Buried Prey

contractor called Wetland Restorations from Caplan, Missouri. We were there to consult on some marshlands at the southern end of the country, that they were trying to restore. Anyway, before we went, they did DNA on all of us, you know, in case we got blown up. Wetland has a DNA file on me.”
     
     
    A TINTED-BLOND WOMAN in her forties came through the door carrying a Macy’s shopping bag and wearing a look of shock: Carol Hanson, Darrell’s wife, who, like Darrell, exploded at the cops, then began weeping.
    Lucas went out back, while Del and Shrake tried to calm things down, and called the head of the BCA’s DNA lab, told him about the file at Wetland. He agreed to go back downtown, make some calls, try to get the file. “We got the file on the blood from the Bloomington shooting. If we can get a legit file from this place, we could tell you pretty quickly if there’s a match.”
    Lucas went back to the search: the woman, Mrs. Hanson, had gone into the family room and was lying on a couch, with Shrake sitting across from her, talking to her. Didn’t want anyone to have a heart attack.
    An hour after Lucas had talked to the man at the DNA lab, Hanson took a call, listened for a minute, then said, “Yes. You have my permission. Give it to them.”
    To Lucas, he said, “They’re sending the DNA file to your lab. They’ll have it in one minute.”
    “Aw, Darrell, that’s . . . I can’t be responsible for that decision,” the attorney said. “We gotta get somebody else in here.”
    Lucas said, “Hey, if he didn’t do it, we don’t want to try to pin it on him. He’s got me about sixty percent believing him now. We’re gonna need another DNA sample, to be sure there isn’t something tricky going on—”
    “I’ll do it,” Hanson said.
    His wife had moved into the front room with him, and cried, “They completely tore apart our bedroom. It’s torn apart.” She started weeping again.
    Another hour passed. They’d almost finished with the house, and Lucas called the DNA lab, was told that the computer was still running the comparison: “Almost there,” he was told. “The other file was good, and has Hanson’s name and Social Security number right on the file. I don’t think anyone’s trying to pull a fast one, but we’ll need to double-check.”
    “Call me,” Lucas said.
    “Twenty minutes.”
    Lucas sat on a living room chair, and Hanson started going through the “never been arrested routine” that Lucas had heard fifty times from people who’d just been arrested, some of them for murder. “Honest to God, I have never, ever . . .”
     
     
    THE LAB DIRECTOR, whose name was Gerald Taski, called.
    He said, “You’re not gonna believe it. You’re not going to believe it, that’s all I can say. This is so weird, I only ever heard of one other case like it, out in LA. . . .”
    “Well, tell me,” Lucas said.
    “It’s definitely not him,” Taski said. “You got the wrong guy.”
    “That’s not good, but it’s not weird,” Lucas said. “What’s weird?”
    “Your guy knows the killer.”
    “What?” Lucas turned around and stared at Hanson, who flinched.
    “He might not know he knows the killer, but the killer is very closely related to him,” Taski said. “Not more than a few generations removed. They probably shared a grandfather. Maybe a great-grandfather, but I don’t think it’s that far back. We need more analysis.”
    Lucas listened for another minute, with Hanson, the attorney, and the other cops all watching him, then hung up and said, “Unless there’s some kind of really unusual bullshit going on, you’re clear.”
    “I told you,” Hanson said, and his wife started weeping again, and half shouted, “You ruined our house.”
    Lucas waved them down: “But—you’re closely related to the killer.”
    Now it was Hanson’s turn: “What?”
    “You probably share a grandfather,” Lucas said. “Who would it be?”
    Hanson looked at his wife, then at the floor, and then his wife muttered something that Hanson didn’t catch, and he looked around and said, “Oh, good Lord.”
    “Who is it?” Lucas asked.
    “We’re a big family,” Hanson said. “I must have twenty cousins. That’s what we’re talking about, right? Cousins?”
    “I guess so,” Lucas said. “Cousins, but it could be uncles, or second cousins, I guess.”
    Hanson said, “I’ve got a cousin named Roger. Roger Hanson. If it’s somebody, I’d say it was him.”
    “Did he