New York
Dante Giovanni’s expansive corner office offered a breathtaking panoramic view of Central Park and the Manhattan skyline. On a typical day, Giovanni began his morning by reading The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal, sipping Columbian coffee, and enjoying the view.
Today, however, was not a typical day.
Today he was seated with his chief of security at a round mahogany conference table, calmly discussing the murder of Dr. Joshua Ambergris—his business partner, his oldest friend, and Triad Genomics’ top geneticist.
“Barring some personal vendetta against Dr. Ambergris, which I find highly unlikely, the motive for his murder must be related in some way to his work,” said Crowe.
Giovanni folded his arms and sat back in his chair. Along each wall of the ornate office, at ceiling level, small unobtrusive speakers emitted “pink noise.” At frequencies indiscernible to the human ear, the emissions from the speakers blocked any attempts at eavesdropping by electronic devices either smuggled into the room or directed at the office from outside.
“That may be,” said Giovanni.
“Dr. Ambergris had a limited circle of friends and acquaintances,” said Crowe. “He was a widower. No children. No gambling habits or unusual sexual preferences. If he was concealing something in his personal life that would provide a motive for murder, it is not evident to me.”
There was a tentative knock at the door.
Giovanni pressed a button hidden beneath the tabletop. The office door unlocked and swung open. One of Giovanni’s young female assistants hastily deposited a carafe of coffee, two ceramic mugs, and a tray of breakfast pastries on the conference table. At a nod from Giovanni, she scurried out the door.
“Let’s look at this from another angle,” said Crowe, turning back to the conversation. “Ambergris’ killer was able to compromise our security. Unless we’re dealing with an extremely sophisticated operation—sponsored by a foreign government, perhaps—it is inconceivable that our security system could be breached unless the intruder had intimate knowledge of our facility. Inside information. That leaves only two possibilities.”
He drummed his fingers on the mahogany table.
“Either the killer already had security clearance, or Dr. Ambergris’ murderer had help from the inside,” said Crowe.
“Yes. I suppose that’s the logical conclusion.”
Crowe served himself a cup of steaming black coffee.
“Either way, we’re dealing with a traitor within our ranks.”
Nineteen
Donald Ebersole’s Cubicle
WXNY, Channel 10
Queens, New York
Ebersole continued his impromptu lecture while Flavia scribbled notes on her pad.
“Every second, roughly fifty million of the cells in your body die. Amazing, is it not? From the recipe contained in your DNA, new cells are created to take their place. Your genetic code, written in every cell in your body, recreates your body as you age.”
“Okay, I think I’ve got it. So where do introns fit in?”
“Good question,” said Ebersole. “So what about introns? Big chunks of our DNA appear to be nothing more than a jumble of repetitive, random sequences that are rarely, if ever, used. Geneticists call these junk sequences introns.”
Flavia frowned.
“How can we visualize introns? Try this. If DNA is like a television show, then introns are like enormous commercial breaks that interrupt the real program. Except in our DNA, the commercials are longer than the actual show.”
“I think I understand,” said Flavia.
Ebersole continued. “Do we really understand them? No. We still have no idea why introns are present in our DNA or what they actually do, if anything. And what is being done? Nothing. No significant research on introns has been done in years.”
Flavia flipped to a fresh page in her notebook and continued writing.
Ebersole took another bite from his breakfast sandwich. When he spoke, crumbs fell from his mouth onto his
Dante Giovanni’s expansive corner office offered a breathtaking panoramic view of Central Park and the Manhattan skyline. On a typical day, Giovanni began his morning by reading The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal, sipping Columbian coffee, and enjoying the view.
Today, however, was not a typical day.
Today he was seated with his chief of security at a round mahogany conference table, calmly discussing the murder of Dr. Joshua Ambergris—his business partner, his oldest friend, and Triad Genomics’ top geneticist.
“Barring some personal vendetta against Dr. Ambergris, which I find highly unlikely, the motive for his murder must be related in some way to his work,” said Crowe.
Giovanni folded his arms and sat back in his chair. Along each wall of the ornate office, at ceiling level, small unobtrusive speakers emitted “pink noise.” At frequencies indiscernible to the human ear, the emissions from the speakers blocked any attempts at eavesdropping by electronic devices either smuggled into the room or directed at the office from outside.
“That may be,” said Giovanni.
“Dr. Ambergris had a limited circle of friends and acquaintances,” said Crowe. “He was a widower. No children. No gambling habits or unusual sexual preferences. If he was concealing something in his personal life that would provide a motive for murder, it is not evident to me.”
There was a tentative knock at the door.
Giovanni pressed a button hidden beneath the tabletop. The office door unlocked and swung open. One of Giovanni’s young female assistants hastily deposited a carafe of coffee, two ceramic mugs, and a tray of breakfast pastries on the conference table. At a nod from Giovanni, she scurried out the door.
“Let’s look at this from another angle,” said Crowe, turning back to the conversation. “Ambergris’ killer was able to compromise our security. Unless we’re dealing with an extremely sophisticated operation—sponsored by a foreign government, perhaps—it is inconceivable that our security system could be breached unless the intruder had intimate knowledge of our facility. Inside information. That leaves only two possibilities.”
He drummed his fingers on the mahogany table.
“Either the killer already had security clearance, or Dr. Ambergris’ murderer had help from the inside,” said Crowe.
“Yes. I suppose that’s the logical conclusion.”
Crowe served himself a cup of steaming black coffee.
“Either way, we’re dealing with a traitor within our ranks.”
Nineteen
Donald Ebersole’s Cubicle
WXNY, Channel 10
Queens, New York
Ebersole continued his impromptu lecture while Flavia scribbled notes on her pad.
“Every second, roughly fifty million of the cells in your body die. Amazing, is it not? From the recipe contained in your DNA, new cells are created to take their place. Your genetic code, written in every cell in your body, recreates your body as you age.”
“Okay, I think I’ve got it. So where do introns fit in?”
“Good question,” said Ebersole. “So what about introns? Big chunks of our DNA appear to be nothing more than a jumble of repetitive, random sequences that are rarely, if ever, used. Geneticists call these junk sequences introns.”
Flavia frowned.
“How can we visualize introns? Try this. If DNA is like a television show, then introns are like enormous commercial breaks that interrupt the real program. Except in our DNA, the commercials are longer than the actual show.”
“I think I understand,” said Flavia.
Ebersole continued. “Do we really understand them? No. We still have no idea why introns are present in our DNA or what they actually do, if anything. And what is being done? Nothing. No significant research on introns has been done in years.”
Flavia flipped to a fresh page in her notebook and continued writing.
Ebersole took another bite from his breakfast sandwich. When he spoke, crumbs fell from his mouth onto his
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