A Scientist Compared Bigfoot DNA to Human DNA — What He Discovered Shocked the Scientific Community | Sasquatch Story
THE BODY IN LAB THREE
A Confession by Dr. Norman Thomas
When they delivered the body to my laboratory on November 14th, 1995, I believed—truly believed—that I was about to make the most important scientific discovery of my life.
Three days later, staring at the DNA results glowing on my computer screen in the quiet hours before dawn, I realized I had discovered something far more dangerous than a breakthrough.
I had found a truth that would force me to choose between my career, my freedom, and a secret that humanity was never meant to know..
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.
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My name is Dr. Norman Thomas. I am sixty-four years old, a molecular biologist and geneticist at the Pacific Northwest Research Institute in Seattle, where I have worked for eighteen years. My specialty is comparative genetics—the study of DNA across species to uncover evolutionary relationships, migration patterns, and inherited disease.
By 1995, I had published dozens of peer-reviewed papers, consulted for government agencies, and helped identify unknown biological samples recovered from crime scenes, disasters, and classified operations. I believed deeply in evidence, in data, in the idea that nature always left a trail if you knew how to read it.
I did not believe in legends.
Not until one was wheeled into Lab Three on a metal gurney.
November 1995
It was a strange time to be alive. Bill Clinton was president. The O.J. Simpson trial had just ended. The internet was still a novelty, something you accessed through screeching modems and dial-up connections. Most scientists I knew didn’t even have email yet.
Our lab computers ran Windows 95. Genetic sequencing took days instead of hours. The Human Genome Project was still mapping the first rough draft of our own DNA, and we spoke about it with awe, as if watching humanity peer into a mirror for the first time.
My personal life was simpler, emptier. I lived alone in a townhouse in Fremont, divorced for fifteen years. My daughter, Rebecca, lived in Boston with her husband and my two grandchildren. I visited twice a year. The rest of my life belonged to my work.
That devotion—some would say obsession—was the reason I was trusted with what arrived that morning.
“We Have a Situation”
I was reviewing grant proposals when the call came from Dr. Patricia Walsh, the institute’s director.
“Norman,” she said, her voice unusually tight, “I need you in my office immediately. We have a situation.”
When I arrived, she wasn’t alone. Two men stood near her desk.
One wore the uniform of Washington State Fish and Wildlife. The other wore a dark suit and carried a badge clipped to his belt.
“Dr. Thomas,” the suited man said, “my name is Agent Richard Cole, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.”
Patricia folded her hands. “These gentlemen have brought us something that requires your expertise. Something highly unusual—and extremely confidential.”
Agent Cole spoke again. “Three days ago, there was an incident on Highway 20 in the North Cascades. A logging truck swerved to avoid what the driver described as a large animal crossing the road. The truck jackknifed.”
I waited.
“When state troopers arrived,” he continued, “they found the animal. It had been struck by the trailer. Deceased on impact.”
“What kind of animal?” I asked.
“That’s what we need you to tell us.”
He paused before adding, “Dr. Thomas… whatever this is, it isn’t in any field guide.”
The Container
The body arrived in a refrigerated transport container the size of a small moving truck.
They had preserved it carefully. No invasive examination. No autopsy. Just documentation, photographs, and cold storage.
I signed more non-disclosure agreements than I could count.
When the doors opened and the lights flickered on, I felt my confidence falter for the first time in my career.
The body lay wrapped in heavy plastic sheeting on a metal gurney.
When I cut the plastic away, I had to grip the edge of the table to steady myself.
It was humanoid.
Unmistakably so.
But enormous.
Seven feet six inches from head to heel. Covered in coarse dark brown fur, lighter around the chest and face. The shoulders were impossibly broad. The arms long. The hands massive, with thick fingers and fully opposable thumbs.
This was no bear.
No ape.
And when I studied the face—God help me—it wasn’t animal in the way I expected. The brow ridge was pronounced, yes, but the jaw was not like a gorilla’s. The eyes faced forward, not to the sides, positioned for binocular vision and depth perception.
Human eyes.
I spent the first hour in silence, documenting measurements, taking photographs from every angle, recording observations in a voice that sounded far too calm for what I was feeling.
Approximate weight: 580 pounds.
Estimated age: elderly, based on tooth wear and gray in the fur.
Cause of death: catastrophic trauma from vehicular impact.
What I didn’t find disturbed me even more.
No tags.
No signs of captivity.
No evidence it had ever belonged to us.
This creature had lived wild—hidden—in the forests of Washington State.
The Legend I Never Believed
I pulled books from my shelf that I had always treated as curiosities.
Cryptozoology. Bigfoot. Sasquatch.
Decades of alleged sightings. Footprint casts. Grainy photographs. The infamous Patterson-Gimlin film from 1967—dismissed by mainstream science as misidentification, hoax, or wishful thinking.
Except now one lay dead in my lab.
I began genetic analysis immediately.
Tissue samples from muscle, skin, hair follicles. DNA extraction using standard protocols. The material was remarkably well preserved.
The first results returned eighteen hours later.
I was alone in the lab at 3:00 a.m. when the computer finished processing.
Mammalian.
Primate.
No question.
I refined the comparison: chimpanzee, gorilla, orangutan.
Close—but wrong.
Then I compared it to human DNA.
The computer took twenty minutes.
When the results appeared, I assumed contamination. I reran the samples. Checked controls. Repeated the process.
Same result.
98.7% genetic similarity to Homo sapiens.
For reference, humans share about 98.8% of our DNA with chimpanzees.
This creature was genetically closer to us than we are to chimps.
And yet—it had 48 chromosomes.
Not 46.
Which meant it represented a branch of our lineage before the chromosomal fusion that defines modern humans.
This was not an animal.
This was another kind of human.
And it had been living—and dying—beside us all along.
