M Sellars - All acts of pleasure

“Depends. You gonna eat any more?”

“No, I’m done.”

“Let’s see then, you ate the burrito…,” Ben mumbled as he reached out and grabbed the sack, inspected the contents, then stuck his hand in and extracted one of the tacos. He already had it unwrapped when he added, “Well, near as I can figure, looks like nothin’.”

“You’re sure?”

“Uhm-hmmm,” he grunted with a nod, his mouth full.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said after swallowing. “Besides, the Feeb bought.”

“Ben!” she snapped.

I shook my head, embarrassed by my chauvinistic assumption. “Sorry, Constance, I thought…Oh, hell, doesn’t matter. What do I owe you?”

“Nothing, Rowan,” she replied. “I didn’t buy, he did. He’s just yanking your chain.”

“Great,” I said, shooting him a disgusted look. “You’ve just got to pick at somebody, don’t you? Did you forget I’m still kind of pissed even if you did bring me dinner?”

“Hey,” he grumbled. “Ya’ seemed like you were in a okay mood when we got here. You’ve even been halfway pleasant. Well, sorta. Anyway, I figured it couldn’t hurt ta’ lighten things up a bit more.”

“Yeah, whatever,” I dismissed the comment. “Light isn’t my thing right now. I’m going to need a lot more sleep before we go there.”

He simply shrugged and continued devouring the taco.

“You know,” I finally said, looking back over to Ben after taking another swig of coffee. “I hate to be an ungracious host, but earlier today you made out like there was some big reason for us to be having a secret meeting. Or, was I just dreaming all that?”

“The skulking around was Storm’s idea,” Constance offered. “He’s worried I’m going to get myself booted out of the Bureau.”

“Well, dammit, at the rate you’re goin’ you are,” he admonished, almost choking on his food before he could blurt the words.

“Don’t be so melodramatic,” she returned. “At worst I’ll get a letter of censure. And that’s only if I get caught.”

“You just got one a’ those for losin’ your damn sidearm,” he chided. “That’d make two in a row, and even I know that ain’t good.”

He was correct. One of the strings Constance had pulled when getting Felicity out of the assault charge against her was somehow talking her superior into recommending a letter of censure go in her own file. Effectively, she had taken the blame for the situation and glossed over a few damaging facts in order to get my wife off the hook. On paper, what my wife had done had somehow been turned into Constance being reprimanded for temporarily misplacing her government issued weapon. How she’d pulled that off was anyone’s guess, but I suspected it was better if I didn’t really have that answer.

“Well, no offense, Constance,” I interjected. “Because, you know I appreciate everything you’ve done. I really do, and so does Felicity. But, right now I’m afraid I have to admit that she is way more important to me than your career, as harsh as that may seem. So, if there’s something you know that might help…”

“Don’t worry, Rowan, I understand,” she replied with a nod. “Honestly, clearing Felicity is more important to me too.”

“Okay, so why this secret confab? What is it you know?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” she replied. “But I ran across something that sent up a flag…for me anyway…How much do you know about DNA, Rowan?”

“I know how to spell it,” I replied.

“God, Storm really is rubbing off on you.”

“Yeah, it does seem that way, doesn’t it,” I agreed.

“All right you two, who’s doin’ the pickin’ now?” Ben grunted, but left it at that.

“Actually, I do know the basics,” I spoke up again. “If I remember high school biology correctly, it stands for deoxyribonucleic acid. Everybody has it, and a lot of it is the same, but there’s a part of it that’s as unique as a fingerprint. When it comes to being used as evidence, it can be pretty damaging. Other than that, I know it’s the reason my wife has been taken from me and charged with crimes she didn’t commit.”

“Yeah, well it might interest ya’ ta’ know that when it comes to evidence, there’re a coupl’a different kinds of DNA,” Ben added. “Mitochondrial and autosomal.”

I turned my head, quickly shifting my gaze from Constance and fixing it back on him. His expression was enough to tell me that my own face was showing more than just a little wonderment.

“Don’t look so goddamned surprised, Row. I’m not really as stupid as ya’ seem ta’ think I am. I just let everybody think so.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Ben’s right,” Constance chimed in.

“Thanks,” he chirped. “About time ya’ stuck up for me.”

“I meant the part about the DNA,” she said.

“What? You think I’m stupid too?”

“Look, I never said you were stupid!” I interjected, a sharp note of exasperation sounding in my voice. “Now, I would really like to get back on subject here…Jail…Felicity…DNA…”

“Ben actually did hit on the point I’m trying to make,” Constance volunteered. “Mitochondrial versus autosomal DNA.”

“Okay, I’ll admit to my own stupidity on this one. I’ve heard the term mitochondrial but that’s about it. I don’t really know what it means.”

“Well, in basic terms, mitochondrial DNA comes from your mother,” she explained. “Autosomal, however, is not gender specific and can come from either the mother or the father. When using DNA for identification, the preferred method is autosomal unless there is no other choice.”

“Why?”

“Because it is where the true DNA profile actually resides. Mitochondrial is not as unique, and it just gets you into the ballpark. Let me give you an example. I inherited my mitochondrial DNA from my mother, she inherited hers from her mother, her mother’s came from her mother, and so on. Since M-T-D-N-A doesn’t change, if you were to compare samples from all of the women in that line, the mitochondrial DNA strand would be identical. No way to distinguish between us.”

“So, you’re telling me the DNA used to ID Felicity is mitochondrial?”

“Yes and no,” she answered. “The problem is that’s the only kind of DNA that can be found in the shaft of hair. While it can be used as evidence in a crime, usually to narrow the field of suspects, it isn’t an absolute identification of an individual since it will be prevalent throughout a maternal family tree.”

“Okay,” I struggled to contain my impatience. “So what about the yes and no thing? Which is it?”

“I’m getting to that. As you know, the DNA samples we are working with came from hair. Autosomal DNA, the kind used for positive identification can be extracted from the actual follicles or roots. Using something called polymerase chain reaction, or PCR, the DNA is replicated-or what they call amplified-then separated and compared.

“What they look for are matching alleles at given points in the strand, called loci. The standard for CODIS, the Bureau’s Combined DNA Index System, in order to guarantee the match is thirteen unique loci. Unfortunately, when dealing with degraded samples, the best result they can get is sometimes eight or nine.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the biology lesson,” I remarked. “But, you still haven’t answered my question.”

“I just want you to understand how this works, Rowan,” she explained. “In Felicity’s case, the samples taken directly from her match exactly on the mitochondrial DNA with all the others. However, of the samples taken from the three crime scenes, there is a variance on the autosomal profile. On one of them there was a full match of the thirteen core markers…”