CHIMERAS (Track Presius) (28 page)

“And that’s not the case?”

“Not always, Satish. Because what the virus often does is a little reshuffling. Mother Nature’s way to ensure genetic variation. Conrad and Troy claim they have a way to keep the reshuffling under control by modifying further the viral proteins. They do, in fact. But they have completely overlooked regions outside the genes. The so-called ‘junk DNA.’ Their mistake was to believe that because those regions are non-coding and are lost after the DNA splicing, they would be harmless. Huxley’s data proves otherwise. Twelve kids developed an aggressive form of leukemia because of these mutations.”

Non-coding DNA. Pseudogenes.

The non-coding genes Watanabe talked about
.

“They may very well call it junk,” I said, “but if that region gets activated and those mutations are deadly, then it’s the end.”

Diane nodded.

I stared at the board and heaved a big breath. Jennifer needed proof. More data, and it had to come from Chromo.
Tarantino’s smell on Huxley’s couch
. Did a friendly conversation take place that night, or was it threatening? And if so, who threatened whom? Diane’s voice became a soothing background as I drifted off, and my mind reeled back to the meeting I now knew had taken place the night before Huxley disappeared. I could finally see what happened that evening.

Her hands shake as she pours the glass of wine. Liquid sloshes out of the bottle and stains her pristine counter. “Shoot,” she mutters, the spill fogging her brain like the static of a bad reception. She puts the glass down and reaches for a cloth to wipe it off.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she says to her unexpected guest as she brings him the wine. He takes the glass from her, smiles, and then sits on the couch. His eyes are kind, she finds. Maybe it’s all those years of Sunday preaching, or maybe the same yearning that compels her to clean the house and organize the closets, which now prompts her to fix his wrongdoings. Whatever the reason, she believes she can trust this man. She wants to redeem him, wipe every red stain off his speckled conscience and make it as immaculate as her floors and windows. She tells him what she’s discovered. “What you did is bad in the eyes of God,” she says. Are those the right words? “Innocent lives. Imagine what those children went through. Imagine the parents.”

Robert Tarantino listens while sipping his wine. What is he thinking? Is he seeing what she’s saying?

“What do you want me to do, Jennifer? I want to make things right. I want another chance.” His eyes look truthful. “Tomorrow morning,” he tells her. And then he leaves her a note with a passcode.

“I want a search warrant for Medford’s office and home,” I said.

Udall raised a knotty hand in the air. “Hold your horses, Track. I haven’t heard of any crime so far.”

“What else do you need?”

Diane heaved a deep breath and joined us at the table. “He’s right, Track. There’s no crime. When you dig out Chromo’s records you will find that each one of these parents were handed a ream of consent forms to sign in order to get the services they requested—and note the choice of verb here,
requested
. All Chromo did is perfectly kosher: they provided a service, and the recipients were at all times informed of the risks and caveats.”

Udall flashed his wisdom in the form of his peaceful smile. “In the eyes of the law they did nothing wrong.”

I swallowed the bitter aftertaste in my mouth. My head was throbbing. “What about the three murders?”

“It’s the only way to go. Indict for murder, if we can.”

“Medford owns a gun,” Satish said. “Though it doesn’t match the caliber of the bullets found in the victims’ bodies.”

“On the other hand he had plenty of motive,” I said, raising my voice.

“Given what you guys just told me, any religious fanatic out there had plenty of motive too,” Udall insisted.

“Then why did Huxley also end up dead? Think about it. What’s more likely: a lunatic entering the Tarantino home and whacking them both based on some who-knows-what biblical reason, or Tarantino turning into the weak link and needing to be rid of?”

“What about the first commandment note, then?”

“To set us on the wrong track,” I said. “Ideologies are out there to cover somebody’s ass. Whether they believe in them or exploit those who do.”

Udall exhaled through his nose. He drummed his fingers on the table and then slammed his palm flat on the surface. “Let’s see what Jerry White has to say on the matter. If he can give us a possible motive for the murders, we may be able to justify the warrants. But if we find nothing linking Medford with either the Tarantinos’ or the Huxley murders, then I’m afraid there’s very little we can do for those children.”

Hannah Kelson’s words rang in my ears:
Justice is the exception, not the rule
. 

“If his lawyer will let him talk to us.” I pushed my chair back, got up and left the room. My future as a cop was in the hands and knife of a county coroner, while the people I wanted in jail for the rest of their lives were as immaculate as a baby in the eyes of the
law. I needed a substantial dose of painkiller if I wanted to be at least half functional by the time White and his lawyer showed up. 

CHAPTER 33

____________

Thursday, October 23

Cleanly shaven and beautifully packaged in an Armani suit and tie, movie director Jerry White’s appearance had quite improved since the first time I’d seen him down in Felony. Swept back, his longish hair showed the first signs of thinning around the temples. The earring shining from his right lobe enhanced a handsome profile, drawn by sharp, harmonious lines. Seated next to him, his lawyer scribbled a few words of slanted handwriting on a piece of paper, shoved it back into his briefcase, and let his booming voice hush the usual preliminary exchanges between Udall, Satish, and me.

“Let’s spare everybody’s time here,” he started. “My client’s keeping his mouth shut until we hear what’s on the table.”

I had the pleasure to meet Ray Epstein in the courtroom: husky, with a square face mottled by moles, and small eyes crowned by bushy brows. A man with an imposing voice and a passion for the spotlight. In court, a squint of his gray eyes could shrink you down to the size of a mosquito. Renowned for berating witnesses and demanding straight answers to convoluted questions, he had firm principles and pliable ethics. As for me, I could smell his acid reflux within four feet, which is why I still preferred to deal with him from behind the witness stand than in a small room, sitting at the same table.

“We’re out for the big fish, Mr. Epstein,” Satish said. “It would benefit your client to help us out.”

“You’ve got nothing whatsoever on my client,” Epstein barked.

“
Au contraire
,” I said. “We’ve got the victim’s blood in Mr. White’s car and his weapon on the scene.”

Epstein regarded me with the same interest granted to the cuticles of his pinky fingers. He jacked up one of his overgrown brows and smirked. “It’s all circumstantial.”

A ghost in his black suit, Jerry White seemed oblivious to the conversation. He stared at his polished fingernails for a few minutes, then at the cobwebs clinging on the ceiling. He scanned Udall’s striped tie, Epstein’s briefcase, Satish’s dark hands brushing the table. His gaze lingered on the yellow walls and on the linoleum floors. Under long lashes, White’s blue eyes leapt restlessly from one point to the next without ever crossing any of the stares woven around them.

How much do you miss her, Jerry? Does the silence ever scare you, the space around you voided of her laughter, of her hurried steps to the door to come greet you at the end of the day
?
Did you really think shooting Michael Conrad was going to drive all those ghosts away? You pulled the trigger on him, Jerry, because you never found the guts to pull it on yourself. The stupid mistakes you made throughout your life: the novelist career you wanted to pursue and never got to, the high school crush you let slip out of your fingers and never married, soon replaced by one relationship after the other, none too lousy to give you grief, and none too significant to cling to your life for the long haul.

And then Gaya happened. Beautiful, innocent Gaya. An undeserved gift, or maybe you didn’t see her as such, maybe to you she felt like another
Oscar night where you get the standing ovation for all the hard work. Don’t all artists think of their creations as their children? Did you think of Gaya as your best masterpiece, for which you had to do a little extra, and pay a little extra, but wasn’t she worth every bit? Fate took her away from you, though. Not even fate—human mistake. Who did you hate the most, the ones who fooled you, or yourself for letting them fool you? Tell me, Jerry: if you really had the guts, would you still point the gun at Conrad, or would you rather press it against your temple? To put an end to all those mornings when you open your eyes and it’s right there in front of you, your shame, your foolishness, your regrets… Your inability to go back and start over, do things the right way, this time.

“Mr. White,” I called.

He winced, his thoughts fluttering off his head like flakes of dandruff.

“It wasn’t only Gaya,” I said. I spoke slowly and kept my voice low, until the jabbering lawyers quieted down. “Twelve kids, Mr. White. Twelve lives cut short. Maybe more—others who haven’t developed the disease yet. All based on an empty promise. What did they promise you? Academic brilliance? Longevity? Perfect beauty?”

Epstein shifted in his chair. “Detective—”

“I just want the truth,” I prodded.

Jerry White kept his lips pursed. I said, “Conrad was a visionary, but his murder won’t avenge your daughter. It’s the fools who gave him the money to do what he did I want to get my hands on. Not just for Gaya. For the other eleven kids who died like her.”

For a moment, the silence around me was deep, lulled by the AC vent above our heads. Epstein scratched his opinionated brow. “Don’t say anything, Jerry.”

“Do you think your lawyer has Gaya’s interest at heart?” I challenged.

“Detective—”

“I don’t blame you for gunning a man who deceived you, Mr. White—”

“Enough, Detective!” Epstein spat. Both Udall and Satish tried
to say something at the same time, and it all overlapped in a rattle of different pitches clashing together. Satish slid across the table Huxley’s letter to Tarantino. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘Proteus kids,’ Mr. White? The woman who wrote this letter lost her life because she believed it’s what killed your daughter.”

I leaned forward and pressed a finger on the piece of paper. “This woman was about to prove that when Chromo promised you the perfect child, they also sealed her death sentence. These are the people who ruined your life. They should pay for what they did.”

It was the winning stroke. I saw it in the man’s eyes, as they rose from the letter and stared at me. They were clouded with hurt. He tightened his jaw and a vein pulsed across his temple. “They never promised—”

“Jerry, be careful—”

White bristled. “Shut up, Ray. What the hell do you know about what Gaya went through? What do you know what it was like to watch them stick a needle into her arm and tell her, ‘Don’t worry, it’s going to be over soon?’ And she believed it. She smiled, the little angel. She smiled and nodded, and it never
was
over, the shivering, the vomiting, her teeth rattling in the middle of the night. Her bones crackling as I picked her up.”

His voice broke. Nobody interrupted this time. He hid his face in one hand and sobbed. “She was the joy of my life, that little girl of mine.”

Udall shifted in his chair and exhaled. Sadness overrode the dolphin smile. Epstein pulled down the outer corners of his brows. He propped a hand on White’s shoulder and shook his head. “My client spent nine months by his dying daughter’s side. You can take your circumstantial evidence and ditch it in a landfill. No jury is going to indict when they hear what the child had to go through.”

“I can think of three different motions to prevent any testimony pertaining Gaya White from entering the courtroom, Ray,” Udall said.

“I want to tell them, Ray.”

Finally what I wanted to hear.

“What?” Epstein’s jaw twitched with a hint of irritation.

“You heard me. I want to tell them what those bloody bastards did to us. They ruined us. And you are wrong, Detective,” he added, pointing a finger at me. “They’re
not
going to pay, no matter what
you
do.” His eyes were red and spiteful. “Do you know what would be fair pay, Detective? To make them go through what I went through and watch their own child die the way mine did.”

He widened his nostrils and banged a hand on the table. “Except it wouldn’t be true justice, either. Because there would be another innocent life wasted away just like my Gaya’s. No child should ever endure any of that.”

Epstein shot to his feet. “This meeting is over. My client and I need to confer—”

“Shut up, Ray. One more word and you’re fired.”

The lawyer dropped back in his chair.

“Did they promise you the perfect child, Mr. White?” I asked. “Is that why Gaya had to be conceived in vitro?”

White frowned, taken aback. “What? No, that was—that was to avoid the cystic fibrosis gene.” His lips stretched upwards and he gave out to a long, bitter laugh. “No, no. It’s a lot subtler than that, Detective. You’ll have a ball proving this one.”

I sank back in my chair, failing to understand.

“Conrad,” White said. The name came out of his mouth like a spit of venom. “
Professor
Conrad. Hannah was enthused by him. ‘He’s so smart,’ she’d say. ‘He really understands the stuff.’ He wanted to play his game, prove he was a genius. Oh, yeah. I shot him good. In the face, I did.”

Epstein jumped out of his chair looking as if an ant had just bitten his ass. “Jerry, as your lawyer, I advise you not to—”

“I shot him, Ray,” White spat. “He deserved it. The son of a bitch screwed up. ‘You’re done playing almighty creator,’ I told him. ‘Start over with your own life, instead of playing with others.’”

Epstein scratched his wide forehead. His mouth opened as if about to say something, and then shut again, following his very
own advice.

I asked, “If it wasn’t the perfect child, what did Conrad promise you? Why did you blame him for Gaya’s death?”

Jerry White inhaled. He drank from the glass in front of him, clonked it back on the table, then stared at it as if his whole life had been written in it. “It was the cool thing to do back in the late ‘nineties—Chromo’s one-million-dollar idea. Scientifically proven to work thanks to that Conrad genius. That’s what all those parties at the Horowitz’s were about—to sell us out on Chromo’s fountain of youth deal.”

Satish let out a whistle. “Did you say fountain of youth?”

White nodded. “One hundred percent safe gene therapy, guaranteed to keep you looking twenty-five well into your sixties. The price my child had to pay.” He raised his eyes to me and they were sad eyes. “I can’t prove it, Detective, but I know”—he beat his chest with a closed fist—“I know it in my heart that’s what killed my Gaya. The stupid gene therapy that made us look twenty years younger stole my Gaya’s life. Proteus was the code name for the gene therapy treatment.” He snorted. “Proteus was some immortal god, wasn’t he
?
”

The genes Diane found in the monkey virus
.

It finally came together. Even in her death hour, Tamara Tarantino looked way younger than her forty-eight years of age. Same with Kelson, and Medford’s wife, too. They all looked younger thanks to the Proteus therapy—the gene therapy Diane had discovered when looking at the virus in the dead monkey.

Satish rapped his fingers. “Let me get this straight. You and your wife received the youth treatment, not Gaya, correct? Yet you claim that’s what caused your child to die of leukemia?”

“Don’t you see? It screwed up our genes. They gave us shots, one million a pop. That was in 1998, for about six months. Then we decided we were going to have a child, so we stopped. The in vitro thing—it wasn’t just the cystic fibrosis we feared. Hannah was afraid the therapy might’ve messed up some genes. So she went back to her friend Conrad. He reassured her everything was fine.
‘Just do in vitro fertilization and everything will be fine.’ My ass.”

Chilled silence fell in the room. Epstein’s knee rattled impatiently under the table.

So much for wanting to do everything right, Hannah
.

I swallowed. “Does Chromo have more of your embryos?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Then we may be able to prove it, Mr. White.”

Embryos. Huxley’s data, to be delivered in the cryogenic tank Tarantino had promised her. It shattered in her own hands, scattering glass shards and perlite all over her, probably as she dodged a bullet from her attacker.

It was empty, Jennifer. They fooled you
.

“How many others received the treatment?” Udall asked. “Any chance Chromo would have other embryos besides yours?”

“I know we weren’t the only ones. A lot of people signed up during those parties, and a lot were convinced to do in vitro fertilization if they decided to have a child.” That bitter laugh, again. “Would you say no if somebody offered you eternal youth?”

His eyes met mine.

Your child will never see
her
youth
.

I passed him pen and paper. “Write down the ones you know.”

White took the pen and started scribbling. I glimpsed a few familiar names: a plastic surgeon, a few lawyers, more names from the showbiz industry, including Horowitz’s.

Epstein straightened up and slammed a stocky hand on the table. “You got what you wanted, gentlemen. Manslaughter, two years of probation, no jail time.”

“Come on, Ray,” Udall said. “We’re talking murder!”

“Before you guys start dancing on your haggling toes,” I interjected. “Mr. Udall, I want your signature on a search warrant to turn the Chromo lab inside out. No matter how many embryos they have in there, I want to pluck them out one by one.”