had eliminated them as suspects. Others were underlined or circled.
The backpack made me uneasy. This wasn’t just the curiosity of an armchair sleuth after all, and it didn’t look like research for a true crime book, either. This was an obsession.
He took a stark one-page document from the folder and handed it to me. At the top of the page was a small blue logo with Me-Genes printed underneath.
‘What’s Me-Genes?’
‘It’s a genomics and biotech company here in Melbourne. You send them a DNA sample, pay a small fee and they deliver the results. If you pay a little extra you can have those results fast-tracked.’
The bulk of the document was broken into three columns labelled Marker, Sample A and Sample B. Each column contained multiple number and letter combinations, many of which matched. I got the sense I’d need a degree in genomics to read it.
But the part that mattered, the part that made my stomach lurch, was printed in big bold letters at the bottom right-hand side of the page: Probability of sibling match, 98.4 per cent.
‘You’re Sample B,’ James said.
As I began to understand what I was looking at, my skin rushed hot and my whole body trembled with anger.
‘You … You had my DNA tested? How the hell did you even get that?’
‘You were drinking a soda when I first met you.’
‘Jesus. That’s illegal!’
‘It’s not, actually,’ he said. ‘I needed to be sure. That’s why I came out here.’
I lurched back from the table and stormed out of the cafe, feeling like a worm on the end of a hook, reeling back and forth in the current as I waited for the jaws of a hungry fish.
I marched across the street, swung into my car and started the engine. Glancing in the rear-view mirror I saw James. He had come outside and was watching me with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. His bright yellow sneakers popped against the grey afternoon. Thunderheads rolled above.
‘Goddamn it.’ I killed the engine, got out and walked back over to him. ‘Who’s Sample A?’
‘Kim, listen …’
‘It says I’m a sibling match with Sample A,’ I said. ‘Who is that?’
‘My wife warned me not to come on too strong. I didn’t want to scare you off.’
‘Who’s Sample A?’
‘I am,’ he said. ‘My real name is Stuart Went. I’m your brother.’
Chester Ellis, Manson’s 64-year-old Sheriff, sat behind his desk reading the Manson Leader. His hometown’s local rag contained highlights from Tractor Day, photos taken at the groundbreaking of the new Christian history museum and a play-by-play recap of the Manson Warriors game – they suffered a demoralising defeat, as usual, at the hands of the Coleman Bears.
It was set to be another quiet day in Manson. A quiet day in a month of quiet days in a year of quiet days.
He turned each page slowly, scanning the headlines for anything of interest. Blitz on blackouts: new project to reduce peak energy use; Manson athletics club finds a home; A new take on old drugs: information sessions help seniors identify addiction.
He arrived at the personals section and found his own ad at the bottom of the second column: Prof. & Athletic African American man with Christian values. Seeks woman for companionship &/or relationship.
Ellis had lost his wife to brain cancer twenty-one years earlier, but with two sons to keep him busy, dating had been the last thing on his mind. Now his sons were adults now, with partners of their own, and Ellis needed … what? He wasn’t looking for a passionate love affair. He wasn’t even looking for love, although if love happened to come along that would be just fine. He was simply looking for someone to share his life with.
Of course, the ad was largely bullshit. He might have been considered ‘athletic’ in his college days, but now all that muscle had settled into fat. The ‘Christian values’ part was a half-truth too. Amelia Turner, who took care of the personals and ran the front desk of the Leader on Fridays, had convinced him to add that part.
Sure, Ellis believed in God and tried his darndest not to cuss too much or hate too much, but Christianity was a pretty wide spectrum in Manson. He sat comfortably and conservatively on the casual, love thy neighbour end. But on the other end sat the people he didn’t want to attract: folks from the Church of the Light Within.
The Pentecostal group – he’d learned the hard way not to call them a sect or, God forbid, a cult – worshipped by handling venomous snakes and scorpions. If rumours were to be believed, they also drank strychnine, spoke in tongues and, according to Tom Kirker after a few too many belts of whiskey at Cubby’s Bar, drank blood and worshipped the Devil.
One of Ellis’s deputies knocked on the door. ‘Sorry to bother you, Sheriff. You got a sec?’
‘Come on in, Beech. What’s up?’
To call John Beecher a man felt premature. Ellis was sure he would be a man someday, but right now he was a pale, near-hairless nineteen-year-old with skin that glowed candy-apple red any time he felt nervous, which was often. ‘A call just came through from Jack Went. As in Went Drugs. His daughter is missing.’
‘His daughter?’ Ellis checked his watch. It was a little after four pm. ‘She’s probably just a little late getting home from school.’
‘No, the little one.’ Beecher consulted his notepad. ‘Sammy Went. Age two. Last seen approximately two hours ago.’
‘Jesus. Get Herm and Louis over there.’
‘Already on their way, Sheriff. Just thought you’d wanna know.’ He looked at the open newspaper. ‘Any takers on your ad yet?’
Ellis tucked the Leader into the top drawer of his desk. ‘Do you remember where we put that book, Beech? That crime scene handbook? Herm and Louis might need it.’
Beecher shook his head.
‘It’s called “crime scene” something. Dissecting a Crime Scene or Crime Scene Deduction … There’s a chapter in there about missing persons; questions to ask, instructions, suggestions, stuff like that.’
‘Oh yeah, like a how-to thing, right? I’m pretty sure I saw that in the bathroom, Sheriff.’
That sounded about right.
Though Ellis’s sons were grown men, he remembered how small and fragile they once
