High above downtown Houston, a double helix sculpted out of stainless steel looms over Identigene’s reception area, a salmon-colored room where you wait to discover what secrets may lie in your genes. Except for the occasional far-off wail of an infant, there are no diversions here: no background music, no pile of well-thumbed magazines. Instead, you’re left to gaze at the furled strands of DNA, the blueprint for human life—and, as it turns out, phenomenal business success.
Founded five and a half years ago by 32-year-old Caroline Caskey, Identigene has risen to the top of its sector of the biotech industry on the strength of three words: “Who’s the father?” That simple if indelicate question—which appears on billboards strategically placed alongside the nation’s highways, as larger-than-life sperm swarm around the company’s bold-faced 800 number—has tapped into a previously unknown wealth of suspicions and doubts. It elicits upwards of four hundred calls a day, from suspicious husbands who believe one of their children may have been fathered by another man to rape victims who need to determine if the child they are carrying is the offspring of the man who assaulted them; from adoptive parents who want to ensure that the man who signed away his parental rights is their baby’s biological father to adopted children who simply want to know the identity of their birth parents. In 1998 Identigene’s Houston headquarters served eight thousand such clients in person or by mail, a number expected to double this year. (The company also has licensed representatives in Japan, Korea, and Brazil and plans to expand into England, Germany, the Czech Republic, Australia, and Mexico.) Some of those clients were celebrities, Caskey says, refusing to name names, and the rest tended to be upscale enough that the fee of $475 was not a deterrent. “We’re finding that the majority are middle- to upper-income families and affluent singles,” she explains.
Why has Identigene made such hay from DNA? The answer has less to do with a shift in public mores than with the public’s newfound acceptance of genetic testing as a fact of life; consider a certain White House intern who knew the importance of preserving a certain stain on her blue Gap dress. The company has been perfectly in sync with the times since 1995, two years after its founding, when the O. J. Simpson trial put DNA on the front page of newspapers across America. In the years since, paternity cases involving everyone from Bill Cosby to Yves Montand to Dallas Cowboys offensive lineman Erik Williams have kept the subject in the news, as have recent revelations about as unlikely a figure as Thomas Jefferson, who, it was confirmed last fall, fathered several children with one of his slaves. When a story breaks, Caskey springs into action; last August, when she read about Rebecca Chittum and Callie Conley, two Virginia infants who were accidentally switched at birth, she immediately designed a nationwide program that will prevent further mix-ups by testing both the mother’s and the newborn’s DNA.
A self-possessed, striking blonde raised on the west side of Houston, Caskey came up with the idea for her company in 1992, when she was a second-year MBA student at Rice University. By then she had abandoned less marketable passions—as an undergraduate at Duke University in North Carolina, she had majored in French literature—in favor of entrepreneurship, and the time was ripe for developing services based upon emerging DNA technology. Paternity testing itself was hardly new. Doctors had been performing the largely inconclusive practice of comparing family members’ blood types since the turn of the century, and by the mid-eighties forensics and medical labs could determine paternity with greater than