“Your office looks great,” I said. “I didn’t realize the Physical Plant folks offered any colors but hospital beige and UT Orange.”
She flushed slightly. “Actually, I painted it myself—my husband and I—the weekend I moved into the office. Seemed crazy to move everything in, then have to move everything out again so they could paint it later. And duller.”
“I approve,” I said. “You want something done right—or done fast—you sometimes have to do it yourself.” I got straight to the point, not wanting to make her late for class. “Except when you can’t do it yourself. Which is why I’m hoping you can help me. I’m wondering if you could run a DNA analysis for me.”
She frowned. “I’d be glad to, but the forensic DNA lab isn’t finished yet. They’re still installing the air-handling equipment. It’s almost like we’re building a clean room for NASA. The standards for forensic work—”
I held up a hand to interrupt her. “I’m not after something that would be admissible in court,” I explained. “Here’s my problem. I’ve got a murder victim that I can’t identify. I can’t even tell what race he was.”
If possible, she looked even more uncomfortable. “When you say race, do you mean geographic and genetic ancestry, or cultural identity?”
Oh, crap, I thought, here we go again, remembering Miranda’s discomfort with my mention of “race” at the death scene. The three-race model still struck me as simple and useful—useful to me, and useful to law enforcement. In recent years, however, “race” had come to be hotly debated among anthropologists, and in some circles, simply saying the word was like waving a red flag, an invitation to a shouting match or a shaming.
“Let me ask another way,” I said. “I can’t identify this young man—I know his sex and his approximate age, but nothing else. I’ve got no skull; I don’t even have an intact femur. When I log onto the Department of Justice website and search the Missing Persons database, DOJ tells me that thirteen hundred young men between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five are missing. Two-thirds of those are described by DOJ as ‘white,’ one-sixth are listed as ‘black’ or ‘African American,’ a few dozen as Asian, another few dozen as Native American, and a couple hundred as ‘other’ or ‘unsure.’ My initial guess had been that my victim would be categorized as black, because the murder shows some signs of being a hate crime.”
“What makes you think that?”
“We found a Confederate coin at the scene. We suspect it belonged to the killer, so we’re thinking—or we were thinking, until just now—that he might belong to the Klan or some other white-supremacist hate group. Now, though, I’m not at all sure that the victim is African American. So it would help us a lot—me, the TBI, and the poor little Cooke County Sheriff’s Office—if we didn’t have to chase down all thirteen hundred of those missing-person leads.” She nodded slowly. “So could you run a quick DNA test, Delia? Maybe narrow it down to one of those missing-person categories—white, black, Asian, whatever way you can match the genetics with the law enforcement descriptions? Again, it’s not for court. Just to help focus the investigation.”
“If that’s all you need, I probably can. If the DNA’s not too degraded. Can you spare a tooth? That would give me the best shot at an intact, uncontaminated sample.”
I shook my head. “No skull, remember? And no scattered teeth. But I could cut a cross section from a long-bone shaft—a femur, or a humerus. That’s next best, right?”
“Actually, no.” She hesitated, as if she felt awkward about correcting me. “If you’ve got a tarsal or metatarsal or phalange—any little bone from the hands or feet—that’s probably a better source.” Seeing my surprise, she shrugged. “I know, I know, the conventional wisdom used to be that heavy cortical bone—the shaft of a femur or humerus—would protect the DNA better than anything except tooth enamel. But turns out it doesn’t.” Still dubious, I raised my eyebrows, so she went on. “That’s something we learned from the team that identified victims from the World Trade Center after 9/11. They analyzed something like twenty thousand fragments for DNA—many of them not even an inch in size—and the best DNA recovery rate came from finger bones and toe bones.”
“I’ll be,” I said. “Live and learn.”
Delia’s phone gave a soft chime. “Oh dear,” she said, “I’m late for class.”
“Sorry to keep you,” I said, backing through the doorway. “Blame it on your boss.”
“Aye aye, Captain.” She smiled, which I took as a sign that she wouldn’t be too harsh in assigning blame.
“There’ll be a finger bone in your mailbox before your class lets out,” I said, as she emerged and closed her door. “Special delivery. And thanks.”
“Happy to help the team.”
I started toward my office, and she headed the opposite direction. “Happy to have you on it,” I called over my shoulder. “Even if you make me feel like a dinosaur.”
CHAPTER 12