the Third Twin (1996)

“And you’re very important to me.”

“How so?”

“The question is whether criminality is inherited. I published a paper which said that a certain type of personality is inherited—a combination of impulsiveness, daring, aggression, and hyperactivity—but that whether or not such people become criminals depends on how their parents deal with them. To prove my theory I have to find pairs of identical twins, one of whom is a criminad and the other a law-abiding citizen. You and Dennis are my first pair, and you’re perfect: he’s in jail and you, forgive me, you’re the ideal all-American boy. To tell you the truth, I’m so excited about it I can hardly sit still.”

The thought of this woman being too excited to sit still made Steve restless too. He looked away from her, afraid his lust would show in his face. But what she had told him was painfully disturbing. He had the same DNA as a murderer. What did that make him?

The door opened behind Steve, arid she looked up. “Hi, Berry,” she said. “Steve, I’d like you to meet Professor Berrington Jones, the head of the twins study here at JFU.”

The professor was a short man in his late fifties, handsome with sleek silver hair. He wore an expensive-looking suit of gray-flecked Irish tweed and a red bow tie with white dots, and he looked as neat as if he had just come out of a bandbox. Steve had seen him on TV a few times, talking about how America was going all to hell. Steve did not like his views, but he had been brought up to be polite, so he stood up and held out his hand to shake.

Berrington Jones started as if he had seen a ghost. “Good God!” he said, and his face turned pale.

Dr. Ferrami said: “Berry! What is it?”

Steve said: “Did I do something?”

The professor said nothing for a moment. Then he seemed to collect his wits. “I’m sorry, it’s nothing,” he said, but he still seemed shaken to the core. “It’s just that I suddenly thought of something … something I’ve forgotten, a most dreadful mistake. Please excuse me.” He went to the door, still muttering: “My apologies, forgive me.” He went out.

Steve looked at Dr. Ferrami.

She shrugged and spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Beats the hell out of me,” she said.

7

BERRINGTON SAT AT HIS DESK, BREATHING HARD.

He had a corner office, but otherwise his room was monastic: plastic tiled floor, white walls, utilitarian file cabinets, cheap bookshelves. Academics were not expected to have lavish offices. The screensaver on his computer showed a slowly revolving strand of DNA twisted in the famous double-helix shape. Over the desk were photographs of himself with Geraldo Rivera, Newt Gingrich, and Rush Limbaugh. The window overlooked the gymnasium building, closed because of yesterday’s fire. Across the road, two boys were using the tennis court, despite the heat.

Berrington rubbed his eyes. “Damn, damn, damn,” he said with feeling.

He had persuaded Jeannie Ferrami to come here. Her paper on criminality had broken new ground by focusing on the components of the criminal personality. The question was crucial to the Genetico project. He wanted her to continue her work under his wing. He had induced Jones Falls to give her a job and had arranged for her research to be financed by a grant from Genetico.

With his help she could do great things, and the fact that she came from a poor background only made her achievement more impressive. Her first four weeks at Jones Falls had confirmed his judgment. She had hit the ground running and her project got under way fast. Most people liked her—although she could be abrasive: a ponytailed lab technician who thought he could get away with sloppy work had suffered a scorching rebuke on her second day.

Berrington himself was completely smitten. She was as stunning physically as she was intellectually. He was torn between a fatherly need to encourage and guide her, and a powerful urge to seduce her.

And now this!

When he had caught his breath he picked up the phone and called Preston Barck. Preston was his oldest friend: they had met at MIT in the sixties, when Berrington was doing his doctorate in psychology and Preston was an outstanding young embryologist. Both had been considered odd, in that era of flamboyant lifestyles, with their short haircuts and tweed suits. They soon discovered that they agreed about all sorts of things: modern jazz was a fraud, marijuana was the first step on the road to heroin, the only honest politician in America was Barry Goldwater. The friendship had proved more robust than either of their marriages. Berrington no longer thought about whether he liked Preston: Preston was just there, like Canada.

Right now Preston would be at Genetico’s headquarters, a cluster of neat low-rise buildings overlooking a golf course in Baltimore County, north of the city. Preston’s secretary said he was in a meeting, and Berrington told her to connect him anyway.

“Good morning, Berry—what’s up?”

“Who else is there?”