"The killer'll go free, `cause no one really cares when a fag is involved. Isn't that what you're all thinking?" His eyes widened and his gaze darted about the room. "Well this is my domain now. No one touches anything here. Understand?" He inched his way toward her.
The key was safe and Andrea had gotten what she came for. Perfect time to get out. "All right, Peter, have it your way. I'm leaving, but the police will be with me next time." She turned to leave.
Peter wiped off the counter and busied himself arranging beakers. "Great. By then I'll be out of here for good. You're all the same. You only care about yourselves, nothing else." His eyes misted. "You didn't even go to the cemetery."
"I had an appointment with the Dean. I had no choice." What did it matter to try and reason with him? He'd already determined everyone was against him. What did he mean by
`I'll be out of here for good'
? She firmly gripped the door handle. He wasn't thinking straight. Was he leaving town? She tried to smile. "Thanks, Peter."
"Get out. Get out. Get out!" He screamed and buried his head in his hands.
Andrea hurried back to the elevator, glancing back to make sure he wasn't behind her. She pushed the elevator button several times as though it would make the elevator come faster. She had to find Krastowitcz and tell him about Peter. He'd definitely gone over the edge.
SUZANNE GLANCED at the clock; four-thirty. Still another hour to go before meeting Andrea. Why did an hour seem longer than sixty minutes? When she waited for something, it seemed like days.
"Everything is relative," she said. Einstein's Theory. Every-thing was relative, but to what, she wasn't sure. The only thing she was sure of these days was how wonderful she felt in Trent's arms.
Finally, she'd fallen in love and couldn't wait to tell Andrea all about it. Of course, she'd say everything had happened way too fast, but Suzanne didn't care.
This time, she was positive.
Andrea would be skeptical, as usual, and Suzanne would have to listen to another lecture, not that it would make any difference. Not this time. A twinge of sorrow niggled at her. Trent wasn't the first man she'd slept with. In fact, he wasn't even the tenth or twentieth. She'd lost count. In a way though, he was the first, the first she'd loved. That fact was enough for a year's worth of happiness.
She could hardly wait for Andrea. Only forty-five more minutes.
ANDREA ENTERED the squad room and asked for Krastowitcz. Hunched over, oblivious to the phones, yelling, and traffic in the main room, he read from a growing mound of notes and papers on his desk. He looked handsome in a strange way. His fingers raked through his thick, curly hair and he
clenched
his jaw in concentration, looking almost angry. Smiling, she walked toward his desk. The man was definitely growing on her."Gary?"
He looked up, startled, then smiled. "Hey Andrea." He glanced at his watch. "I didn't realize the time. Either you're early or I'm late."
She sat down on the wooden, folding chair at the end of his desk and withdrew the large file from her purse. "I found the grant."
He reached over and picked up the folder. "The what?"
"Milton's research. I spent the afternoon reading it in the library. For the past three years I worked on this project, I never took the time to read the proposal."
He thumbed through the thick manuscript. "I can see why. This is some book."
"I should've, though. I was always too busy, I guess. It's impressive."
She crushed the file against her chest. "Now, I know why he was such a
prima donna
."
"What do you mean?" he said, pulling her chair closer so they could talk privately. She sensed his nearness and warmth filled her veins.
"Milton delved into gene splicing and DNA cell bathing. I don't really understand it all. I'm not a geneticist or a virologist, but, from what I could tell, he was trying to bathe sick cells with a bacterial DNA solution of some sort, making the infected cells absorb the new characteristics of the DNA bath. Forming super cells."
"Super cells?"
"Yes. In turn, they'd devour the sick cells, changing the genetic makeup of the super cells, making them disease- resistant."
"How could their genetic makeup be altered?"
"I don't know exactly. Except, the super cells would have some of the sick-cell characteristics, I guess."
"What do you mean disease-resistant?"
"Just what I said. You could take an immunocompromised host–"
He frowned at her. "Speak English."
"Oh, sorry. You could take a person with cancer or any other immunological disease like AIDS and change their individual cells by forming a shield around them, making them immune to disease."
"What disease?"
"Any disease. That's what's so remarkable."
Krastowitcz leaned closer. "Could that really happen?"
"Who knows? According to the grant proposal, this shield would not only cure the patient, but make him resistant to new infection. Not only would they be cured, but they'd have drunk from the fountain of youth."
"Whew. A regular Dr. Frankenstein. Did he do it?"
"I don't think so. This is only a proposal, filed three years ago."
"Three years?"
"Yes. It takes years to get a project like this going. First, you experiment on animals. Then, if you see startling results, it can be tried on humans. Only after approval by the FDA, of course."
Krastowitcz put his hand on her arm. "What kind of humans?"
She stopped and gazed into his eyes. What was he getting at? "Volunteers, but only with approval from the IRB."
"IRB?" Krastowitcz strode over to the coffee-pot and poured them both a cup of stand-alone black. "What's that?"
"Internal Review Board. Of course, the NIH has to approve human experimentation, too."
"What volunteers?"
Andrea sipped the coffee, made a face and put the cup down. "Usually medical students. Or in this case, AIDS patients. And only after the project clears all the human subjects review boards. That's the law."
"Really? It's not on our books." He gulped his cup dry and rose for another.
"It is in ours. To my knowledge, Milton never requested an IRB review. Yet, he talked about using the Phase I Vaccine on Mr. Randolph. Still, he couldn't do it without clearance."
"You think those pictures we found and Grafton's death had anything to do with his experiments?"
"I can't see how. His theory was so advanced. It was his project, his knowledge, his experiments."
Kratowitcz scratched his head. "What if he couldn't get any subjects?"
She stopped, staring, lost in thought. "Oh, God, Gary!"
"What?"
Andrea clasped her hands over the grant and her breathing quickened. "Peter said Milton experimented on himself. You don't think?"
"It's beginning to fit."
"Maybe Milton found the cure. And Peter. . . Maybe he knows more than he's saying?" Andrea paced around the desk. "Wait a minute. Peter said something about leaving. Permanently."
"When?"
"This morning."
"When, exactly?"
"I--ah, looked through lab files. I have a key to the file cabinet."
"Key? Where'd you get it?"
"From Milton's desk. I wanted to see if--"
"That's evidence! You took it off Grafton's desk and didn't tell me?"
"I was so confused and upset, I stuck it in the pocket of my lab coat. I forgot all about it until this morning." Andrea hoped he couldn't tell she was lying.
"I really should be furious with you." He frowned, but then smiled. "All evidence is under the jurisdiction of the police. What else do you have?"
"Just one more thing."
"Andrea!"
"Oh, stifle it. There was a letter with the key," she continued, "but it was written in French."
"French, why?"
"Milton did some work with the Pasteur Institute of Paris, one of the biggest AIDS research facilities in the world. He's gotten memos and letters from Paris for a long time." She pulled out the wrinkled letter. "I can't read a word, but with the help of my trusty dictionary--" she held up a thick paperback book-- "I translated enough to make out the words. . . `cells changed--healthy. . . something. . . something. . . your sample.' He must have sent them some blood. But whose? No inpatients are in remission. Could there be another person we don't know about?"
Krastowitcz gazed at her, puzzled. "I don't know, Andrea. Maybe the mutilations, the cadavers in the photos, maybe. . ." His eyes looked vacant, then cleared. "You said something about T-cells?"
"DNA in human cells creates healthy T-cells. These cells enable the body to ward off infections and diseases. In terminal illness, especially AIDS, the T-cells are destroyed, allowing diseases to devour healthy ones. The key to immunity seems to be in the T-cells."
He handed back her dictionary. "Let's find someone who reads French and get this thing translated properly. How about someone in the Language Department at Dorlynd?"
Andrea thought for a few moments. "Let's call them. Do you have a phone book?" The letter contained the answers they needed. Sure of that, she fumbled through the papers on his desk searching for a phone book. Krastowitcz placed a large paw over both her moving hands.
"Wait a minute. Slow down." His other hand produced a large phone book and she pulled her hands free grabbing the book, flipping the pages.
"It'll take me a minute. . . wait. Here it is." Andrea dialed a number. "No answer. What now?"
"We'll call again tomorrow."
"We could try and translate it ourselves, right now, tonight? We can't wait until tomorrow."
"Why not?"
Somehow, she had to convince him, change his mind. What would it hurt? "Time, Gary. Peter has threatened to leave, and you promised me dinner, anyway. We'll take the letter with us and give it a try."
"All right, all right." Krastowitcz stood and donned his jacket. "Dinner. We'll see what we can do. If not, this goes to a translator tomorrow. Understood?"
"Sure. What're we waiting for? Let's go eat."
"Give me a minute here and then we'll leave. Start thinking of where you want to go."
Someplace quiet, so they could talk without interruption. Someplace where they'd be at ease. Nothing too fancy. "I've heard so much about the steaks at your hangout. How about The Tap?"
Chapter XIII
. . . WITH PURITY AND WITH HOLINESS I WILL PASS MY LIFE AND PRACTICE MY ART. . .
"Try the T-bone, Andrea."
Andrea picked up the plastic-coated menu and scanned the selection. Steak was so barbaric, but what the hell. She was in the middle of a murder case.
"Do you know what eating like this will do to you, Gary?"
"I know it's bad, but it tastes so good. Anyway, the life expectancy for a cop is under fifty. If I live long enough to have a stroke, it'll be worth it."
"Really? I think I should have fish."
Andrea glanced back over the menu, trying to decide. After Suzanne's description, she'd wondered what a typical police hangout looked like. She wasn't disappointed. It was functional, a long bar at one end of a large dining/drinking room. Tables had placemats, not cloths and the stomach-turning decor was the typical rape of nature in the guise of trophies lining the walls: elk, deer, bear, moose, fish, and anything else claiming the Midwest as its habitat. But Andrea was starving and not about to be distracted by another cause. She could put her soapbox away for the moment.
"All right, Gary. To hell with health. I'll have one, too."
"Two artery-choking T-bones, Mort. And a pitcher of draft. Okay, Andrea?"
"Why not?" She lifted the dictionary from her purse. "Now, let's get going, this shouldn't take too long."
"Yeah, but why not wait until after dinner?" Krastowitcz leaned back into the booth. "I could use some quality time, right now."
"What do cops know about quality time? You're on duty twenty-four hours a day. Isn't that what you said?"
"We only say that to impress the ladies."
"This lady isn't impressed." Andrea smiled at him. Actually, she was quite impressed. Something was happening here. She couldn't put her finger on it, but he made her feel good.
"Okay," Krastowitcz said. "Gimme your book."
He leaned forward, his head almost on her shoulder, and noticed her scent, or maybe a lack of one. That clean scent physicians had. Her hair was different, too. Sweet, like she had a light cologne in it. He couldn't tell what kind. It smelled nice. He looked at the strange words on the page and began to read out loud.
"
Mon cher Professeur Grafton
:
Deux echantillons de sang etaint enregistres et analyses a l'arrive."
Andrea searched hurriedly through her dictionary.
"Two specimens of blood--darn, I can't find the word-- recording of analysis on arrival," she mumbled, "This is harder than I thought."
"Echantillion A: Serum n'a pas ete ajoule - etait clairement positif pour le virus de H.I.V."
"Specimen A: serum, something, something, clearly positive for virus H.I.V."
"How's my accent?" Krastowitcz said. "Do I sound like a Frenchman?"
"Gary, you're clearly from the Great Plains. There's no similarity, except that both the French and mid-westerner talk through their noses. It's called a twang."
"Talk through my nose, huh? When did you get to be such a snob?"
"We can't do it this way." She smiled, taking the letter from his hands. "Since I can't understand you, I can't tell what the words are. I'll have to do it the old fashioned way--by sight. Let's see now. . . serum B, show of cell activity, many changes within cut of cells, their stability.. . .Hmmm, that doesn't mean much, except there must have been some kind of cell-change in sample B. But whose blood he was using?"
"How `bout those poor slobs on my bulletin board?"
"Maybe. But if he was the guinea pig, maybe the sample was his blood?"
"Echantillon B: Serum B a ete ajoule let echantillon montre de l'activite cellulaire: beaucoup de changements dans la taille des cellules et dans leur stabilite."
"Maybe we
should
get an expert to translate," Krastowitcz said.
"I don't know, Gary. I'm scared. We seem to be working against time. What if Milton had found a cure for something and Peter Mueller decided to keep it for himself? Maybe Peter already knows what this says. Maybe right now he's leaving the country. What he said today was very strange."