A Desperate Place

by Jennifer Greer

  “I have a theory about that.” Whit pushed for a close. “Your mother and Delano were both obsessed with health and looking youthful. And they all frequented Eden Retreat.”

  His head snapped up at that. “Eden Retreat?”

  “Yes. Dr. Heinemann was their therapist. And I saw a picture tonight with Isabel and Niki right here, at Eden Retreat. Dr. Heinemann is a psychiatrist. He understands pharmaceuticals. He could persuade vulnerable people to participate in a stem cell study.”

  Mark’s eyes narrowed, his face flushed beneath the stubble along his chin.

  Alarmed, George shot a panicked look at Whit.

  “Dr. Heinemann.” His jaw clenched. “Now that I think about it, he did encourage me to forget how my mother died. Maybe he is the killer.” Mark stood and paced, teacup in hand, rattling delicately. “I don’t trust the police. I’m calling my PI as soon as you leave. I want that bastard checked out top to bottom.”

  “We think our story will flush him out,” Whit pressed. “If there are other victims, they might come forward and identify the killer. For self-protection, if nothing else. This is serious business. That’s why your statement is so important. And when we leave here, we’ll be talking to Isabel’s family.”

  He set his cup on the table and leaned over, brown eyes fraught with suppressed rage. His voice fell, becoming dangerously subdued. “My mother was murdered and thrown into a ditch. I want the son of a bitch who did it. You publish your story. If we can flush the bastard out, then I’m all for it. Where do I sign?”

  Whit and George wasted no time hustling back to the car. Still leery of whatever had been watching them outside Mark’s bungalow, they jogged down the hill, signed statement in hand.

  Suddenly, emerging from behind a palm tree, Dr. Heinemann stepped in front of them. Startled, Whit let out a cry, coming to an abrupt halt. George nearly ran into Heinemann, who grabbed him by the shoulder.

  “Didn’t I see the two of you here this afternoon?” Heinemann demanded. His tone tonight was not so charming. “Why are you in such a hurry? And why, exactly, are you here at such a late hour?”

  Breathless, Whit replied, “We were visiting a friend.”

  He glanced over their shoulder and waved to what at first glance Whit thought was a security guard, a hulking outline beneath the lights. But as the figure stepped forward, she recognized him as the masseur, Wilhelm.

  “We received a call from bungalow four that we had prowlers on the property.”

  Shadowed by an overhead light from the pond area, Whit stared into his dark eyes and thought they looked hollow and lifeless. When he wasn’t smiling, his features were angular and sharp, cunning. Or maybe she’d changed her perspective since she now thought he might be a maniacal killer.

  She steadied her voice. “We came to visit a guest, but forgot which bungalow he was in. But it’s fine now. We found him and we’re just headed back to our car.”

  She tried to step around him, but once again he blocked her path.

  “Which guest did you come to see?”

  She had no alternative. “Mark Sorenson.”

  Wilhelm stepped in front of her on the path, blocking her exit to the car. “Aren’t you that reporter from the newspaper? I saw you on television tonight.”

  Before she could answer, Heinemann instructed, “Call bungalow eight. Ask Mr. Sorenson if he’s had visitors tonight.” He asked Whit, “Do you have some ID?”

  George had pulled free of Heinemann’s grasp and stood beside her. As Wilhelm verified with Mark that they were in fact invited visitors, they dug out their identification.

  It occurred to Whit that Heinemann meant to intimidate. That he was playing out a charade for his own benefit. She thought it likely that he had been the noise in the bushes earlier and he knew very well that they had come from Sorenson’s place … and why they were there.

  “Any guest of Mr. Sorenson is a guest of ours.” The gracious host was suddenly back. He smiled and stepped to the side, waving them forward. “I’ll walk you to your car.” He chatted amicably about the responsibilities of caring for all his guests while Wilhelm dogged their heels.

  As they approached the parking lot, Heinemann asked, “So, are there any new developments in your story?”

  Whit hesitated, then decided to needle him with the truth, wanting to gauge his response. “Yes. I think we may have linked Niki Francis to two other murders. I’m about to go write the story now. You can read about it in tomorrow’s paper.”

  He visibly stiffened as his dark eyes narrowed to slits. “That’s outrageous. Surely you’re mistaken.”

  George stepped forward. “We better get going. Thanks so much for the escort to our car, Dr. Heinemann. Sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “Best of luck with your story.” Heinemann waved and smiled, but he did not look pleased.

  CHAPTER

  22

  THEY WERE SEVERAL miles outside Livermore, California. Night had fallen, obscuring the barren foothills in a starless veil of black onyx that seemed to suck the illumination even from the rental car’s headlights.

  Riggs squinted through the steady raindrops on the windshield. “We should be getting close now. What do you think?”

  Panetta eyeballed her without answering, as if the question didn’t warrant the effort. He was in a foul mood. Just before they’d caught the flight from Medford, his ex-wife had called. Riggs had not overheard the conversation because he retreated outside the sliding glass doors of the terminal. When he returned, his expression was dangerous. He had said very little since then. The tension radiating from him had driven Riggs into silence as well, so she’d used the opportunity for some much-needed sleep on the short plane ride.

  In the car, his grunted responses to her questions had produced an uncomfortable silence. Twice she’d thought about asking what the phone call had been about, but thought better of it.

  Suddenly, from a crossroad, a white van spun past them, kicking up gravel as it narrowly cut the corner. Panetta braked hard.

  “I ought to write him up!” Panetta glared after the van, then watched it turn left up ahead. He slowed the car as they reached the turn. The headlights shimmered against the glass as he read the simple black letters on a white sign: Research Facility.

  “According to the GPS, this is it,” Riggs said. “Looks like that guy is headed to Human Resources as well. Odd that they don’t have their name on the sign.”

  “Maybe they don’t want to be found.” He turned the car onto the side road, following the arrow on the sign as directed.

  Within minutes they came upon a spotlight from a guard shack and a security gate flanked on either side by a chain-link fence; barbed wire stretched off into the encroaching darkness, presumably to surround the complex. The place was more like a high-security prison than a business. A place of carefully guarded secrets?

  “Security level is over-the-top,” she said.

  “Maybe because stem cell research is worth big money.” Panetta stopped the car at the gate, under the shelter of a covered driveway next to the guard station, and rolled the window down. The night air, damp and musty, invaded the small confines of the car.

  The guard, a young man with a military buzz haircut, spoke through an intercom. “May I help you?”

  Panetta told the guard they had an appointment.

  A metal arm extended, like the drawer of an old drive-through bank. “Please provide identification. A driver’s license and police badges.”

  The guard used a handheld device and scanned their IDs, typed something into a computer, then returned everything. “Have a nice evening, Detectives.”

  The gate slid to the side, metal wheels screeching against metal brackets, and they proceeded along a narrow road toward a six-story building that sat alone on the hill, as if it were a fortress, its windows alight and oddly welcoming. Riggs, however, felt an intuitive warning to be on guard. They parked in an almost vacant parking lot. The white van that had cut them off on t
he road sat in a loading zone near the front door.

  “There’s our lunatic driver,” Panetta commented.

  “I wonder what he was delivering in such a hurry, and so late at night.”

  “We can always ask.”

  As they walked toward the glass entrance, Panetta remarked, “Reminds me of a military compound.”

  “Strange, isn’t it?” The rain had stopped; the air was warm and pungent with damp earth.

  Panetta opened the double glass door for Riggs, and she stepped through, her gaze immediately taking in the amazing sculpture above them. Suspended in the six-story foyer hung a massive red-and-purple glass orb. Within it dangled hundreds of shining balls, like a giant mobile.

  “Wanna bet that’s a stem cell?” Panetta asked.

  “I’m not taking that bet. Just how gullible do you think I am?” Riggs asked, glad that he was at least trying to be more cordial. She craned her neck, admiring the work of art above them. It must have taken someone months to assemble the structure. Light reflected from each of the hundreds of balls, creating a kaleidoscope of color.

  They proceeded through the lobby, designed with well-placed cream leather couches, and plants. Soft elevator music filled the open space. A guard stood behind a long desk that divided the lobby from the passageway into the interior of the building. They stopped at a walk-through metal detector, which was the only entrance.

  “Wow.” Riggs nudged Panetta. “It’s like airport security.”

  “Yeah. I’m not feelin’ the love here.”

  The click of heels on tile shifted their attention to the hallway. From it emerged a tall, slender brunette, well dressed in a professional pale-cream dress suit.

  “Welcome to Human Resources. I’m Lillian Gray, communications director.” The woman smiled a megawatt smile; her large green eyes lingered on Panetta, a fact that Riggs guessed he appreciated, since his shoulders squared a little. “Hal will take your weapons, if you have any.”

  Hal provided a plastic bucket on the counter. “All metal objects in here, please.”

  Panetta grumbled as he reached beneath his suit jacket and unclipped his Glock, carefully placing it in the bin provided. Riggs complied as well.

  Lillian stepped forward. “I feel your pain, I really do, but it is company policy.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Riggs said, “I like to record my interviews.”

  She nodded. “Well, of course!”

  After leaving their phones, watches, and key chains, they followed Lillian to an elevator. Her office was on the sixth floor. The office was spacious, decidedly feminine, with a large bouquet of wildflowers on her desk.

  Lillian directed them to a seating area near tall glass windows. Their reflections moved against the night sky as they sat on gold fabric couches with a coffee table between them.

  Riggs said, “We apologize for the late hour. Time is critical.”

  “No problem. I often work late. This is my home away from home. I’m not exactly sure of the nature of your visit. Elliot, the president of HR, indicated that you had questions regarding a phone call from the now sadly deceased actress.”

  “Yes.” Riggs turned on her recorder, holding it in her lap while Panetta pulled out a pen and pad. Lillian was vivacious despite the late hour, offering them coffee or tea, then pouring ice water from a pitcher on the table. She set a chilled glass in front of each of them. “I’ll try to get to the point,” Riggs said. “We know that Niki Francis made a thirty-minute phone call to you the afternoon she died. We asked your staff to trace it.”

  Lillian nodded and picked up a folder from the table. “I have printed out the date in question. Our telephone system is computerized and records the day’s events. Ms. Francis called at two seventeen PM and spoke briefly with our receptionist, who then transferred her to our stem cell development department. I checked to see who was working that afternoon and came up with a list of twenty-nine employees. We made inquiries and traced her call to Dr. Elizabeth Brum, a stem cell biologist and our department chief.”

  Panetta took the folder from her and read through the report. “It doesn’t say what they talked about.”

  “No. We like to maintain privacy. But I can tell you a summary of the conversation. Apparently, Ms. Francis simply wanted information. She wanted to know the risks of stem cell injections. The kinds of complications that might arise from such a procedure.”

  Riggs asked, “Did she say why she wanted to know?”

  “Why yes, she did. But I think first you need to understand what we do here. You see, stem cell research is really just regenerative medicine. Research in this field holds great promise for biomedical science and our ability to treat debilitating diseases. Already science has created a device, a type of envelope filled with embryonic stem cells, which, planted under the skin, become pancreatic cells and cure diabetes. So far it’s cured hundreds of mice, and eventually it might cure humans. That’s about two hundred thousand deaths a year that will be prevented.”

  “That’s an amazing achievement,” Riggs said. “But isn’t it true that embryonic stem cell treatment is controversial and that’s why the FDA hasn’t approved it?” She was thinking that might be the reason their killer was disposing of his subjects.

  Lillian sighed and confessed, “Unfortunately, that is true. Frankly, I don’t contemplate that aspect of the research very often. I feel like we have entered into a new outer space, only this time it’s inner space that we’re exploring, and we have a responsibility to investigate it. Like the astronauts of the 1960s. They didn’t question too deeply the moral aspects of exploring and conquering new territories. And perhaps it’s best if we don’t either.”

  “But,” Riggs said, “we’d like to understand the process. Can you explain where these stem cells come from?”

  “Usually in vitro clinics.”

  Panetta scribbled on his pad. “Can you explain the process at the clinic?”

  Lillian smiled. “Of course. It’s a relatively simple procedure. Women are given medication to help create two dozen or so ova, or eggs. These are extracted, then fertilized in the lab using her partner’s sperm. Three days later, surviving embryos develop into what’s called a blastocyst. One or more of these blastocysts are implanted into the woman’s womb. The rest are deep frozen in liquid nitrogen for future use.”

  “That’s where we get stem cells from?”

  “Yes. Some of them don’t survive the freezing and thawing process. Sometimes there’s equipment malfunction. Some parents ask that the embryos be destroyed to save the cost of storage. And some donate them to science. Those are the ones that are used to make some of our stem cells.”

  Pondering this, Riggs continued, “So they’re either destroyed for science or thrown out?”

  “Usually. Sometimes the parents put them up for adoption to other couples who can’t conceive.”

  Panetta lifted his pen. “For how long? How long can they be frozen?”

  “Theoretically … indefinitely.” She leaned forward, as if sharing secrets in a conspiratorial tone. “In fact, a woman recently gave birth from an adopted embryo that had been frozen for twenty years. Interestingly, the baby now has a twin that was born twenty years ago to his biological mother. Fascinating, isn’t it?”

  Panetta shook his head. “Confusing, more like.”

  Lillian added, “It’s estimated that there are currently over eight hundred thousand frozen embryos in various clinics or banks throughout the United States.”

  Riggs was amazed. “An entire population on ice.”

  “In a sense, yes. But they’re simply cells at that stage.” She shrugged. “Besides, we have advanced past that. We use cloned cells now for much of our research.”

  “Cloned cells?” Panetta asked. “So they don’t come from clinics?”

  “Just the ones we already had. We can clone cells from human skin. Just like Dolly the sheep. Remember her?”

  Panetta frowned. “I remember hearing about it, but t
hat was a long time ago.”

  “Well, the cell that created the first cloned animal was taken from the mammary gland of a sheep.” She laughed gaily. “The scientists couldn’t think of a more impressive pair of glands than Dolly Parton’s, so they named her Dolly!”

  “Sounds about right,” Riggs said, rolling her eyes. “So how is this done? What’s the procedure?”

  “It’s less complicated than you think. Take an egg from one sheep, then transfer the cell from another sheep into it, electronically charge the egg to activate it, then implant it into a surrogate sheep. Ta-da! You have Dolly.”

  Riggs leaned forward, frowning. “Now let me see if I understand this. Are you telling us that you’re using that same procedure to clone humans?”

  Lillian nodded. “Yes. It’s called somatic cell nuclear transfer. I have a media packet put together for you when you leave.”

  Alarmed, Riggs repeated the question. “You’re cloning humans? Is that legal?”

  Waving her hands, Lillian chuckled. “Oh, no, no … I see what you’re thinking. No. We’re not growing actual humans. We only use the cells to create stem cell lines. We take skin cells and fuse them with a donated human egg, which is essentially creating an identical human from the skin cell.”

  The fine hair on the back of Riggs’s arms stood up. “So, if I give you my skin cells, you can clone an identical me? A whole other me?”

  Lillian smiled broadly. “Now you get it.”

  Riggs rolled her gaze at Panetta, who looked as if he’d just seen a ghost.

  “But like I said,” Lillian continued, “we don’t actually implant the fertilized egg in a donor and grow a human.”

  “Could you?”

  “Theoretically. The procedure has not been approved by the FDA, but I believe it may already be taking place in other countries, such as China and the Ukraine.”

  Riggs shook her head. “Cloned people. Why am I surprised?”

  “It’s very exciting.” Lillian leaned forward eagerly. “We are breaching the boundaries of human science. We believe that from these stem cell lines will come the cure for nearly every disease known to man.”