Torn. Chris Jordan
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Joe Kennedy Jr., scion of the powerful Kennedy clan, risked his own life flying an insanely dangerous mission, like thousands of other brave pilots in WWII, and paid the price. No conspiracy necessary, or likely.
Sometimes a person is just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Breakfasting at Windows on the World on the wrong sunny morning in September. Shopping at the Santa Monica farmer’s market when a befuddled elderly driver steps on the gas instead of the brake, killing nine, injuring more than fifty. On holiday in Phuket when a tsunami rolls in without warning. Being struck and killed by a neighbor’s car. Total accident, just one of those things, even if you are the child of crime boss John Gotti. No conspiracy necessary. Bad luck doesn’t discriminate on account of income level or social connections or, in this case, because the victim may have a family connection to a reclusive, charismatic billionaire with a long history of getting what he wants, no matter the cost or consequence.
Okay, Mrs. Corbin has a point, it is unusual to have so little of the remains recovered after an explosion. Unusual, but by no means unheard of. Off the top of his head Shane can think of several exceptions, including a South Carolina fireworks factory and a gas leak in a Newark tenement, each of which turned several bodies into mere molecules. Forty pounds of C-4 doesn’t have the explosive power of ten thousand pounds of black powder, but it could certainly turn a small boy into blood and tissue, awful as that is to contemplate.
Not that he thinks Haley Corbin is delusional. She’s a nice young woman beset by random tragedy—her husband and now her son—and she’s grasping at straws and unlikely scenarios.
One thing gives him pause. In his years in the Bureau, and especially since he left, Randall Shane has seen enough exceptions to know that rules really can be broken, conspiracies can sometimes happen, and even paranoids sometimes have real reasons to fear. So he will check out GenData and satisfy himself that the lab got it right, that Noah Corbin is no more, and that will be the end of his involvement.
That’s what he keeps telling himself.
The first thing he notices, upon entering the large, one-story facility, is that security looks first-rate. Metal detector, armed guards with the sharp, neatly pressed uniforms. The guards restrict entrance to a single stream of visitors who must apply for a pass at the reception desk before attempting to enter the main building. Not that the place is inundated with visitors—at the moment there’s a FedEx guy with a trolley of small boxes—samples, one assumes—and Shane himself, who smiles and makes small talk as he gets wanded.
“All the lab workers come through here?” he asks amiably.
“Sorry, sir, we can’t discuss security.”
“Nah, sure, course not. Just professional curiosity. I’m guessing there’s another entrance for the employees. Got to be.”
“You’re good to go, sir. Show your pass and ID at Admin, they’ll guide you to your destination.”
The security seems overelaborate, actually, but he assumes it’s all part of the package. Assuring the legal system that forensic samples and items going through GenData are not contaminated or tampered with. No break in the chain of custody.
After another courteous inspection of his time-stamped pass and his driver’s license, Shane is waved into a bright, cheerful office with a view of a snow-dusted field and the woods beyond. He paces along one wall, checking out the framed degrees. Very impressive indeed.
A moment later he’s joined by a bright, cheerful woman who seems to be a perfect match for her office. Knee-length pleated skirt, a plain but elegant blouse, and a crisp cotton lab jacket—a ‘white coat’—that somehow looks good with the ensemble. Short blond hair, pixie cut to compliment small but lovely features and big green eyes not the least obscured by very stylish glasses. Might be forty but looks years younger. All she’s missing is the stethoscope and she could be a surgeon guest-starring on ER, the one who has a brief fling with the handsome but troubled pediatrician.
“Hilly Teeger,” she announces, offering a perfectly manicured hand. “Hilly is for Hildegard, so you know why I go with Hilly. You must be the FBI guy that called ahead.”
“Retired,” he reminds her. “I’m a civilian now.”
“I bet everybody wants to know if you played basketball. Or was it football.”
“It comes up,” he admits. “Neither. Not after high school.”
“Do you mind taking a seat so I don’t get a crick in my neck?”
Shane sits, keeps a pleasant, nonaggressive smile in place, well aware that his size can be intimidating, and that this isn’t a situation where intimidation would be helpful. He can’t shrink, but he can slump in his seat, make sure his voice remains on a light register.
“Pretty impressive bunch of degrees you’ve got there, Dr. Teeger,” he begins, glancing at the wall. “Harvard, McGill, Johns Hopkins.”
She waves away the compliment and leans back in her chair, keeping the desk between them. A desk that appears never to get used. “Hopkins was just a research fellowship. Lucky to get it.”
“So GenData doesn’t fool around. They hire a lab director, they go for the top tier.”
“We do our best,” she responds evenly. “This is just one of thirty-eight labs nationwide. How may we assist?”
Shane gets the distinct impression that somehow she’s taking his temperature. A very careful woman and, from what’s hinted in the wall display, vastly overqualified for her position. According to Google, the GenData corporation owns and runs a chain of testing facilities and does not engage in research. It’s basically a lucrative, high-tech factory, processing samples. Curious that it would employ a person with her qualifications. Research fellowships not being easy to come by at Johns Hopkins, where he’s pretty certain that little is left to luck.
“As I mentioned over the phone, I’m inquiring on behalf of Mrs. Haley Corbin, whose son’s remains were—”
“I know who she is, Mr. Shane,” she says. “The poor woman. What a horrible thing.”
“Then as you know, Mrs. Corbin is concerned that the results might have been wrong. That a mistake could have been made.”
“Hmm,” says Hilly Teeger, not sounding even slightly surprised. “May I ask in what capacity you’re representing Mrs. Corbin? Are you practicing law by any chance?”
“I’m not a lawyer. I’m a retired Special Agent.”
“Ah,” she says airily, as if amused by his response. “Once upon a time most FBI agents had law degrees.”
“Before my time,” Shane says, keeping it affable, non-threatening. “Are you concerned that Mrs. Corbin may be contemplating a lawsuit?”
“It crossed our mind. Our minds—mine and others in the company. GenData, the national entity, not this lab specifically, let me just say there have been lawsuits, okay? And not only in the forensic arena. Someone doesn’t like their BRAC analysis, or how the results are presented, they think that’s a basis for a lawsuit. It’s not, but sometimes they think it is. This is America, after all.”
“BRAC analysis?”
“Accounts for almost thirty percent of our business nationwide. We sequence DNA upon request and determine if there are mutations shown to indicate a genetic propensity for breast and/or ovarian cancer. It’s an early warning system of sorts.”
“This isn’t about cancer, Dr. Teeger.”
“That was just an example. People sue for all kinds of reasons. That’s their right under the law. It’s just we like to know if that’s what we’re dealing with.”
Shane sits back, thinks about it. Something is going on, he’s not sure what. “So far as I know, Mrs. Corbin is not planning a lawsuit at this time. Or any time. She simply wants to know if a mistake