“Exactly. Your genes steer you toward certain environmental experiences and away from others. Babies with different temperaments elicit different treatment from their parents. Active toddlers have different experiences than sedentary ones, even in the same house. Daredevil adolescents take more drugs than choirboys in the same town. We must add to the right-hand side of the equation the term
For a change it was a woman who spoke up. She was Donna-Marie Dickson, a nurse who had gone back to school in her thirties, bright but shy. She said: “What about the Osmonds?”
The class laughed, and the woman blushed. Jeannie said gently: “Explain what you mean, Donna-Marie. Some of the class may be too young to remember the Osmonds.”
“They were a pop group in the seventies, all brothers and sisters. The Osmond family are all musical. But they don’t have the same genes, they’re not twins. It seems to have been the family environment that made them all musicians. Same with the Jackson Five.” The others, who were mostly younger, laughed again, and the woman smiled bashfully and added: “I’m giving away my age here.”
“Ms. Dickson makes an important point, and I’m surprised no one else thought of it,” Jeannie said. She was not surprised at all, but Donna-Marie needed to have her confidence boosted. “Charismatic and dedicated parents may make all their children conform to a certain ideal, regardless of their genes, just as abusive parents may turn out a whole family of schizophrenics. But these are extreme cases. A malnourished child will be short in stature, even if its parents and grandparents are all tall. An overfed child will be fat even if it has thin ancestors. Nevertheless, every new study tends to show, more conclusively than the last, that it is predominantly the genetic inheritance, rather than the environment or style of upbringing, that determines the nature of the child.” She paused. “If there are no more questions, please read Bouchard et al. in
They began packing up their books. She hung around for a few moments, to create an opportunity for students too timid to ask questions in open class to approach her privately. Introverts often became great scientists.
It was Donna-Marie who came up to the front. She had a round face and fair curly hair. Jeannie thought she must have been a good nurse, calm and efficient. “I’m so sorry about poor Lisa,” Donna-Marie said. “What a terrible thing to happen.”
“And the police made it worse,” Jeannie said. “The cop who drove her to the hospital was a real asshole, frankly.”
“That’s too bad. But maybe they’ll catch the guy who did it. They’re passing out flyers with his picture all over the campus.”
“Good!” The picture Donna-Marie was talking about must have been produced by Mish Delaware’s computer program. “When I left her this morning she was working on the picture with a detective.”
“How’s she feeling?’
“Still numb … but jumpy, too.”
Donna-Marie nodded. “They go through phases, I’ve seen it before. The first phase is denial. They say: ‘I just want to put it all behind me and get on with my life.’ But it’s never that easy.”
“She should talk to you. Knowing what to expect might help her.”
“Any time,” Donna-Marie said.
Jeannie walked across the campus toward Nut House. It was still hot. She found herself looking around watchfully, like a nervous cowboy in a western movie, expecting someone to come around the corner of the freshmen’s residence and attack her. Until now the campus of Jones Falls had seemed like an oasis of old-fashioned tranquillity in the desert of a modern American city. Indeed, JFU was like a small town, with its shops and banks, sports fields and parking meters, bars and restaurants, offices and homes. It had a population of five thousand, of whom half lived on campus. But it had been turned into a dangerous landscape. That guy has no
As she entered her office she started thinking about Berrington Jones. He was an attractive man, very attentive to women. Whenever she had spent time with him she had enjoyed herself. She was also indebted to him, for he had given her this job.
On the other hand, he was a bit oily. She suspected that his attitude to women might be manipulative. He always made her think of the joke about a man who says to a woman: “Tell me all about yourself. What’s your opinion of, for example, me?”
In some ways he did not seem like an academic. But Jeannie had observed that the real go-getters of the university world noticeably lacked the vague, helpless air of the stereotype absentminded professor. Berrington looked and acted like a powerful man. He had not done great scientific work for some years, but that was normal: brilliant original discoveries, such as the double helix, were usually made by people under thirty-five. As scientists got older they used their experience and instincts to help and direct younger, fresher minds. Berrington did that well, with his three professorships and his role as conduit for Genetico’s research money. He was not as respected as he might have been, however, because other scientists disliked his involvement in politics. Jeannie herself thought his science was good and his politics were crap.
At first she had readily believed Berrington’s story about downloading files from Australia, but on reflection she was not so sure. When Berry had looked at Steven Logan he had seen a ghost, not a phone bill.
Many families had parenthood secrets. A married woman might have a lover, and only she would know who was the real father of her child. A young girl might have a baby and give it to her mother, pretending to be an older sister, the whole family conspiring to keep the secret. Children were adopted by neighbors, relatives, and friends who concealed the truth. Lorraine Logan might not be the type to make a dark secret of a straightforward adoption, but she could have a dozen other reasons for lying to Steven about his origins. But how was Berrington involved? Could he be Steven’s real father? The thought made Jeannie smile. Berry was handsome, but he was at least six inches shorter than Steven. Although anything was possible, that particular explanation seemed unlikely.
It bothered her to have a mystery. In every other respect, Steven Logan represented a triumph for her. He was a decent law-abiding citizen with an identical twin brother who was a violent criminal. Steve vindicated her computer search program and confirmed her theory of criminality. Of course, she would need another hundred pairs of twins like Steven and Dennis before she could talk about proof. All the same, she could not have had a better start to her program of research.
Tomorrow she would see Dennis. If he turned out to be a dark-haired dwarf, she would know something had gone badly wrong. But if she were right, he would be Steven Logan’s double.
She had been shaken by the revelation that Steve Logan had no idea he might be adopted. She was going to have to work out some procedure for dealing with this phenomenon. In the future she could contact the parents, and check how much they had told, before approaching the twins. It would slow her work, but it had to be done: she could not be the one to reveal family secrets.
That problem was soluble, but she could not lose the sense of anxiety caused by Berrington’s skeptical questions and Steven Logan’s incredulity, and she began to think anxiously of the next stage of her project. She was hoping to use her software to scan the FBI’s fingerprint file.
It was the perfect source for her. Many of the twenty-two million people on file had been suspected or convicted of crimes. If her program worked, it should yield hundreds of twins including several raised-apart pairs. It could mean a quantum leap forward in her research. But first she had to get the Bureau’s permission.
Her best friend at school had been Ghita Sumra, a math wizard of Asian-Indian descent who now had a top job managing information technology for the FBI. She worked in Washington, D.C., but lived here in Baltimore. Ghita had already agreed to ask her employers to cooperate with Jeannie. She had promised a decision by the end of this week, but now Jeannie wanted to hurry her. She dialed her number.
Ghita had been born in Washington, but her voice still held a hint of the Indian subcontinent in its softness of tone and roundness of vowels. “Hey, Jeannie, how was your weekend?” she said.
“Awful,” Jeannie told her. “My mom finally flipped and I had to put her in a home.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. What did she do?”
“She forgot it was the middle of the night, got up, forgot to get dressed, went out to buy a carton of milk, and forgot where she lived.”
