The Naturalist (The Naturalist, #1)

by Andrew Mayne

“Well, phenotypic basically means the code in our DNA that makes us. Plasticity applies to how it can have variability. For example, Chinese children are growing much taller than their parents. Their DNA didn’t change. It already had built-in code to adapt to increased amounts of protein, larger womb size, et cetera. Obesity is another example. We evolved for an environment where calories were scarce, so we can triple our body mass if we’re not careful. That’s a downside to phenotypic plasticity.”

I’m studying the environment that creates them. I don’t think it’s a behavior exclusive to tadpoles. It can be on a smaller microorganism scale, or human size.” Glenn arches an eyebrow. “Humans?” “Yes. You can see this in the womb, where one fetus takes nutrients from another, causing varying birth weights. In vanishing twin syndrome, probably one in ten pregnancies results in a twin, but one is absorbed by the other. Did the mother cause this? Did the evil twin? If so, the evil twin always wins. “Within a contained environment, like a pond, one organism spontaneously regulates the population, then returns to normal. Apex predators—a dominant animal at the top of the food chain—is going to be emergent when the population gets to a certain size. You see this with cannibal rats, spiders, and even with computer programs.”

I examine the trauma and try to remember everything I know about cows, which isn’t much, but enough to have a notion of what happened. I toss the photo back on the table, unsure if I’m being tested. It seems rather obvious now. “Do you want my answer or the path to the answer?” “The path?” “Yes. How I arrived at my guess.” He smirks. “Okay, Professor, give me the path.” “As I said before, I study systems. A system can be DNA. A cell. A body. A pond. A planet. We all function in different systems.

My nonreaction is observed by Detective Glenn. While it may support my innocence, it probably reinforces his perception that I’m more detached from the people around me than usual. I’m a caricature of the aloof scientist.

I made a list of predictions based on a couple of factors. The biggest one was the number of people in a city who shared a last name. People who share last names tend to be related and get together more often for meals and are less guarded about eating off one another’s plates and exchanging germs. This creates pockets of infection over weekends that soon extend to schools and work. The presence of convention centers added to the calculation.

It’s comforting to blame the misfortune of others on their own actions. It’s also wrong.

My papers, my research, my life have been about drawing connections from very different fields. My domain is how things are related. I trace life cycles. I look at gene flows. I build computer models and search for real-world analogues. I seek out systems and circuits.

I’m not a detective. I’m not a forensic specialist. I’m a biologist and a computer programmer. These are my areas of expertise.

In a moment, if I don’t fully submit, he’s going to take a step forward and place the gun against my head as he uses his handcuffs to arrest me. He’s trained not to shoot someone standing still—but someone resisting an arrest in any way that threatens his safety is fair game. Usually when cops kill unarmed people, it’s because they perceive some threat as they make physical contact, or they get scared and squeeze the trigger, not realizing how much pressure they’re already placing on it. Some cops carry guns with heavy triggers, like five or six pounds, in order to make it more difficult to accidentally fire.

He stares up at the ceiling and shakes his head. “You’re the dumbest smart person I’ve ever met.

“Killing is a solution to a problem. Murder is something you do because you want to. You divorce your wife because you don’t love her. You murder her because you hate her.”

“Promise me you’re not going to go diving? It has to be boiling down there.” As she says this, a bubble breaks the surface near my face. “Technically, yes. But it’s not the water that scares me.” “Your extremophiles?” “Go for help if I don’t come back in ten.” “I’m going home and forgetting I ever met you,” she replies.

“Two percent of the population is sociopathic. They just don’t feel the way you or I do about others. If you come in contact with fifty people in a day, one of them is a sociopath.” “But not a murderer.” “No. Yet if they had a magic button they could press that would kill someone and they’d gain from it, risk-free, they wouldn’t hesitate.”