Stuart Kaminsky - Blood On The Sun

Devorah, the pretty, clear-skinned girl whose father was a cantor, rose and said, "You can take my fingerprints and a culture."

She did not look at Joshua, who nodded and said, "We are not a cult. If any member wishes to allow this, it is their choice."

David, lean, curly red hair, the one with the doctorate in Jewish studies, also rose and said, "I'll cooperate."

David looked at Joshua and said, "We have nothing to hide. We are in the hands of the Lord and will be saved."

Two others stood. Joshua was losing control and losing face in front of the two women. He looked at Stella. His mouth smiled but his eyes burned.

He rose, which prompted the rest of the small congregation to do the same.

There was a table against one wall. Aiden and Stella moved to it and asked the members of the congregation to line up. The process was reasonably fast, slowed down only by Stella searching the hands and clothing of each person for signs of blood or struggle and then checking the bottoms of their shoes for signs of blood or residue from the thin layer of sawdust at the murder scene. Aiden swabbed the inside of each person's cheek, bagged the swab and sealed and marked the see-through bag.

DNA, deoxyribonucleic acid, is composed of tightly bound strands called chromosomes. Humans have forty-six paired chromosomes, twenty-three from each parent. Two of these chromosomes decide gender. About thirty thousand genes are attached to each DNA strand. Among other things, genes make up the blueprint for who we are, how we function, our development and growth. No two samples of DNA are exactly alike.

Stella scanned each person with a portable Alternative Light Source. There were traces of blood on only one person in the group, a hefty dark-haired well-groomed young man who identified himself as Earl Katz.

"You have fresh blood on your hands," said Stella.

The young man, who towered over the two women, said, "Yes. A woman with a broken nose bled on me," he said. "Domestic disturbance. I'm a police officer. I got off duty about an hour ago, changed clothes, showered, took my uniform to the cleaner."

"We'll check," said Stella.

"I'm sure you will," said Earl Katz. "You wouldn't be doing your job if you didn't."

Joshua was last and best- traces of blood on both hands and the bottoms of his shoes and what appeared to be patches of sawdust. Stella took samples of the blood and dust from the shoes.

"Want to explain this?" Stella asked, holding up the bags containing blood samples and samples of the sawdust.

"I prefer not to," said Joshua.

Stella took him in for questioning.

Medical Examiner Sheldon Hawkes was known to occasionally engage in gallows humor, but not today. He had the corpse of Becky Vorhees on the table before him. He had three more corpses in the sliding cabinets against the wall. It would be a long morning. Hawkes, an African-American, had recently been having dreams of walking through tall grass under a sun that looked too close. Ahead he could hear voices speaking in a language he didn't understand but was sure he once had. Hawkes wanted to run toward the voices but it was too hot. He was too tired. He finally made it through the grass and in the broad open space before him, three young bare-chested black men stood over a dead and bloody lion. The three men welcomed Hawkes, who moved toward them, knowing that his goal was the dead lion. It wasn't a bad dream at all.

Jane Parsons, who wore a white lab coat, blond hair dangling well-brushed down her neck, looked at the samples lined up on the large table in front of her. There were more than twenty samples. For years commercial laboratories had taken three to six weeks to run a DNA test. Gradually the testing time came down to three to seven days. Jane had cut the time to two days. If the samples were piling up and the CSI investigators were in a hurry, she could get it down to a day.

"Start with the daughter's blood," said Mac, leaning over her shoulder.

Was she wearing perfume? No. It was a combination of shampoo and conditioner. He backed away before… Jane looked over her shoulder at him.

"You all right?" she asked.

"Fine," said Mac. "How long will it take?"

"For all of this?" she said, looking at the table. "Two days. Can the budget take it?"

"It'll have to," he said, turning and walking across the room and through the glass doors.

Microscope in front of her, samples on her right, Jane began her work. She had the name of the willing or unwilling donor of each sample. She knew some of the donors had been murdered and others might be murderers. What she couldn't do, didn't want to do, was put bodies and faces and lives into the laboratory samples.

Using phenol and chloroform, she extracted the DNA from the first sample. She then precipitated the DNA with isopropanol. Next, under the electron microscope, she cut the DNA using restriction enzymes. This produced small DNA fragments. Jane then "loaded" the cut DNA onto an agarose gel that look like clear Jell-O. She mixed the gel and poured it into what looked like a rectangular baking dish. She moved on to the next sample. Each sample would have to sit for at least three hours before it could be used for the test.

When she had the completed gels for all the DNA samples, she would electrophorese the gel by running an electric current through it to separate the fragments according to their size. The fragments would be stained with ethidium bromide.

When this was done, she would be able to view separate fragments and compare the pattern to any DNA found at the crime scene. The separated fragments form the bar code pattern with which the public is familiar. She would end by taking photographs of the bar codes.

The work had to be done carefully. There were too many steps during which a mistake could be made. She assumed that Mac would want to submit the code to the FBI to search for and include in their CODIS (Combined DNA Index System).

Jane had a massive headache. When she could, she would take a few aspirin. The pain was familiar. It went with the job. Her eyes burned. Her mouth was dry. She kept on working.

Don Flack drank a cup of strong, heavily sweetened hot tea and listened to Hyam Glick, brother of the murdered man. They were sitting in the kitchen of Asher Glick's house, four blocks from the synagogue in which he was murdered.

More than a thousand observant Jews lived in the neighborhood, for many reasons. There was a sense of community, a wish to be near relatives, but most important, from sundown Friday to sundown Saturday, the Sabbath, they were forbidden to work or drive in cars. They were also required to attend services on both Friday night and Saturday morning. Far from ideal houses, many in the neighborhood were in need of major repair, but because of their location near the synagogue, when they went on the market, they sold for outrageous prices.

The Glick house seemed to Flack to need no work. The floors were even. The walls were clean, white and unscratched, the furniture unscuffed, the ceiling showing no signs of water damage or sagging.

Women were consoling Yosele and taking care of the children. Other men and women were preparing to sit shivah , covering mirrors, lining up chairs. Still others were out finding cakes, cookies and candy to set out on tables for those who would be coming to pay their respects and say the prayer for the dead.

"The minyan ," Glick said with a sigh. "What can I tell you? I can imagine none of us doing a thing like this. Aaronson, Mendel, Tuchman and Siegman are over eighty. I can't see any of them overpowering my brother or having the strength to drive nails into his…"

Glick stopped, sighed and let out a sob. "My brother was a strong man," he said. "He worked with his hands, his back, moving, lifting furniture. He…"