Page 15 of The Last Close Call

She leaned back against the counter and crossed her feet at the ankles. She wore brown leather slippers with a fuzzy white lining. He looked up and tried not to get distracted by her breasts in that shirt.

“There’s some beer in there, too, I think.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” he said, even though he would have liked to have a beer with her. But he was here on business.

“I was surprised by your message,” he told her.

“Why?”

“I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.”

She lifted her shoulder. “Actually, I would have been done sooner but I smacked into that wall you mentioned.”

Jack’s pulse quickened. He hadn’t wanted to get his hopes up, but there was no mistaking the flare of excitement in her eyes.

“And?” he asked.

“And come take a look.”

She turned and led him into a glassed-in sunporch that seemed to be an add-on to the little house. On the far wall was a table with two computers—a notebook and a desktop with an oversize monitor. Mounted on the wall above the monitor was a pair of copper angel wings. Created by the sculptor in residence maybe? Beside the desk was a green armchair piled with files and paperwork.

Rowan leaned over the keyboard and turned to smile at him. “I managed to break through.”

Jack moved closer to look over her shoulder, catching the scent of her shampoo. She tapped the mouse and brought the screen to life, and Jack leaned in to study the columns filled with numbers. He glanced at her.

“Let’s back up, though,” she said, probably sensing that the information on her screen was Greek to him. “How much do you know about genetic genealogy? In terms of new developments in the field?”

“Not nearly as much as you.”

“So, a lot of this goes back to the fallout from the Golden State Killer investigation. Law enforcement uploaded the killer’s DNA profile to a public site, and after he was arrested, there was a backlash from privacy advocates—which I get, actually. The site’s users hadn’t given permission for police to comb through their DNA data. So, anyway, now this site specifically tells people that they permit law enforcement usage—which is good news for cold case detectives.”

“It’s the best tool we have now,” Jack said. “A bunch of cases are seeing the light of day again.”

“And despite the initial backlash, plenty of people have no problem with cops using their genetic data to catch rapists and murderers, so the database keeps growing by leaps and bounds.” She turned to her computer. “So, these genealogy sites are great, but it’s not like they do all the work for you. Basically, they can provide you with a list of ‘matches’ ”—she did air quotes with her hands—“and I hate that term, because it isn’t really a match but more of an overlap. You get a list of individuals that share your sample’s DNA. Of course, it’s not a list of names. That would be too easy. People on these sites often use aliases or anonymous email addresses. So part of my work is sorting out who’s who. You follow?”

He nodded.

“And there are a lot of clues to work with that aren’t about the DNA. We can narrow down possibilities with geography—who lived near the crime? And age—who was alive and physically capable when the crime was committed? And sex—we know the crime was committed by a male. So, all those factors helped me focus my search.” She turned to her screen. “I don’t know what kind of results you got back the first time, but I got two promising matches. The closer match—or the one with more overlap—was on the mother’s side so—”

“How do you know?” he asked.

“That match shares DNA on the X chromosome, which males only get from their mother.”

“Got it.”

She turned to her computer again. “Sorry.” She rolled her eyes. “You probably aren’t used to reading these charts. Here.” She scooted around him and picked up a large whiteboard propped against the wall. She mounted it on an easel in the corner and turned to look at him.

“This is what I’ve been working on for three straight days.”

Jack studied the diagram. The spreadsheet on the computer meant nothing to him, but this visual, he could read. It was a family tree with what had to be dozens of branches. Colored sticky notes were stuck to different limbs, creating the effect of actual leaves. He tipped his head to the side and tried to decipher some of the scribbled notes.

Henry m. Agnes?? 1894

He glanced at her. “You went back a hundred years?”

“More than that.” She shrugged. “I had to. That’s how I do it.”

“How do you mean?”

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