Sleep fell upon me.
And, when I say fell, I mean it was the safe and I was the stupid shmuck standing on the sidewalk beneath. However, there are times when it is better to simply stay put and get flattened rather than to step out of the way. I suppose, all things considered, this was one of them.
Of course, this was not to say it was the best nap I’d ever experienced, but it probably wasn’t the worst either. I don’t recall dreaming, but in one sense that was probably a good thing since any such subconscious imagery would most likely have taken the form of “the nightmare” anyway.
In the end, I awoke in much the same position I had been in before being set upon by unconsciousness. At least, I think I did. I couldn’t really remember much of anything other than the fact that one minute I was awake and the next, I wasn’t. Still, I found that I was upright, sitting on the couch, and I did actually have a faint memory of planting myself there at some point in the recent past. The only thing that seemed to have changed was the fact that I now had one cat across my lap, one next to me on the arm of the sofa, and finally a third sitting on the corner of the coffee table returning my bleary-eyed stare.
“What are you looking at?” I mumbled as I stretched, but the feline simply scrunched its eyes shut then reopened them and continued watching me.
I had no idea why I was suddenly awake or even how long I had been out to begin with. I did know that the pounding in my head hadn’t subsided in the least, but that really didn’t mean anything. I could have been asleep for ten minutes, or ten hours, where that was concerned. Ethereal migraines were happy to hang around for as long as it took to get their point across, and it was becoming obvious this one was here for the long haul.
I tried to look at my watch and found my wrist to be a mottled blur. Reaching up to rub my eyes, I quickly discovered the reason; my glasses had fallen from my face. I sent my hand searching for them and at the same moment heard a sound that served to kick-start my brain.
“Rowan?” Ben’s voice issued from the speaker on the answering machine then briefly paused. “Goddammit, Rowan, if you’re there, pick up the friggin’ phone!”
I got the distinct impression from the exasperation in his voice that this might not be his first attempt at calling. If that was true, I was pretty sure I now knew what had roused me from my impromptu slumber.
I nudged Dickens from my lap and pushed myself up from the couch, sending my eyeglasses skittering across the floor as they fell from wherever they’d been hiding. Dancing through the mounds of one-time shelf contents, I snatched up the handset and pressed it against my ear.
“Yeah, Ben,” I croaked groggily. “I’m here.”
“Yeah? So why aren’t you here?”
“What?”
“It’s a quarter after seven, white man,” he returned. “You were s’posed ta’ meet us here at six-thirty, and you ain’t one for bein’ late.”
“Damn,” I mumbled, remembering the meeting we’d set up earlier. “Sorry. I accidentally took your advice and fell asleep.”
“S’okay,” he huffed, a note of understanding in his tone. “Ya’ prob’ly needed it pretty bad.”
“Yeah, I think so. Listen, I’ll get cleaned up real quick, and I can be there in half an hour…maybe forty-five minutes.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout it,” Ben grunted. “Just gargle and put some coffee on. We’ll come to you. You want some food?”
“Nah, I’m good.” I shook my head for no one’s benefit but my own. “I’m not really hungry.”
“When’d you eat last?”
“It’s not important.”
“Yeah, it is. When?”
“I don’t know,” I replied, somewhat annoyed. “Yesterday I think.”
“You gotta eat.”
“Really, I’m good, Ben.”
“You want burritos or tacos?”
“Ben, really…”
“Forget it. We’ll just get ya’ both,” he continued, completely ignoring me. “We’ll see ya’ in twenty.”
I started to object again, but he had already hung up. I dropped the handset back into the cradle then stifled a deep yawn. Turning around I located my glasses and scooped them up from beneath the coffee table, giving the lenses a quick swipe with the tail of my shirt before sliding them onto my face. Continuing on to the kitchen, I set about starting the coffee before I tried to make myself presentable.
I was already on my second cup when they arrived.
*****
It seemed that the scant few hours of shuteye had left me with little more than a crick in my neck and a patent desire for more sleep. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. I did have something a bit more worthwhile to show for it, and that was a noticeable semi-softening of my mood. While the respite certainly hadn’t been a panacea, it did seem to have had a moderate analgesic effect on my anger. Therefore, by the time Ben and Constance made it to the house, I really didn’t feel much like hitting him. Although, to be honest, I really wasn’t sure if it was truly because the rest had calmed me down or if I was simply still too tired. Whatever the reason, in the grand scheme of things, the end result definitely qualified as a positive note on the day.
“Thought you weren’t hungry,” Ben said as he sat watching me toss down the last of an oversized burrito they had brought along from the restaurant.
I shrugged while I finished chewing then swallowed and washed it down with a swig of coffee before replying, “Guess I was wrong.”
“Told ya’.”
“Yeah, Ben, you’re a stark raving genius.”
“You’ve got to take care of yourself, Rowan,” Constance interjected before he could retort.
My mood truly was better, but my mouth apparently hadn’t caught up to it yet.
“I’ll have time for that after I die,” I quipped, mimicking Ben’s penchant for cliches.
“You aren’t going to be able to do Felicity any good if you make yourself sick,” she pressed.
The petite FBI agent was standing in the doorway that led into the kitchen, her back pressed into the jamb. She was still clad in work attire, a fitted suit which certainly accented her figure but did little to hide the forty-caliber Sig Sauer parked on her right hip.
Though her shoulder-length brunette hair was neatly styled, it still exhibited an end of day droopiness that matched her slouched posture and sagging expression. Even though she was right at a decade younger than either Ben or me, the power of her youth was visibly running out of steam. Judging simply by the way she looked, it was obvious that she was wearing down just like us.
“You get used to it,” I said, responding again to her attempt at mothering me. “After awhile it just doesn’t matter. You do what you have to do and get sick later.”
“You’re sounding just like Storm,” she countered.
“I probably got it from him,” I agreed.
“I’m sure you could pick a better role model to emulate, Rowan.”
Ben piped up. “Hey! Ya’know, I’m right here in the room.”
“Uh-huh,” I grunted. “You’re kind of hard to miss. Besides, I think she’s kidding.”
“Yeah, well I wouldn’t place any bets on that,” he returned.
“A little sensitive tonight, are we?” Constance quipped in his direction.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t ya’?”
“Can you two pick at each other later?” I sighed and then switched the subject. “So, anyway, what do I owe you for the dinner?”
“Depends. You gonna eat any more?”
“No, I’m done.”
“Let’s see then, you ate the burrito…,” Ben mumbled as he reached out and grabbed the sack, inspected the contents, then stuck his hand in and extracted one of the tacos. He already had it unwrapped when he added, “Well, near as I can figure, looks like nothin’.”
“You’re sure?”
“Uhm-hmmm,” he grunted with a nod, his mouth full.
“Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said aft
er swallowing. “Besides, the Feeb bought.”
“Ben!” she snapped.
I shook my head, embarrassed by my chauvinistic assumption. “Sorry, Constance, I thought…Oh, hell, doesn’t matter. What do I owe you?”
“Nothing, Rowan,” she replied. “I didn’t buy, he did. He’s just yanking your chain.”
“Great,” I said, shooting him a disgusted look. “You’ve just got to pick at somebody, don’t you? Did you forget I’m still kind of pissed even if you did bring me dinner?”
“Hey,” he grumbled. “Ya’ seemed like you were in a okay mood when we got here. You’ve even been halfway pleasant. Well, sorta. Anyway, I figured it couldn’t hurt ta’ lighten things up a bit more.”
“Yeah, whatever,” I dismissed the comment. “Light isn’t my thing right now. I’m going to need a lot more sleep before we go there.”
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.”
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