HOSPITAL CAFETERIAS ARE NOT KNOWN FOR THEIR FINE dining, but if you need to eat and dash, they work. Dr. Roz was already at a table with a loaded tray in front of her by the time I arrived. I went through the line and grabbed a piece of pizza and a cup of coffee.
“Hey,” I said, taking a seat. “I thought I was supposed to buy.”
“You’re late,” she told me, pointing at her watch.
I had missed the target by only a couple of minutes, but she was right. “Sorry,” I muttered.
“It’s okay,” she replied with a smile. “I’ll catch you next time. What’s the story?”
“I need to create a DNA profile,” I said. “In actual fact I need three DNA profiles—in something of a hurry.”
“Rumor has it you’re a PI now,” she said. “Are you working a case?”
“Yup.”
“I just got promoted to be chief M.E.,” she said. “There are a number of old-timers around here who aren’t exactly thrilled at the idea.”
“Congrats on that promotion, by the way, but what are you saying?” I asked.
“As of this minute, I’m operating under a microscope. If I tried doing something off the books and it got back to the powers-that-be in county government, I’d be up the proverbial shit creek. So what’s going on?”
I told her. I had passed the story along often enough by now that I’d learned to boil it down to reasonable proportions. As per usual, in talking about Naomi and Athena’s situation, I left my own possible parental involvement out of the discussion.
“So I’ve got two cheek swabs along with the hairbrush, comb, and toothbrush I removed from Agnes Mayfield’s bathroom. With profiles on all of those in hand, I should be able to prove that Athena is Agnes’s biological granddaughter. As such, she could be in line to receive a portion of Agnes’s estate. So where can I go to get a deal on quick-and-dirty DNA profiling?”
“I might have an answer for you,” Dr. Roz said. “How do you feel about making charitable contributions?”
“Depends on the charity,” I said. “Why?”
“Have you ever heard of the Sholeetsa Project?”
That one stumped me. “The what?” I asked.
“You’re from around here, right?” Dr. Roz asked.
I nodded. “Seattle born and bred.”
“So you know about Chief Sealth?”
“Of course, I know Chief Sealth, aka Chief Seattle—the city’s Native American forefather. Why?”
“Sholeetsa was Chief Sealth’s mother. I guess that makes her Seattle’s foregrandmother.”
“Presumably the project you mentioned is named after her, but what is it?”
“As a cop, you surely know that crimes against Native Americans in general and Native American women in particular are vastly underreported and often go unsolved. One of the primary reasons for that is a lack of DNA profiles inside the Native American population. Even with DNA found at crime scenes, both victims and perpetrators often end up going unidentified.
“The Sholeetsa Project is a nonprofit, headquartered here in Seattle, that is trying to rectify that situation, and not just here in the Pacific Northwest either. They’re going nationwide. They have an up-to-the-minute lab, along with well-trained technicians, doing nothing else but creating DNA profiles in the Native American community. They’re also in the process of launching an ambitious program to collect DNA samples from tribal members all over the country in hopes of vastly expanding the number of Native American profiles present in DNA databases. Not surprisingly, the Sholeetsa Project is strapped for cash.”
“And looking for donations?”
“Indeed,” Dr. Roz said. “Let’s say some random Anglo guy just happened to wander in off the street looking for some help with creating DNA profiles. If said guy happened to be willing to add some dollars to the project’s coffers, I’m pretty sure said profiles would be forthcoming.”
In the world of law enforcement, that kind of wheeling and dealing would be called a bribe. In the private sector, it counts as a charitable donation. But under the current set of circumstances, if a donation would get the job done, I was all in.
On occasions like this, it’s nice to be in a position to have money to burn, something for which I give thanks to my second wife, Anne Corley, every single day. When she flashed through my life, she left me a considerable fortune, along with some very canny money managers. Over time that fortune has grown. Mel’s and my financial future is assured. My kids—the ones I knew about at least—are taken care of. As for the rest? I’m at a stage in my life where it’s becoming all too clear to me that you can’t take it with you. From time to time, on those occasions when I feel inclined to spend money like a drunken sailor, I’m free to do so.
“Once they create the profile,” Dr. Roz continued, “they can pass it along to whatever law-enforcement agencies need to see it. As far as that missing father is concerned—Petey, you called him?”
“His name is Peter, but everyone calls him Petey.”
“I suggest you create a file on Petey with NamUs. It’s a nationwide missing-persons database. You can enter the details you know about him, including dental records if available. In this case you should also include his grandmother’s DNA profile. That way if he’s lying unidentified in a morgue someplace, his DNA and hers will show up as a familial match.”
“NamUs?”
She spelled it out for me. “Anybody can use it—cops, families, M.E.s. Of course, if you get a hit on one of those, it’s most likely not going to be good news.”
“Understood.”
Dr. Roz pulled out her phone, studied the screen, and then pressed a couple of buttons. A moment later my phone dinged. “I sent you a text with the Sholeetsa Project’s Web site,” she explained. “Their CEO is a friend of mine, a lady named Loretta Hawk. You’ll like her.”
“I’m sure I will.”
Dr. Roz’s phone buzzed, and she leaped to her feet. “Oops,” she said. “I hate to eat and run, but the next batch of STEM kids is already waiting in my office.”
Off she went, leaving me there staring at her text. The Sholeetsa Project hadn’t been on my to-do list when I left home earlier that morning, but it was on it now—in a big way. I swallowed my last bite of pizza, finished my coffee, and headed out—in search of Chief Sealth’s mother and ultimately my very own daughter.