainwater and threatened to collapse the pavilion under its weight. More than one wary eye kept evaluating it, wondering when the thin tubular metal legs would buckle and give way. Attempts by several cemetery attendants to discreetly drain the water to the edge of the tent by poking the underside with long poles had succeeded only in displacing the sag to a location a little more off-center, less noticeable but no less ominous to those gathered underneath it. It had been raining for the last forty-eight hours and now, to add to the misery, the temperature had sharply plummeted into the midthirties and foreshadowed an early winter ice storm.
Welcome to St. Louis in November.
The mourners were outnumbered by those paid to be present: the cemetery workers, the honor guard, and representatives of the Navy Casualty office.
Grace Trimble had traveled all day the day before to see her only son buried. She sat quietly in a metal folding chair in the front row right center, her handbag balanced in her lap and her black dress covered by a thin camel-colored overcoat that wasn’t designed to shed water. There was a dark scarf covering her head, and she looked gray and frail well beyond her years. Jimmie Carl’s father, Carl Trimble, had drunk himself into a grave six months earlier, but it was unlikely that he would have attended in any case. Jimmie’s surrogate father, Raymond Elmore, Sr.—Big Ray—had made the eight-hour drive up from the little Arkansas backwater of Split Tree. He’d left well before sunup and had driven nonstop. His presence was never in doubt—not by anyone who knew him. There was a smatter of other relatives—a couple of cousins and some other shirttail kin—none all that close, but feeling obviously familial enough nonetheless to stand in the elements and eye the sagging canvas overhead. There were also a few navy and Marine buddies huddled together, marking time till they could get out of the cold and light up their cigarettes and swap war stories. And of course there were representatives from the American Legion, Veterans of Foreign Wars, and half a dozen other veteran and patriotic organizations, all turned out to ensure that a Navy Cross awardee be interred properly.
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