Torn. Chris Jordan
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Shane says. “I have worked with labs and with DNA identification experts in the past, while investigating crimes and also in preparing expert testimony. So I know just enough to get myself in trouble.”
“But you’re more or less current with lab protocols?”
He shakes his head. “No, I wouldn’t say that. Tests and procedures change so quickly it’s hard to keep up. Excuse me, Dr. Teeger, but was there a problem? You seem to know a lot about this particular case right off. Enough to be concerned about lawsuits.”
She sighs and gives him a pained look. “I’ve spoken to Mrs. Corbin personally. Several times. As recently as last week, as a matter of fact. I assured her, as I’m going to assure you, that I’m one hundred percent certain that the blood spatter we tested is a match for the little boy’s blood. The genetic markers are identical to a slide sample that was taken when he had his tonsils removed two years ago. Perfect match. We also tested against Mrs. Corbin’s DNA, at her request—and at no charge, by the way—and again determined that the samples taken from the crime scene are from her biological son. So even if the comparison sample from the hospital had been tainted or misfiled somehow, we still know that the samples taken from the gym belong to her son, no doubt about it.”
“So the blood is a slam dunk.”
“I’m not crazy about sports analogies in criminal matters, but yes. Slam dunk.”
“Same for the tissue?”
The beautiful doctor hesitates, covering her uncertainty with a wry smile. “Not so much,” she admits. “If this ever came to trial, and I don’t see how it could since the perpetrator died, we’d have to exclude the tissue match.”
Shane sits up straight. The time for slumping is over. “Excuse me?”
“That’s why we’ve been unable to comply with Mrs. Corbin’s request that we retest the tissue as well as the blood.”
Shane nods, wanting to give the impression he knows all about the retest request. “Yes,” he says. “And why exactly was that? Retesting is pretty routine in criminal cases.”
“This is embarrassing,” Hilly Teeger says, studying the top of her empty desk, avoiding eye contact. “After the initial test, which showed a match, the tissue samples were accidentally incinerated. We fired the tech, of course. Obvious violation of protocol, no excuse. Fortunately the blood spatter remained intact and we have in fact retested those samples. Twice.”
“But the tissue collected at the crime scene, that was incinerated?”
“Yes, it was.”
“So no tissue samples remain?”
“None.”
“Just a few drops of blood.”
She nods, a glum look dimming her beauty. “We’re very sorry,” she says. “It’s inexcusable, but accidents do happen.”
Randall Shane isn’t very sorry. Not in the least. He leaves GenData with a veritable bounce in his step. Thinking, I’ll stop by the motel, do a little exploring online, and then I’ll go see Mrs. Corbin and tell her the news.
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