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“Until you developed this new technology.”
“Correct. And I wish I could take credit for developing it, but I can’t. I’m only peripherally involved in the identification process. That’s handled by Dr. Arthur Trudeau who, along with his team of scientists and technicians, works tirelessly each day on the 9/11 project.”
“Tell me about the process. Again, I hope to come back later in the summer and formally interview you on camera. Dr. Trudeau, as well.”
Livia nodded. “That could certainly be arranged. I, too, find it fascinating. Here’s how it works. Typically, extracting DNA from bone is straightforward. A scraping is taken from the bone’s surface to obtain bone cells. DNA is then extracted from those cells using EDTA and proteinase K, which are enzymes that break down the cell wall and allow the DNA to spill out. If you want to get into the weeds on the chemistry of how it works, I’m happy to.”
Avery shook her head. “No thanks. We’ll find a way to more easily explain the process when we get to that point. For now, I’ll take your word for it. It’s a simple process if you say so.”
Livia offered a smile. “It’s the classic method, or the gold standard. Performed every day at crime labs across the country. But most of the bone harvested from Ground Zero was too badly burned to extract DNA from the surface. Remember, the jet fuel burned at two thousand degrees for more than one hundred hours. Some of the bodies were likely incinerated completely to ash. But the remains that were found were brought to the New York ME’s office for identification. The remains that could not be immediately identified were stored and preserved for later analysis. That analysis has been ongoing for years and is still happening today, twenty years later. This latest identification came from a new process of pulverizing the bone nearly to ash, and then taking the residue from the innermost aspect of the bone, the area that was furthest from the damaging flames, and extracting DNA from the cells we find there. It’s proven to be quite effective. We’re optimistic that many more IDs will follow.”
“Fascinating,” Avery said. “And the family of the victim who was identified? How is the discovery presented to them?”
“There’s a protocol in place for every family that has provided us with DNA samples. First a phone call is made, and then an in-person visit is scheduled.”
“Do you make the visits?”
“No. That’s left for Dr. Trudeau.”
“The most recent identification. It was of a woman named Victoria Ford,” Avery said. “Can you tell me anything about her or her family?”
“I only know as much as Dr. Trudeau told me. The victim’s parents are no longer living. She was married but had no children. Her husband has remarried, so her sister was the next of kin. That was who Dr. Trudeau met with.”
“Do you have a name? Of the victim’s sister?”
Livia nodded. “Her name has been released, so I’m able to provide it. Emma Kind. She lives here in New York. Out a ways, I believe. Near the Catskill Mountains.”
“Okay,” Avery said. “So you’d be willing to welcome my production team into your crime lab later this summer?”
“I’d be happy to give you a grand tour of the world’s largest crime lab, as well as the bone-processing lab where this recent identification was made.”
“Excellent. I’ll get some dates scheduled and be in touch.”
“Great seeing you, Avery.”
“You too, Livia. Thanks again.”
“I saw your minivan episode, by the way. That was wild.”
“Thanks. It was a little ostentatious, but ratings rule my world. This story, though, the 9/11 victim being identified, I think it has the power to draw a huge audience but in a more personal way. We’re all connected in different ways to 9/11. We all remember where we were when we watched the scene unfold on television. I want to do this story the right way.”
“I know you will. What’s next?”
Avery shrugged. “I’m off to the Catskills to find Emma Kind and see if she’s willing to talk about her sister.”
Avery spent the following day making phone calls and rattling cages, utilizing every contact she had to track down people who knew Victoria Ford. She had no idea her presence in New York, or her interest in Victoria Ford, would draw so much attention.
CHAPTER 13
Negril, Jamaica Wednesday, June 23, 2021
RICK’S CAFÉ WAS A POPULAR BAR BUILT INTO THE CLIFFS ON JAMAICA’S West End. This afternoon, like every other day of the year, it was populated by throngs of bathing-suit-clad tourists slurping fruity cocktails and staring off into the Caribbean Sea. The tiered outdoor seating area was located at the cliff’s edge where patrons sat forty feet above the turquoise water, separated from the cliff’s sheer drop-off by a waist-high stone wall. Stairs etched in the rocks provided access to lower levels, where circular umbrellas dotted the patios and provided shade to sunburned vacationers lunching at the café. A cove carved its way into the rocks and provided access to catamarans that sailed up to the trendy destination and allowed their occupants to jump ship—which was usually done via a drunken trip down the stern-side waterslide that spat tourists into the ocean. Ladders draped the sides of the cliffs and led thirsty patrons to the café’s outdoor bar.
Walt Jenkins sat at the corner of the bar, shaded by fronds of a palm tree, and stared out at the ocean. A Hampden Estates rum rested on the bar in front of him, the slow-melting ice mellowing the 120-proof spirit. Still reeling from his trip to New York, where he came face to face with the woman he loved, Walt hadn’t been shy over the last few days about his admiration for single-batch Jamaican rum. He didn’t smoke pot, as so many of his friends here on the island did, and he had never ingested a pill stronger than ibuprofen. Rum was his cure-all antidote to anything life threw at him. He drank it in good times and bad, and it affected him differently in each circumstance. This time around, however, despite his best efforts, the rum was not providing its usual soothing balm.
Meghan Cobb remained on his mind. Despite the fact that he still loved her, Walt knew he couldn’t be around her for the simple fact that some part of him hated her, too. He took a sip of the Hampden Estate, stared out at the ocean, and cursed the universe like he always did in the days following his return from New York. Then he allowed his mind to drift back to the day he met her.
In his forties, twice divorced and with no kids, Walt Jenkins had stopped looking for the perfect life to suddenly appear before him. He was more than a decade into his FBI career, content with his status in the world, and approaching the middle of his life and carrying the normal regrets of a man who had never had children and now found himself mostly alone. These were his thoughts as he drove through the Adirondack Mountains. He had tacked a couple of vacation days onto either side of the long Fourth of July weekend, rented a cabin in the hills, and had been enjoying a few days of quiet isolation. He was headed into town to pick up a steak and replenish his beer when he saw the SUV on the shoulder. An obvious tilt to the passenger side suggested a flat tire. Although Walt had been an FBI agent far longer than he was ever a patrolman, his inner psyche would forever carry a sense of obligation when he saw a disabled vehicle.
