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.
Chapter 17
BACK IN THE CAR, I LOADED THE ADDRESS FOR THE Sholeetsa Project into the GPS and headed for Columbia City down by Boeing Field. It seemed ironic. Here I was using modern technology to search for even more modern technology, but I was using all that technology to do antiquated police work. You pick up one lead and follow that to the next one. Back in the old days, we called it “shoe leather.” If there’s a more current bit of jargon, I’m unaware of it.
Harborview Medical Center is on the edge of Capitol Hill, east of downtown Seattle. Columbia City is just south of downtown proper. I hopped on I-5 southbound, and ten minutes after waving good-bye to Dr. Roz, I was pulling in to the Sholeetsa Project’s parking lot.
Columbia City, just north of Boeing Field, is mostly industrial these days. Relatively narrow streets are lined with old-fashioned redbrick buildings. I seemed to remember that once upon a time the building housing the Sholeetsa Project had been a paint store. The façade remained unchanged. With my collection of plastic bags in hand, I headed inside. As soon as I stepped through the front