Fitzgerald was thoughtful for a moment. “Very well.” He turned to Steve. “Will you handle this?”
“Of course.” He looked at Tyler. “You’re probably familiar with the procedure. The next of kin—in this case, any of the deceased’s children—has to apply to the coroner’s office for an exhumation permit. You’ll have to tell them the reason for the request. If it’s approved, the coroner’s office will contact the funeral home and give them permission to go ahead. Someone from the coroner’s office has to be present at the exhumation.”
“How long will this take?” Tyler asked.
“I’d say three or four days to get an approval. Today is Wednesday. We should be able to exhume the body on Monday.”
“Good.” Tyler hesitated. “We’re going to need a DNA expert, someone who will be convincing in a courtroom, if it ever goes that far. I was hoping you might know someone.”
Steve said, “I know just the man. His name is Perry Winger. He’s here in Boston. He’s given expert testimony in trials all over the country. I’ll call him.”
“I’d appreciate it. The sooner we get this over with, the better it will be for all of us.”
At ten o’clock the following morning, Tyler walked into the Rose Hill library, where Woody, Peggy, Kendall, and Marc were waiting. At Tyler’s side was a stranger.
“I want you to meet Perry Winger,” Tyler said.
“Who is he?” Woody asked.
“He’s our DNA expert.”
Kendall looked at Tyler. “What in the world do we need a DNA expert for?”
Tyler said, “To prove that this stranger, who so conveniently appeared out of nowhere, is an imposter. I have no intention of letting her get away with this.”
“You’re going to dig the old man up?” Woody asked.
“That’s right. I have our attorneys working on the exhumation order now. If the woman is our half sister, the DNA will prove it. If she’s not, it will prove that, too.”
Marc said, “I’m afraid I don’t understand about this DNA.”
Perry Winger cleared his throat. “Simply put, deoxyribonucleic acid—or DNA—is the molecule of heredity. It contains each individual’s unique genetic code. It can be extracted from traces of blood, semen, saliva, hair roots, and even bone. Traces of it can last in a corpse for more than fifty years.”
“I see. So it is really quite simple,” Marc said.
Perry Winger frowned. “Believe me, it is not. There are two types of DNA testing. A PCR test, which takes three days to get results, and the more complex RFLP test, which takes six to eight weeks. For our purposes, the simpler test will be sufficient.”
“How do you do the test?” Kendall asked.
“There are several steps. First, the sample is collected and the DNA is cut into fragments. The fragments are sorted by length by placing them on a bed of gel and applying an electric current. The DNA, which is negatively charged, moves toward the positive and, several hours later, the fragments have arranged themselves by length.” He was just getting warmed up. “Alkaline chemicals are used to split the DNA fragments apart, then the fragments are transferred to a nylon sheet, which is immersed in a bath, and radioactive probes—”
The eyes of his listeners were beginning to glaze over.
“How accurate is this test?” Woody interrupted.
“It’s one hundred percent accurate in determining if the man is not the father. If the test is positive, it’s ninety-nine point nine percent accurate.”
Woody turned to his brother. “Tyler, you’re a judge. Let’s say for the sake of argument that she really is Harry Stanford’s child. Her mother and our father were never married. Why should she be entitled to anything?”
“Under the law,” Tyler explained, “if our father’s paternity is established, she would be entitled to an equal share with the rest of us.”
“Then I say let’s go ahead with the damned DNA test and expose her!”
Tyler, Woody, Kendall, Marc, and Julia were seated at a table in the dining-room restaurant at the Tremont House.
Peggy remained behind at Rose Hill. “All this talk about digging up a body gives me the creeps,” she had said.
Now the group was facing the woman claiming to be Julia Stanford.