recover only a few partial prints, but what I did recover also matches.” Beaufort turned a page. “My forensic analysis shows the corpse was definitely partially consumed by a lion. In addition to the, ah, perimortem physical evidence — teeth marks and so forth on the bones—
“You said the fingerprints were only partials. That isn’t adequate.”
“Aloysius, the DNA evidence is conclusive. The body was that of your wife.”
“That cannot be, since Helen is still alive.”
A long silence ensued. Beaufort spread his hands in a gesture of futility. “If you don’t mind me saying so, this is very unlike you. The science tells us otherwise, and you of all people respect the science.”
“The science is wrong.” Pendergast put a hand on the arm of the chair, prepared to rise. But then he caught the look on Beaufort’s face and paused. It was obvious from the M.E.’s expression that he had more to say.
“Leaving aside that question,” Beaufort said, “there’s something else you should know. It may be nothing.” He tried to make light of it but Pendergast sensed otherwise. “Are you familiar with the science of mitochondrial DNA?”
“In general terms, as a forensic tool.”
Beaufort removed his eyeglasses, polished them, put them back on his nose. He seemed oddly embarrassed. “Forgive me if I repeat what you already know, then. Mitochondrial DNA is completely separate from a person’s regular DNA. It’s a bit of genetic material residing in the mitochondria of every cell in the body, and it is inherited unchanged from generation to generation, through the female line. That means all the descendants — male and female — of a particular woman will have identical mitochondrial DNA, which we call mtDNA. This kind of DNA is extremely useful in forensic work, and separate databases are kept of it.”
“What of it?”
“As part of the battery of tests I performed on your wife’s remains, I ran both the DNA and mtDNA through a consortium of some thirty-five linked medical databases. In addition to confirming Helen’s DNA, there was a hit in one of the… more unusual databases. Regarding her mtDNA.”
Pendergast waited.
Beaufort’s embarrassment seemed to deepen. “It was in a database maintained by the DTG.”
“The DTG?”
“Doctors’ Trial Group.”
“The Nazi-hunting organization?”
Beaufort nodded. “Correct. Founded to pursue justice against the Nazi doctors of the Third Reich who aided and abetted the Holocaust. It grew out of the so-called Doctors’ Trials at Nuremberg after the war. A lot of doctors escaped Germany after the war and went to South America, and the DTG has been hunting them ever since. Theirs is a scientifically impeccable database of genetic information on those doctors.”
When Pendergast spoke again, his voice was very quiet. “What kind of a hit did you find — exactly?”
The M.E. took another sheet from the file. “With a Dr. Wolfgang Faust. Born in Ravensbruck, Germany, in 1908.”
“And what, exactly, does this mean?”
Beaufort took a deep breath. “Faust was an SS doctor at Dachau in the last years of World War II. He disappeared after the war. In 1985, the Doctors’ Trial Group finally tracked him down. But it was too late to bring him to justice — he’d already died of natural causes in 1978. The DTG found his grave and exhumed his remains to test them. That is how Faust’s mtDNA became part of the DTG database.”
“Dachau,” Pendergast breathed. He fixed Beaufort with his gaze. “And what was the relation between this doctor and Helen?”
“Only that they are both descended from the same female ancestor. It could be one generation back, or a hundred.”
“Do you have any more information about this doctor?”
“As you might expect, the DTG is a rather secretive organization connected, so they say, to Mossad. Except for the public database, their files are sealed. The record on Faust is thin and I haven’t followed up with any research.”
“The implications?”
“Only genealogical research can determine the relationship between Helen and Dr. Faust. Such genealogical research would have to explore your wife’s ancestry in the female line — mother, maternal grandmother, maternal great-grandmother, and so forth. And the same for Faust. All this means is that this Nazi doctor and your wife shared a direct female ancestor. It could be some woman who lived in the Middle Ages, for all we know.”
Pendergast hesitated for a moment. “Would my wife have known of Faust?”
“Only she could have told you that.”
“In that case,” Pendergast said, almost to himself, “I shall have to ask her when I see her.”
There was a long silence. And then Beaufort spoke. “Helen is dead. This… quixotic belief of yours concerns me.”
Pendergast rose, his face betraying nothing. “Thank you, Beaufort, you’ve been most helpful.”
“Please consider what I just said. Think about your family history…” Beaufort’s voice trailed off.
Pendergast managed a cold smile. “Your further assistance is unnecessary. I wish you good day.”
CHAPTER 37
LAURA HAYWARD CUT INTO THE RARE, juicy meat, separated it from the bone, and placed a forkful in her mouth. She closed her eyes. “Vinnie, it’s perfection.”
“I just threw it together, but thanks.” D’Agosta waved a dismissive hand, but he turned his attention to his own dinner to hide the pleased look he knew was settling over his face.
D’Agosta had always enjoyed cooking, in a casual, nondemanding bachelor way: meat loaf and barbecue and roast chicken, with the occasional Italian specialty of his grandmother’s thrown in. But since moving in with Laura Hayward, he’d become a much more serious chef. It had started out as a kind of guilt, a way to offset his living in her apartment while not being allowed to contribute to the rent. Later — when Hayward finally acquiesced about splitting the rent — his interest in cooking continued. Part of it was Hayward herself, no slouch when it came to preparing varied and interesting dishes. And part of it, no doubt, was the influence of Agent Pendergast’s unrelievedly gourmet tastes. But another part of it had to do with his relationship with Laura. There was something he found loving about the act and art of cooking, a way for him to express his feelings for her, something more meaningful than flowers or even jewelry. He’d branched out from southern Italy into French cuisine, which had taught him the basic techniques for many noble dishes as well as a fascination for the mother sauces and their countless variations. He’d grown interested in various regional American cuisines. Hayward tended to work longer hours than he did, allowing him time to unwind in the kitchen of an evening, cookbook propped open, working on some new dish, which he would present to her when she arrived, an offering. And the more he did it, the more accomplished he became: his knifework improved; dishes were assembled more quickly and more deftly; he grew increasingly confident in his own variations on master recipes. And so tonight, in which he’d served rack of lamb with a burgundy-pomegranate persillade, he could say, with more than a little truth, that it had been almost effortless.
For a few minutes they ate in silence, enjoying the time together. Then Hayward dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, took a sip of Pellegrino, and spoke with friendly irony. “So: what happened at the office today, dear?”
D’Agosta laughed. “Singleton’s launching yet another of his departmental morale campaigns.”
Hayward shook her head. “That Singleton. Always with the cop-psychology theory
D’Agosta took a bite of
