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Your DNA Is Out There. Want Law Enforcement Using It?

(Bloomberg Businessweek) — On the afternoon of Nov. 18, 1987, Jay Cook and Tanya Van Cuylenborg left Saanich, B.C., their hometown, to pick up some furnace equipment in Seattle for Cook’s father. Saanich and Seattle are a little more than 100 miles apart, but the trip takes almost five hours: a ferry into the U.S. across the Strait of Juan de Fuca, another across Puget Sound, and between them a winding coastal drive through evergreen forests and fishing towns. The young couple planned to make an overnight jaunt of it. A blurry photo snapped at the time shows them beside the bronze Ford van they took. Van Cuylenborg, 18, holds a walk-like-an-Egyptian pose; Cook, two years older and a head taller, looks off to the side half-smiling, his dark hair falling over one eye.

The next day they didn’t show up at the heating-supply store, nor did they return home that night as planned. On Nov. 24, Van Cuylenborg’s partially clothed body, hands bound by a zip tie, was found in a roadside ditch 75 miles north of Seattle. She had been raped and shot in the back of the head. Two days later, hunters spotted Cook’s body, wrapped in a torn blue blanket, under a bridge in a small town outside Seattle. He’d been beaten over the head with a rock and strangled; a pack of cigarettes was stuffed in his mouth.

Detectives from Snohomish and Skagit counties’ sheriff’s departments had a few things to go on. There was the blue blanket, which didn’t belong to either of the victims, and there was Van Cuylenborg’s missing Minolta camera—the lens turned up in a pawnshop in Portland, Ore. The killer left behind extra zip ties and a box of .380-caliber bullets, and, in what seemed like a taunt, the surgical gloves he’d used to ensure that there were no fingerprints. Investigators carefully gathered up and tagged what they found. They also gathered something else, a new type of evidence.

Only weeks before, a Florida serial rapist had become the first American convicted on the basis of DNA left at a crime scene. In the years since, DNA has come to be seen by investigators and crime-drama fans alike as unique in its infallibility and its power to turn infinitesimal human traces into telltale clues. But then as now, DNA testing had its limitations: Samples could be degraded or contaminated, the results misinterpreted by technicians. And if the DNA left at the scene of the crime didn’t exactly match another sample—one from an existing criminal database or one taken from a suspect—then it really wasn’t much of a clue. In the Cook-Van Cuylenborg case, there was DNA (authorities haven’t specified the exact nature), but there were no matches. The new technology led nowhere.

Over the years, the dead ends multiplied. Jim Scharf, the Snohomish County cold-case detective who inherited the case, included it in a deck of cards printed with unsolved crimes and distributed the information to prison inmates in the hope that they might have heard something. A series of taunting letters sent to the Cook and Van Cuylenborg families from the purported killer turned out to be from a Canadian homeless man unconnected to the crime. In 2010 detectives opened up their files to a group of top FBI and British experts gathered at a nearby forensic-science conference; they didn’t get anywhere, either.

Then last April, California police made an arrest in a decades-old series of rapes and murders. Investigators had used a combination of DNA analysis and old-fashioned genealogy to identify a former police officer named Joseph James DeAngelo as a suspect in the notorious case of the Golden State Killer. It was the first time that particular technique had been used to solve a murder. Scharf, however, had already been wondering whether something like it might work. So, it turned out, had Parabon Nanolabs Inc., a small data analytics company in the business of doing DNA work for law enforcement.

As it happened, the Snohomish sheriff’s department had already worked with Parabon on the Cook-Van Cuylenborg murders. The day after the Golden State Killer announcement, Scharf spoke by phone with the company’s chief executive officer, Steven Armentrout, who told him that, effective immediately, Parabon was offering a “genetic genealogy” service. The company could run the kind of analysis that had identified DeAngelo, and for the Cook-Van Cuylenborg case it could use the DNA file Scharf had already given them. That was a Thursday. On Saturday night, Armentrout received an email from a woman named CeCe Moore. Many of genetic genealogy’s techniques are her invention, and Parabon was in the process of hiring her. The subject line of her email read, “Solved.”

Under sustained assault, behind the sometimes obscuring hype, the human genome is giving up more and more of its secrets. Researchers are piecing together the genetic basis of cancer and Parkinson’s disease, finding tantalizing clues to human longevity, and perfecting new methods not only to read but to write DNA. The resulting technologies are finding their way into unexpected places.

Genetic genealogy might sound to an outsider like a redundant term, but it’s the offspring of two very different intellectual tribes. Genetics is the world of university labs and venture capital, high-throughput sequencers and Ph.D.s; genealogy is a community of self-taught amateurs haunting county records rooms and churchyard cemeteries. Over the past few years, the marriage of their methods has produced a powerful tool for finding previously unfindable people. Since the Golden State Killer announcement, there have been more than a dozen additional arrests using genetic genealogy techniques, and Parabon worked almost all of them. In some instances, the company has been able to produce a suspect in a few hours. “I mean, it’s incredibly powerful,” Moore says of what she does. “It’s powerful in revealing secrets.”

That is also what has begun to worry people. Genetic genealogy wasn’t developed for identifying murderers and rapists, and the question remains of who else, or what else, it could be used to find. More than 15 million people have now taken consumer DNA tests from companies including Inc. and 23andMe Inc., and more than 1 million have uploaded the results to GEDmatch, the open source online genealogy database Moore and other investigators use in their work. And even if you aren’t among them, if a cousin of yours is, you can be found. A recent study in the journal Science by researchers at Columbia University and the DNA-testing company MyHeritage Ltd. concluded that, for Americans of European descent, there is already a 60 percent chance they could be identified because of a relative in a DNA database. For that number to reach 100 percent, the researchers concluded, only 2 percent of the population needs to have uploaded their DNA.

The applications for this information are sure to multiply: In recent months it’s emerged that the U.S. government performed DNA tests on migrant parents before reuniting them with the children taken from them at the Mexico-U.S. border and that Canadian immigration officials used DNA and ancestry websites to establish the nationality of migrants. Just this month, DNA testing made its entry into the 2020 presidential race, when Senator Elizabeth Warren (D-Mass.) used it to prove distant Cherokee ancestry and ignited a conversation about whether DNA is really what determines a person’s heritage. Genetic genealogy could theoretically be used to help trace mail bombs back to their maker. We’re only beginning to comprehend what can be read from the code that millions of people are sharing. Imagine a world in which DNA data are as free-flowing as your web-browsing habits or the information your phone collects about your location—human bodies, after all, constantly shed DNA. Then imagine all the parties that might find information about your health, heritage, or familial relationships interesting. Most people aren’t murderers, but everyone has skeletons.

Writing about a professional genealogist means, among other things, acknowledging the arbitrariness of starting points. One could, for example, begin Moore’s story with the Great San Francisco Earthquake, when an Australian merchant seaman dashed through the rubble to check up on a Norwegian governess of his recent acquaintance and ended up marrying her and having two daughters. Or circa the year 2000, when Moore, the descendant of one of those daughters, decided it would be neat to draw up a family tree as a wedding present for a niece.

At the time, Moore was a 30-year-old actress, singer, and model living in and around Los Angeles. She’d had some small movie and TV roles, but mostly it was commercials, corporate training videos, and, increasingly, trade shows that kept her career going. She had a regular gig for Mattel impersonating Barbie at toy fairs and store openings. She also worked auto show booths for Porsche—“Not the ones where you’re wearing, like, a bikini,” she emphasizes, “the ones where you’re wearing a suit.” It was reliable, well-paying work that rewarded the ability to quickly absorb often technical information.

Moore never finished her niece’s family tree. As she would learn, in genealogy, that’s typical. “It’s a never-ending process,” she says. “I thought I already knew quite a bit about our family. But it just became an obsession, I guess.” Finding distant forebears and unknown third cousins is a series of puzzles, and the rush that comes with solving them is addictive. It’s always possible to build a tree still further back or flesh out its distal branches. Moore learned how to comb through old census and marriage records, to search obituaries and yearbooks, and to mine the new but growing trove of personal information on social media sites.

There already were at that point genetic tests tailored to genealogy. The pioneer was a company called Family Tree DNA, founded by a serial entrepreneur who, like many genealogists, had taken on his family tree in what he’d thought would be his retirement. The company’s tests on one level worked on the same concept as traditional forensic DNA analysis. Although the vast majority of the human genome is the same from person to person—we are all one species—there is variation, adding up to about 0.1 percent of the total. That’s enough to account for the dizzying diversity of human specimens. That those variants form unique sequences in each individual is what allows DNA to function not only as a code but also as a fingerprint.

Unlike forensic DNA tests, though, Family Tree’s were able to do more than just identify a person. In a limited way, they could also identify familial links. The tests looked at either the Y sex chromosome (Y DNA), which only men have, or the snippet of genetic material housed in a cellular organelle called the mitochondria (mtDNA). Because of the improbable molecular choreography of sexual reproduction, both of those bits of DNA happen to be inherited almost unchanged, like a genetic heirloom—Y chromosomes from fathers to sons, mitochondrial DNA from mothers to offspring of either sex. Genealogists whose relatives were willing to take a cheek swab could use their Family Tree results to bolster their forays into historical records, tracing their lineage back along either their mother’s or father’s side of the family tree.

Then, in the mid-2000s, DNA testing started to go mainstream. The race to sequence the genome had catalyzed a host of technological and scientific advances and piqued public interest, and a new breed of company arose to capitalize on the combination. In 2006, 23andMe was founded to provide personalized genetic health information to anyone who could spit in a tube. DNA extracted from the saliva was amplified, chemically sliced into tiny segments, then placed on special microarray “chips” covered with millions of microscopic beads, each with the ability to identify a particular DNA variant. The next year, 23andMe introduced its first product, a $999 test that offered insights into a person’s disease risk, ethnic ancestry, and other traits, among them their sensitivity to certain tastes. Competitors piled into the market, most prominently AncestryDNA, a subsidiary of, a genealogy company with roots in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. (The church holds that dead ancestors, once found, can be posthumously baptized into the faith so the whole family may be reunited in the afterlife.)

Geneticists cautioned that the ethnicity reports could be incorrect or misleading, as could the information about health, and within a few years the Food and Drug Administration notified 23andMe that its genetic tests required federal approval. Privacy advocates warned of the risks of turning over to a corporation a file containing a large chunk of the operating system for your body—for years, AncestryDNA’s terms and conditions explicitly granted the company “a royalty-free, worldwide, sublicensable, transferable license to host, transfer, process, analyze, distribute, and communicate” users’ genetic information. “This genetic astrology could be regarded as producing no more than entertaining horoscopes,” three European geneticists wrote in a paper critical of the burgeoning consumer DNA market. “There is, however, a potential for harm and the need to consider mechanisms to ensure that these tests are evaluated and used appropriately.” In 2008, President George W. Bush, spurred by such worries, signed into law a set of protections against “genetic discrimination.”

Still, the idea that a bit of saliva could at once predict the future and unearth the past was deeply alluring, and the business took off. DNA testing, the companies suggested, could reveal a more authentic, elemental you. “Ancestry helped give me a sense of identity,” one 2015 AncestryDNA ad proclaimed. In another, a lederhosen-clad German-American explained that after a DNA test revealed he was really more Scottish and Irish, he started wearing a kilt.

Genealogists including Moore tend to describe this sort of thing, with faint scorn, as “recreational genealogy.” The tests themselves, however, turned out to have an unforeseen value. To “read” the health information encoded in our genome, companies such as 23andMe couldn’t confine themselves to small idiosyncratic bits of DNA; they had to look at hundreds of thousands of locations on the genome. Autosomal DNA—the DNA housed not on our two sex chromosomes but on the 22 other pairs—would at first seem unpromising for genealogical work. Unlike Y DNA or mtDNA, the bulk of our genetic material doesn’t get passed down unchanged. Instead, it’s reshuffled from generation to generation, as genes from each parent mix and match. That’s why traits for such characteristics as height, hair color, and cancer risk are both inheritable and variable. The unique DNA sequences bequeathed to a child from each parent steadily shrink with each reproductive recombination, and over just a few generations they fade into statistical noise.

But if you trace the DNA variants—the “polymorphisms,” in the language of genetics—you can trace the reshufflings. And what Moore and a few other biologically minded genealogists came to realize is that the recombination rate itself could provide valuable information. Like radiocarbon decaying in an ancient artifact, relatedness steps down in a predictable way: Of that 0.1 percent of DNA that varies among humans, we share roughly half with each parent or sibling; a quarter with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and half-siblings; 12.5 percent with first cousins; 6.25 percent with our parents’ first cousins; 3.13 percent with our second cousins, and so on. The ratios aren’t exact, and the further out one goes the more it’s swamped by randomness—you might not share any DNA with your great-great-great-great-grandmother at all. But there are calculable ranges, enough so that discovering you share a certain percentage of your DNA with someone—information the new testing companies could easily provide—can tell you not only that you are related but how.

And as more and more people took the tests and joined the companies’ databases, the tool grew only more valuable, as the odds climbed that each user would have at least a single third cousin or closer also in the databases. Soon 23andMe was offering a “relative finder” feature. In 2010 a genealogist and a computer-savvy engineer together started GEDmatch, where anyone can upload the files they get from the testing companies. It allows people who have sent their spit into 23andMe to find relatives who have taken a different test, such as AncestryDNA’s.

By that time, Moore was raising a young son from her earlier marriage and running a casting and production company with her longtime boyfriend, but she threw herself into the new world of DNA-enabled genealogy. She set out to turn her own extended family into a test case for its power, badgering cousins and aunts and uncles into sending their spit off to 23andMe and, in some cases, paying for the tests herself (the price had dropped to a few hundred dollars and has continued to fall since). Her family, it turned out, had been cursed with genes for the blood disorder beta thalassemia and blessed with those associated with perfect pitch, and she traced the two traits back along her tree.

Even more valuable than those insights, though, was the work she’d had to put in to identify the roughly 40 relatives she eventually got to test themselves. Traditional genealogy is concerned mostly with digging deeper into the past. Its methods are less well-suited to finding the living—in the U.S., census records, a mainstay of genealogical research, are by law kept anonymous for 72 years. Moore had to develop a new toolkit, tracing family trees outward by building them forward in time from their roots. Social media proved particularly valuable. “People post a lot on Facebook,” she says. “They worry about genetic privacy, but what they put out there on social media is much more telling than what I can tell from somebody’s DNA.”

In a field of mostly amateurs, she became a leader and an authority. From her home in Orange County, Calif., she moderated many of the message boards on which genealogists shared tips and gossip and reports of their setbacks and breakthroughs. She traveled around the country speaking at seminars put on by regional genealogical institutes. By chance, one talk this August was in Snohomish County, near where Jay Cook’s body had been found three decades ago. Her presentation, dense with technical detail, made no mention of the case or her law enforcement work. “DNA cannot often fully answer a question, but it can point us in the right direction,” she told her rapt, gray-haired audience. Afterward, she was mobbed.

Moore is petite, with long, wavy blond hair and big eyes of a not un-Barbie-like blue. Fluent in the vocabularies of both genetics and genealogy, she moves effortlessly between discussions of centimorgans (a measure of genetic linkage) and conversos (medieval Jews who converted under duress to Christianity, leaving their descendants to be surprised by DNA results suggesting Jewish heritage). She has a savant’s recall for the intricacies of the many, many family trees she’s built. Over coffee at a minimalist cafe near the high school where the conference was being held, she talked about the comfort she had originally found in genealogy. “I like learning that we’re really not that different,” she said. As she had built her own tree, Moore recalled, she kept finding evidence of infidelity: children whose genetics bore no trace of their supposed fathers (“nonpaternity events” is the term of art). “Our ancestors were so much like us,” she said. Discovering their secrets had brought them closer to her.

As DNA testing boomed, people started reaching out to Moore to ask whether DNA results were reliable. It was only one type of data, but for many it was proving troublingly at odds with what they thought they knew about themselves: The tests gave people new identities, but they also shattered old ones. A genealogist friend of Moore’s confided that she was going to have to throw out half of her painstakingly constructed family tree—a consumer DNA test had revealed that the man she thought was her father, in fact, wasn’t. Moore began to hear more and more versions of this story. Adult children would buy a parent a DNA test for a birthday or just to burnish Dad’s Italian American bona fides, and the results would instead drag up long-buried family secrets: out-of-wedlock births, secret adoptions. “Consumer DNA testing is uncovering all kinds of secrets,” she says. “Not just infidelities and misattributed paternities, but other, darker things.” Moore has worked several cases of babies switched in the maternity ward. She has found many instances of incest.

Moore quickly gained a reputation for skill and discretion. People with particularly difficult or improbable-sounding situations approached her: foundlings searching for the parents who abandoned them, amnesiacs trying to piece together their identities. She became an expert in connecting adoptees to their birth parents. In one notorious case, a shocked family reached out when they discovered that their daughter, conceived at a Salt Lake City fertility clinic, wasn’t actually related to her ostensible father—Moore discovered that an employee of the clinic had used his own sperm to fertilize the egg as well as untold others. Stories such as these, with their mix of mystery, identity, and Gothic melodrama, were irresistible to the media, and Moore’s skills as a sleuth, combined with her trade-show-honed presentation skills, made her a natural spokeswoman. She was hired as the genealogist for the PBS show Finding Your Roots, creating the family trees that Harvard professor Henry Louis Gates Jr. would present to his celebrity guests. She also became a mainstay on pulpier shows such as 20/20 and Dr. Oz, where she would be introduced as a “DNA detective.”

It wasn’t long before actual detectives came calling. Investigators with active serial killers and coroners with long-unidentified bodies would email. They had DNA, they would say; could she help? At the time police in some European countries had already begun to use a form of familial DNA searching to find suspects. In the U.S., a genealogist and former physicist named Colleen Fitzpatrick had begun to use Y-chromosome-based techniques to help identify both murder victims and suspects. Moore herself had worked with law enforcement on some of her foundling and amnesiac cases. She knew her autosomal DNA testing methods would theoretically work just as well for finding an unknown murderer as for finding an unknown parent, and she had done the latter dozens of times. “I knew for a very long time that the potential was there,” she says.

In 2012, Moore went to 23andMe—she had a good relationship with the company from when she helped test some of its kinship tools—and tried to get its help with a cold-case homicide. She had a series of conversations with the general counsel there, but the company said no. (Asked about the episode, 23andMe said it couldn’t confirm it, but gave this statement: “We treat law enforcement inquiries, such as a valid subpoena or court order, with the utmost seriousness. We use all legal measures to resist any and all requests in order to protect our customers’ privacy. To date, we have successfully challenged these requests and have not released any information to law enforcement.”) Moore thought GEDmatch could work—the open source site allowed anyone to upload data—but that it was still too small a pool to be promising for these kinds of searches. So she would tell the police she couldn’t help them. “But I felt terrible about it,” she says. “I definitely had sleepless nights.”

Then, a couple years ago, Moore started hearing about a data analysis company that was going to genealogy conferences and offering to pay for people’s DNA tests if they would share their data. It was Parabon. As it turned out, the U.S. Department of Defense had grown interested in using familial DNA to identify the bodies of war dead, and Parabon had won a contract to figure out how.

The company hadn’t originally been interested in genetics. Armentrout is a computer scientist who’d worked both in finance and at the CIA before founding Parabon in 1999. His original product was software that borrowed the unused processing power of thousands of desktop computers sitting idle in homes or offices, then coordinated them into a network. It was a tool for tackling supercomputer-scale problems such as climate modeling or how proteins fold—calculations that involve “some sort of combinatorial explosion,” as Armentrout puts it. After a few years, Parabon starting designing applications of its own to use the tool. Working with DNA fit the bill: With 3 billion nucleotide base pairs in the chromosomes in each human cell, genetics is full of combinatorial explosions.

Parabon is based outside Washington, in one of the office parks sprawled around Dulles International Airport. Its first foray into forensics was a 2011 Pentagon contract to see whether it was possible to predict a person’s physical appearance—initially just eye, hair, and skin color—from a DNA sample. Armentrout was given to understand that it was to help identify the makers of improvised explosive devices. He attacked the problem with the standard machine-learning playbook, creating a giant data set of genetic and physical information and using his software to find the correlations. “It’s trying to get algorithms to tease out relationships that are difficult for humans to tease out and then building models on top of that,” he says. That work would lead to the company’s first law enforcement offering, a DNA phenotyping service called Snapshot, which provided a digital sketch—coloring but also facial structure and ethnicity—based on crime-scene DNA.

Eventually, Moore, who took it upon herself to be up-to-date on all things genetic genealogy, reached out to Parabon. She quickly bonded with Armentrout over their shared interest in genetics and the anonymous dead. By this point she had decided that identifying Jane and John Doe homicide victims was a less contentious test case for forensic genetic genealogy than identifying suspects—no one would get sent to prison based on the work. Other citizen scientist genealogists had reached a similar conclusion: Fitzpatrick had co-founded a nonprofit called the DNA Doe Project to do just that. Moore and Parabon were in talks about how they might collaborate when the Golden State Killer arrest was announced in April. Without notifying GEDmatch’s administrators, the investigators had uploaded the crime-scene DNA file to the site.

The blaze of publicity engulfed the field in ethical arguments. “I am not at all sure how I feel about my DNA potentially being used in a criminal investigation on the other side of the Atlantic,” the English genealogist Debbie Kennett wrote in MIT Technology Review. “All of us have the right to decide how our DNA and our own data is being used. The police force in a foreign country should not have the right to make that decision for me.” Others in the community, however, saw the arrest as evidence of genealogy’s power to do good. Moore came down on this side. Just as important, she argued, the wall-to-wall coverage of how DeAngelo had been identified had put everyone on notice: Within two weeks, GEDmatch users would be greeted by a message clearly stating that law enforcement was using the database. Moore, for her part, decided she didn’t need to wait any longer to wade into the new field. Three days after the Golden State Killer announcement, she was at work for Parabon on Detective Scharf’s cold case.

When she’s teaching, Moore likes to talk about the importance of building “speculative trees”—quick and dirty pedigrees sketching out how the various puzzle pieces fit together. The ratios themselves can tell you only so much: Someone who shares about a quarter of your genes might be your grandparent, your half-sibling, your niece, or your aunt. So you make a guess and then you iterate, moving people around and progressing from the most likely to the least likely possibilities, until things begin to solidify. For someone with her experience, the ratios become a sort of muscle memory, the way a professional poker player intuits odds.

It took Moore less than a day to find the suspect in the Snohomish case. The day after Scharf talked to the company, a Parabon researcher uploaded the DNA file to GEDmatch. The site runs those files through a relative-finder algorithm of its own, suggesting users who might be related to each other based on the ratios of shared autosomal DNA. The next morning, a Saturday, Moore woke up to the results and took her laptop to her couch. GEDmatch had found two users on the site who appeared to be related to whoever had left his DNA at the crime site 31 years earlier. They were good matches, too. The amount of shared DNA suggested that each was a second cousin of the suspect.

Moore was especially excited to see that the matches didn’t share stretches of DNA between them: They were related to the suspect but not to each other. This meant that each cousin was from a different branch of the suspect’s family; if Moore could find where the two matches’ family trees intersected, she would have arrived at the suspect’s immediate family. Second cousins, by definition, share great-grandparents, so Moore set about building the family trees of each of the suspect’s cousins back three generations. When done, she started to come forward in time, mapping all the descendants of all the great-grandparent pairs, looking for something—probably a marriage—that would connect their two clans. It was straightforward work, except for one spot where the DNA ratios and the genealogical record didn’t at first agree—what appeared to be a nonpaternity event that turned out to be a remarriage and an adoption.

Within hours, Moore had found a newspaper obituary for a woman who was descended from one family and carried a last name from the other. That was where the two families joined. The suspect had to be one of their children. They’d had four, but only one son. By Saturday afternoon, Moore had his name, and she wrote Armentrout telling him to give her a call.

She spent the rest of the weekend trying out alternative hypotheses, but she kept arriving at the same place. On Monday they gave Scharf the name—the detective was off that day, and out back feeding his horses when he saw Armentrout’s email. Two and a half weeks later, on May 17, police arrested William Earl Talbott II, a 55-year-old truck driver. At the time of the murders he’d been living with his parents in Woodinville, Wash., only seven miles from where Cook’s body was found, and he still lived nearby. After Moore had found his name, police placed him under surveillance, and when a paper coffee cup fell out of his truck at a traffic light, they tested the saliva on it. It matched the DNA from the crime scene.

Armentrout flew out to Washington for the press conference to announce the arrest. He stood on the dais beside Scharf, the sheriffs, and the victims’ still heartbroken relatives. “Like most of you, I feel a range of emotions about the events that led us here today,” he said in a tone of voice that betrayed none of them. “I’m angry when I think about the crimes. I’m proud that my company, Parabon, was able to assist in the investigation. I’m sad for the families of the victims, for their pain, for their loss, and hopeful that they will soon find some peace.” From her home, Moore appeared on a video screen behind him, her magnified face looming over the stage. Genetic genealogy, Armentrout said, was the future of criminal investigations. “Most people will applaud the use of these technologies,” he said. “Some will not.”

Most of Parabon’s cases have proved more difficult than Snohomish. In some, Moore has been able to narrow the search to a list of names rather than just one; in others, GEDmatch hasn’t found any usable genetic matches at all. But the process will only get easier as the number of people offering up their data grows. Some users took their data off GEDmatch right after the Golden State Killer announcement, presumably angered about the way the database was now being used, but others joined for the first time, presumably willing to be a potential genealogical link in the chain leading to a criminal. Curtis Rogers, GEDmatch’s octogenarian co-founder, says the reservations he originally had about police using his database have eased with each additional arrest. “We’re not violating privacy, I’m absolutely convinced of that,” he says. “We may be violating people’s expectations, even though we have made it clear matches might be used in some other way than genealogy.” He stressed that an individual’s actual genetic code isn’t visible on GEDmatch, just who he or she is related to. Moore and Armentrout both promise that more arrests are forthcoming; indeed, there has seemed to be a new one every week. Barbara Rae-Venter, the initially anonymous genealogist who helped find the Golden State Killer suspect, is working on further cases, too. And law enforcement agencies are fielding calls from other genealogists offering their services.

But the history of forensic science is full of infallible techniques that eventually proved fallible. Ballistics, polygraphy, blood splatter and burn pattern analysis, fingerprinting: All have been revealed to be vulnerable to varying degrees to the human biases they were meant to inoculate against. Even DNA, supposedly airtight in its ability to place someone at the scene of the crime, can mislead. Genetic genealogy has yet to be challenged in a court of law, but similar techniques have already led police astray in at least one case. In 2015, Idaho police, looking for leads in a decades-old murder, combed through a Y and mtDNA consumer database owned by They landed on a man named Michael Usry, whose Y chromosome matched 34 of 35 markers in the crime-scene DNA. The match was close enough to suggest that even though Usry wasn’t a suspect, someone closely related to him might be. That led police to Usry’s son, also named Michael. The younger Usry was eventually cleared—his DNA wasn’t a match, either—but not before he was interrogated and publicly identified. The Y and mtDNA database has since been shut down.

For privacy advocates, DNA’s newfound ability to implicate relatives of ours we may never have met (or to implicate us through our relatives) is only one of the many things we don’t realize we’re exposing ourselves to. Recent revelations about the access Facebook Inc.’s advertisers had to users’ personal content are a case study in what happens when private information is fed into the relentless maw of monetization, and genetic information has the potential to be far more valuable. “We’re still learning what exactly the genome can tell us and with what certainty it tells us those things,” says Erin Murphy, a law professor at New York University and author of Inside the Cell: The Dark Side of Forensic DNA. A working paper recently posted online by computer scientists at the University of Washington explains how one could create fake GEDmatch profiles and use them to blackmail people or fool criminal investigators—the study’s authors conclude that companies might mitigate these risks by creating ways to authenticate DNA data. The recent Science paper on genetic exposure made a similar recommendation. (In a letter written in response to that paper, Parabon and Moore describe it as “misleading” and based on faulty premises. “[D]etermining an individual’s identity” from a match in GEDmatch, they counter, “is extraordinarily complex.”)

Several states have passed strict laws governing familial searches in the databases law enforcement builds of criminals’ DNA; Maryland and Washington, D.C., have forbidden it altogether. “When you look at the early stories on the Golden State Killer investigation, there were advocates saying the practical limitations of all this genetic sleuthing will protect from too much use of this technique, but then Parabon uploaded hundreds of crime-scene samples,” says Stephen Mercer, the former Maryland public defender who helped get his state to pass its ban on familial searches in criminal databases. Once the power of Moore’s techniques is clear, he fears, the temptation to use them for lesser transgressions such as trespassing will be overwhelming. Others have raised the specter that, in a post-Roe v. Wade world, they might be used to identify women who’ve had illegal abortions. At present, the only thing stopping Parabon or anyone else from using genetic genealogy to investigate other kinds of crimes is the GEDmatch terms of service.

Moore has heard these concerns. Her response is that she’s just pointing police in the right direction. At the very least, they have to go and get a DNA sample from the suspect to ensure that it matches. “You can’t arrest somebody based on me saying their DNA looks like the right fit,” she says. “It’s a really highly scientific tip, and then they have to build their case. Which is why it’s a misnomer when people say I solve these cases. I didn’t solve these cases.” Scharf agrees. As a cold-case detective, he is a connoisseur of tips. Moore’s work “is the most powerful kind of tip you can get,” he says, “but it’s not evidence.”

In general, Moore tends to worry less about privacy than about secrecy. She believes in revelation, even if that means exposure. In her unknown parentage cases—even the foundling ones—the parents she tracks down usually end up embracing their previously unacknowledged children. “We’ve always had some kind of happy ending,” she says. Even if the parents themselves didn’t want to connect with their children, a sister did, or an aunt. “There’s always something really amazingly positive that comes out of these stories.”

It’s certainly true that widespread DNA testing has forced secrets into the open. People shocked by the results of genetic tests now gather in “nonexpected parent” Facebook groups, some with more than a thousand members. At 23andMe, customer-support staffers sometimes have to play the role of comforting friend or therapist. “You may learn information about yourself that you do not anticipate,” the company wrote in an early version of its terms of service. “This information may evoke strong emotions and has the potential to alter your life and worldview.”

Moore prides herself on her ability to keep confidences, but all in all, she’d rather live in a world with fewer of them. The threat of detection, she suggests, might dissuade future murderers, rapists, and con artists, perhaps even philanderers.

“I’ve seen all kinds of secrets come out, and I’ve been shocked to learn what our society is really about, what people are really doing,” she says. “I don’t really see it as potentially bad that things are out there.”

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The third-party and independent candidates listed represent our best approximation of who will appear on each state’s general election ballot. The candidates listed will update as each race is finalized; some listed candidates may not ultimately qualify for the general election.

Forecast models by Nate Silver. Design and development by Jay Boice, Emma Brillhart, Aaron Bycoffe, Rachael Dottle, Lauren Eastridge, Ritchie King, Ella Koeze, Andrei Scheinkman, Gus Wezerek and Julia Wolfe. Research by Dustin Dienhart, Andrea Jones-Rooy, Dhrumil Mehta, Mai Nguyen, Nathaniel Rakich, Derek Shan and Geoffrey Skelley. Notice any bugs? Send us an email.

Download national data. Download seat data.

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Same-sex penguin couple become parents…

SYDNEY (Reuters) – Two male penguins entrusted with the care of a fostered egg have welcomed a tiny sub-Antarctic Gentoo chick into the world, Sydney’s Sea Life Aquarium said on Friday.

The pair, Magic and Sphen, made headlines around the world this month when aquarium staff gave them the egg, following a successful trial with a dummy egg.

The yet-to-be-named chick, weighing 91 gm (3.21 oz), was born on the evening of Oct. 19 and is the first sub-Antarctic penguin born at the aquarium.

The couple, who formed a bond before the 2018 breeding season, doted on the adopted chick, said Tish Hannan, an aquarium official.

“The first 20 days of a penguin chick’s life are the most vulnerable, so it is extra-important the chick is very happy, healthy and well fed by his parents,” she added.

Magic and Sphen had placed the egg on small nesting rings built with pebbles and shared duties, with one patrolling for possible threats, while the other kept the egg warm.

There is little difference between opposite-sex and same-sex rearing among Gentoo penguins, which share parenting and feeding responsibilities equally, Hannan said prior to the birth, adding that the example was not the first among zoos across the world.

A children’s book, “And Tango Makes Three”, based on the real story of two penguins at New York’s Central Park Zoo who reared their own chick, drew acclaim from some for its depiction of non-traditional family structures.

It was also among the titles Hong Kong pulled from bookshelves in public libraries this year, following pressure from anti-gay groups, the South China Morning Post newspaper has said.

Reporting by Kate Ashton; Editing by Clarence Fernandez

Our Standards:The Thomson Reuters Trust Principles.

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Off Air…

Amid the fallout of her controversial comments about blackface, Mediaite has learned that Megyn Kelly will not be appearing on her show Thursday morning.

Sources have told Mediaite that NBC will be airing a previously-taped episode of Megyn Kelly Today. This comes as reports suggest Kelly’s show will be ending in the near future and that she may be working on an exit deal with NBC. Kelly has also dropped her talent agency amidst the strife.

The controversy began during a panel discussion on her NBC News show about “costume police” dictating Halloween. Kelly asked “what is racist” about white people wearing blackface and black people wearing whiteface on Halloween, noting they “get in trouble” when they do and adding that it was “okay” back when she was a kid as long as it was a character.

That caused an immediate uproar and she issued an apology to her colleagues at NBC, as well as an emotional on-air apology Wednesday morning. That was clearly not enough for NBC News President Andy Lack, her agents for all of five hours at UTA, or the cast of House of Cards.

Kelly’s show on Friday will also be pre-taped, sources said. It’s unclear when — or if — she will be returning to air.

[image via screengrab]

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APPLE Cook blistering attack on 'data industrial complex'…

Apple’s CEO Tim Cook has joined the chorus of voices warning that data itself is being weaponized again people and societies — arguing that the trade in digital data has exploded into a “data industrial complex”.

Cook did not namecheck the adtech elephants in the room: Google, Facebook and other background data brokers that profit from privacy-hostile business models. But his target was clear.

“Our own information — from the everyday to the deeply personal — is being weaponized against us with military efficiency,” warned Cook. “These scraps of data, each one harmless enough on its own, are carefully assembled, synthesized, traded and sold.

“Taken to the extreme this process creates an enduring digital profile and lets companies know you better than you may know yourself. Your profile is a bunch of algorithms that serve up increasingly extreme content, pounding our harmless preferences into harm.”

“We shouldn’t sugarcoat the consequences. This is surveillance,” he added.

Cook was giving the keynote speech at the 40th International Conference of Data Protection and Privacy Commissioners (ICDPPC), which is being held in Brussels this year, right inside the European Parliament’s Hemicycle.

“Artificial intelligence is one area I think a lot about,” he told an audience of international data protection experts and policy wonks, which included the inventor of the World Wide Web itself, Sir Tim Berners-Lee, another keynote speaker at the event.

“At its core this technology promises to learn from people individually to benefit us all. But advancing AI by collecting huge personal profiles is laziness, not efficiency,” Cook continued.

“For artificial intelligence to be truly smart it must respect human values — including privacy. If we get this wrong, the dangers are profound. We can achieve both great artificial intelligence and great privacy standards. It is not only a possibility — it is a responsibility.”

That sense of responsibility is why Apple puts human values at the heart of its engineering, Cook said.

In the speech, which we previewed yesterday, he also laid out a positive vision for technology’s “potential for good” — when combined with “good policy and political will”.

“We should celebrate the transformative work of the European institutions tasked with the successful implementation of the GDPR. We also celebrate the new steps taken, not only here in Europe but around the world — in Singapore, Japan, Brazil, New Zealand. In many more nations regulators are asking tough questions — and crafting effective reform.

“It is time for the rest of the world, including my home country, to follow your lead.”

Cook said Apple is “in full support of a comprehensive, federal privacy law in the United States” — making the company’s clearest statement yet of support for robust domestic privacy laws, and earning himself a burst of applause from assembled delegates in the process.

Cook argued for a US privacy law to prioritize four things:

  1. data minimization — “the right to have personal data minimized”, saying companies should “challenge themselves” to de-identify customer data or not collect it in the first place
  2. transparency — “the right to knowledge”, saying users should “always know what data is being collected and what it is being collected for, saying it’s the only way to “empower users to decide what collection is legitimate and what isn’t”. “Anything less is a shame,” he added
  3. the right to access — saying companies should recognize that “data belongs to users”, and it should be made easy for users to get a copy of, correct and delete their personal data
  4. the right to security — saying “security is foundational to trust and all other privacy rights”

“We see vividly, painfully how technology can harm, rather than help,” he continued, arguing that platforms can “magnify our worst human tendencies… deepen divisions, incite violence and even undermine our shared sense or what is true or false”.

“This crisis is real. Those of us who believe in technology’s potential for good must not shrink from this moment”, he added, saying the company hopes “to work with you as partners”, and that: “Our missions are closely aligned.”

He also made a sideswipe at tech industry efforts to defang privacy laws — saying that some companies will “endorse reform in public and then resist and undermine it behind closed doors”.

“They may say to you our companies can never achieve technology’s true potential if there were strengthened privacy regulations. But this notion isn’t just wrong it is destructive — technology’s potential is and always must be rooted in the faith people have in it. In the optimism and the creativity that stirs the hearts of individuals. In its promise and capacity to make the world a better place.”

“It’s time to face facts,” Cook added. “We will never achieve technology’s true potential without the full faith and confidence of the people who use it.”

Opening the conference before the Apple CEO took to the stage, Europe’s data protection supervisor Giovanni Buttarelli argued that digitization is driving a new generational shift in the respect for privacy — saying there is an urgent need for regulators and indeed societies to agree on and establish “a sustainable ethics for a digitised society”.

“The so-called ‘privacy paradox’ is not that people have conflicting desires to hide and to expose. The paradox is that we have not yet learned how to navigate the new possibilities and vulnerabilities opened up by rapid digitization,” Buttarelli argued.

“To cultivate a sustainable digital ethics, we need to look, objectively, at how those technologies have affected people in good ways and bad; We need a critical understanding of the ethics informing decisions by companies, governments and regulators whenever they develop and deploy new technologies.”

The EU’s data protection supervisor told an audience largely made up of data protection regulators and policy wonks that laws that merely set a minimum standard are not enough, including the EU’s freshly painted GDPR.

“We need to ask whether our moral compass been suspended in the drive for scale and innovation,” he said. “At this tipping point for our digital society, it is time to develop a clear and sustainable moral code.”

“We do not have a[n ethical] consensus in Europe, and we certainly do not have one at a global level. But we urgently need one,” he added.

“Not everything that is legally compliant and technically feasible is morally sustainable,” Buttarelli continued, pointing out that “privacy has too easily been reduced to a marketing slogan.

“But ethics cannot be reduced to a slogan.”

“For us as data protection authorities, I believe that ethics is among our most pressing strategic challenges,” he added.

“We have to be able to understand technology, and to articulate a coherent ethical framework. Otherwise how can we perform our mission to safeguard human rights in the digital age?”

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Related stories:
How it became so big and why it continues to grow…
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Mostly unarmed Guard troops on border…
Illegal families set record for year…

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PET SHOP BOY: 'Where's the art, the poetry in all this?'

On a street in east London lies the Pet Shop Boys’ studio; a pile of rubbish is dumped outside. One room is full of synthesizers; the other has mid-century modern furniture and art by Scott King depicting tower blocks amid Technicolor waves. Here, Neil Tennant is talking about Brexit. “I think everything comes down to social media really, and social media promotes emotional illogicality in all its forms: racism, prejudice and of course nationalism.”

He warms to his theme. “Any multinational empire is going to have an irritating bureaucracy – it’s just a fact. Why is it better for that to be a lot of supposed nation states? When I was at North London Poly in the early 70s, I wrote a defence of the Austro-Hungarian empire. I still think I was right. Stability is very easy to find boring, but afterwards you can appreciate it. I like Joseph Roth, who was a Jewish writer who wrote The Radetzky March, and in his books he sees the Habsburg monarchy as the defenders of all the minorities, including the Jewish minority …”

Listening to this well-read and confidently expressed view, it might seem surprising to think that Tennant has devoted his life to writing not academic papers or newspaper columns but pop songs – but the proof is a slim volume on the table. Titled One Hundred Lyrics and a Poem, the book’s minimal white jacket encases his life’s work: songs about sex and politics, love and despair, a whole panorama of British life. “Really quite often, a publisher says, ‘Let’s get Neil Tennant to write his autobiography’ and it’s quite nice that they do,” its author muses. “I’m not convinced my life’s been interesting enough. This is my autobiography.”

One Hundred Lyrics and a Poem collects the Pet Shop Boys songs Tennant thought looked best written down (so no Heart, Love etc or Shopping), with his introductory essay and commentary. There are the words to huge hits such as It’s a Sin; and obscure b-sides such as The Ghost of Myself, in which Tennant remembers living with a girlfriend in the late 70s, before he came to terms with being gay. He has written songs his whole life, first as a teenage hippy in his native Newcastle, then as a Pet Shop Boy. “I remember as a boy hearing Strawberry Fields Forever and also reading John Lennon’s explanation that he wanted it to be like a conversation, and that had a very powerful impact on me,” he says. “And I remember reading an interview with Frank Sinatra where he said you should phrase lyrics like a conversation. I’ve always tried to do that. Someone who you might not think of as the world’s best lyricist is Madonna, but she always gets the emphasis on the right syllable.”

Neil Tennant (right) and Chris Lowe in 1986, the year before It’s a Sin kicked off the Pet Shop Boys’ ‘imperial period’. Photograph: Mike Prior/Getty Images

Neil Tennant (right) and Chris Lowe in 1986, the year before It’s a Sin kicked off the Pet Shop Boys’ ‘imperial period’. Photograph: Mike Prior/Getty Images

He met Chris Lowe, then an architecture student, in an electrical shop on London’s King’s Road in 1981, a year before he started as news editor on the pop magazine Smash Hits. He and Lowe wanted Pet Shop Boys songs to have the raw excitement of the electro, hi-NRG and hip-hop coming out of New York, a city then as scary as it was inspiring: “Every time you left New York in the early 80s you thought, ‘Wow, survived another trip’.” Their lyrics, however, were distinctly English: sometimes direct, even banal (“I always thought banality was a particular talent”), but more often funny and perceptive, with a far wider perspective than most pop songs.

On one level their first No 1 hit West End Girls was about the seedy glamour of a night out in London, but Tennant also slid in a reference to Edmund Wilson’s To the Finland Station, a history of socialism from the French revolution to Lenin’s arrival in St Petersburg. As if slightly embarrassed by this erudition – the Pet Shop Boys were always militantly pop (modern, glamorous, artificial) as opposed to rock (raw, traditional, authentic) – they never used to print their lyrics on their album sleeves. “We probably had some ideological point about it that we lost interest in,” says Tennant. “I wonder if we thought it was rock or something. You see that whole thing went away … because rock lost.” He hoots with laughter.

Tennant’s sharpest lyrics still resonate today. When the Conservative party conference unveiled its slogan Opportunity last month, wits immediately tweeted: “I’ve got the brains, you’ve got the looks/Let’s make lots of money” – the chorus to their song Opportunities, which satirised the Tory zeal for enterprise. “That was a classic early Thatcherite notion,” Tennant says, adding that it was the puckish Lowe who came up with the line “Let’s make lots of money”.

In 1987, It’s a Sin, a disco blockbuster about Catholic guilt, got to No 1 in 11 countries and kicked off what he famously called Pet Shop Boys’ “imperial period”, the stage where a group can do no wrong. Though Tennant’s commentary in the book makes the subject matter of some songs more explicit, the Pet Shop Boys’ sexuality was somewhat coded at the time – obvious to those in the know (they posed in full leather gear on the cover of Smash Hits) but destined to go over the head of most teen pop fans. So was the sin in question homosexuality? “I think it just meant sex,” says Tennant. “When you’re an adolescent boy at a Catholic school you’re taught that sex, apart from reasons of procreation, is a sin. Going out and getting pissed with your friends is a sin.”

Then there was Rent, recently the subject of a tweeted inquiry by Pet Shop Boys fan Cardi B as to what the words are about. “We were trying to write provocative lyrics,” Tennant says. “You’d hear someone in a gay club say, ‘Oh, he’s rent’. It’s nostalgie de la boue, nostalgia of the gutter. We both like the pathos of streetlife.” Rather than a rent boy however, Tennant imagines the subject of the song to be the mistress of a powerful politician, kept in an apartment on New York’s Upper East Side. “I never know quite what it’s about, really. But I always quite like that in pop songs.”

Pet Shop Boys on stage at the Montreux rock festival in 1986. Photograph: David Redfern/Redferns

Pet Shop Boys on stage at the Montreux rock festival in 1986. Photograph: David Redfern/Redferns

Some of Pet Shop Boys’ most moving songs were Tennant’s response to the Aids crisis. “When I decided I was gay was pretty much when Aids came in, so you were paranoid,” he says. Then, “this friend of mine from Newcastle, my closest friend in some ways, suddenly goes down with HIV. And that was when Suburbia was in the top 10.” Tennant spent a good deal of his imperial period in the Aids ward of St Mary’s Hospital in London, “watching [my] friend waste away”. Christopher Dowell, who died in 1989, is commemorated in three songs including Being Boring, a devastatingly sad memorial to their friendship.

It’s something he thinks about still. “I had a very strong group of friends as an adolescent, many of whom I still know – we’ve got a new song which looks back at that,” Tennant says. “It was a very intense part of my life and it sort of ended with the Aids crisis, with so many friends who died, so I will probably never get over that. I don’t mean in a traumatised way, just that it’s always there in my history. It’s part of who I am.”

Tennant finally came out to Attitude magazine in 1994. Does he wish, like Olly Alexander and Troye Sivan today, he had written unabashedly gay songs filled with male pronouns? “In the 80s and the 90s, for that matter, it was such a big deal, being gay,” he says. (In 1987, a British Social Attitudes poll found that 75% of the general public thought homosexuality was “always” or “mostly” wrong; the following year the Thatcher government brought in section 28, which prevented it being “promoted” in schools.) “You knew your audience had a lot of women or girls in it, so you wanted to include everyone. I still sort of think that when I’m writing, to be honest. Also I don’t write about my life in the direct way that most, if not all, artists do nowadays. Sometimes I think, ‘Where’s the art, where’s the poetry in all of this?’ Lily Allen can write these amazingly and actually quite funny direct slag-offs of people and stuff like that. That’s just not who I am, I’m afraid. It isn’t anything to do with pronouns, it’s to do with poetry really.” He laughs.

It’s also the reason why, for all the Pet Shop Boys songs commenting on society and politics (including three about Tony Blair), they have never written a direct protest song. “I wouldn’t write a song called Second Referendum Now, even though I think there should be one,” Tennant says. “We have written a song called Give Stupidity a Chance which is a satire. It’s close to a protest song, but it’s also funny.” Pop music’s strength, he believes, lies not in making a party political point but in summing up the atmosphere of the time – as the Specials managed with Ghost Town. “When that came out in the middle of the Toxteth riots era, everything about it was a political statement, but it wasn’t putting forward a political programme.”

What about just writing a straightforward love song? Tennant is surprised when I suggest that they have become more infrequent on Pet Shop Boys albums. “Maybe there’s been less to write about, I’m afraid.” He pauses, slightly embarrassed. “Not totally. Actually on das neu album is a major love song.”

Would he ever avoid writing about anything too intimate? “Sex or something? No, one has to think of the person that’s the subject, so you’ve got to bear their feelings in mind.” He says he has the “slightly cold and dispassionate” ability to be having an argument with a lover and realise that an accusation like “You only tell me you love me when you’re drunk” will make a good title for a song.

He has never had writer’s block, never considered stopping writing. The closest Pet Shop Boys have ever come to splitting up was in 1999, when the concert promoter Harvey Goldsmith went bankrupt while they were on tour. “We were playing to half-empty arenas, losing a fortune. It came to a head one night at Sheffield Arena. I said to Chris, ‘Why don’t we just pack it in?’ And Chris didn’t answer. So we started talking about something else.” Their forthcoming album will be their 15th, not counting live and compilation albums, and will include a song inspired by the refugee crisis, and another about Berlin, the city where they go to write and – occasionally on a Sunday afternoon – to dance at Berghain, the legendary techno club.

Tennant became famous at 31; he’s now 64. The single poem in the book contemplates his mortality; three songs were inspired by funerals. “People fall away, you know,” he says. “This year we’ve had quite a few friends, all of them quite a bit younger than me, die.” I ask about the death of George Michael, a pop peer nine years Tennant’s junior. “I felt sad and almost angry because it seemed like such a waste. He was so young and also I think he was on a path it would have been possible to reverse. But he was very stubborn, George.”

He adds that while they didn’t know each other well, their relationship spanned three decades. “I first met him in 1982. I interviewed him and Andrew [Ridgley] for Smash Hits and then the last time we saw him it was exactly 30 year later, at the Olympic closing ceremony. We were in these Portakabin-y dressing rooms and the person next to us is playing music unbelievably loudly. I said to our tour manager: ‘Can you go and ask him to turn that down, please?’ And suddenly the door flings open and George, who we hadn’t seen since he’d been in jail, comes in and says: ‘Did you just tell me to turn my music down?’ I said: ‘Yes, I did.’ And he says: ‘Give me a hug.’ And then he went back to his dressing room, put his stereo on and played West End Girls – loudly.”

The front door opens. It’s Lowe. “You know there’s all this rubbish outside? You’re going to have to phone the council.”

“I’m going to, actually,” says Tennant.

“It’s turning into a public … tip!” says Lowe, aghast.

“Actually, a fire risk!”

“Rats, the whole lot!”

It’s time to go. “He’s good at talking, isn’t he,” says Lowe, “especially about himself! Did you ask him about Brexit?”

One Hundred Lyrics and a Poem by Neil Tennant (Faber, £14.99) is published on 1 November. To order a copy for £12.89, go to or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £10, online orders only. Phone orders min. p&p of £1.99.

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Thieves steal giant infatable colon from hospital…

The inflatable colon pictured here was stolen from a pickup truck in Kansas City. Authorities are asking the public for help in locating the colon. (Photo Courtesy KU Cancer Center)

KANSAS CITY, Mo. (KSNW) – An inflatable colon has been stolen from the University of Kansas Cancer Center. 

The colon, valued at $4,000, was stolen from a pickup truck that was parked in Brookside, Kansas City.

“Colorectal cancer screening is the most powerful weapon we have against colorectal cancer,” John Ashcraft, DO, surgical oncologist at The University of Kansas Cancer Center said.  Ashcraft is also co-leader of the cancer prevention and survivorship research program.  “Colon cancer is a tough subject for many to talk about and the giant, 150 pound, ten foot long inflatable colon is a great conversation starter.”

The Cancer Coalition owns the inflatable colon. The organization hosts walk and run events for a campaign called “Get Your Rear In Gear.”

The organization ships the inflatable colon across the country for the events. The colon was on its way the a 5K which was scheduled to start at 9:00 a.m. at Swope Park when it was stolen. 

Authorities ask the public to call Kansas City Police with any information regarding the stolen colon. 

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SNAP: LYFT Driver Suffers Mental Breakdown…

WOODLAND (CBS13) — A Woodland woman is speaking out about a Lyft ride that ended with police put her driver in handcuffs. The frightening moments played out as she was on her way to pick up her husband from the hospital.

Christie Gomez had only used Lyft a couple times before that fateful ride, but she instantly knew this ride wasn’t right.

lyft from down under Lyft Driver Has Mental Breakdown On Ride, Placed On Psychiatric Hold By Police

“Honestly it’s the scariest thing I’ve ever went through in my life,” Gomez said. “The real first sign was once we got on the freeway he literally started crying, but it was crying and then laughing at the same time.”

She ordered the ride from her home in Woodland to pick up her husband at the Kaiser Hospital in Sacramento, a 25-mile trip. Her driver began driving erratically and then removed his hands from the wheel, covered his eyes with his hands, and told Gomez to direct him on the road.

READ: Mega Millions Winning Numbers For $1 Billion Announced

“(He was saying) ‘I can’t do this anymore. I can’t go through like this anymore.’” Gomez said.

Fearing the worst, she reached out to her mom and husband, texting them that she was scared.

Eventually, Gomez convinced the driver to pull over in a Natomas Shopping Center, saying she had to go to the bathroom. As soon as she got out of the car, Gomez ran into a nearby Starbucks.

Sacramento Police arrived and found the driver locked in a gas station bathroom. Officers said he was acting erratically, covering himself in soap and trying to bite him.

ALSO: Sacramento Couple Visits With Woman They Saved From Burning Car

The driver was taken into custody and put on a mental health hold.

Lyft issued a statement Friday saying, “We have deactivated the driver’s account as we collect more details and have been in contact with the passenger affected.”

Gomez said she thought she’d be safe, now she’s saying it was a mistake she won’t make again. She also received a full refund from the ride-share app for her trip.

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