Bio-Justice

by Scott Takemoto

  Greenwood plied on an awful World War II Nazi accent. “Vee haff vays to mek you talk!” He laughed but noticed Nina taking the impression way too seriously. Her eyes darted back and forth, her mouth trembling.

  “Easy, sweetheart,” Greenwood said. “I saw it once in an old movie.”

  Greenwood turned and faced Sheldon in a conspiratorial manner, then whispered out of Nina’s range. “What do you think—meth head? Acid freak?”

  Sheldon shrugged. “She looks a little innocent for all that.”

  “Look at that body. She aint all that innocent,” Greenwood whispered.

  “Ask her why she was screaming,” Sheldon suggested.

  Nina wiggled her toes. The bottoms of her feet were blackened.

  “Hey, hey,” Greenwood said. “Why were you screaming like that?”

  Nina looked up at the security guard as if struggling with herself whether she should say.

  “Come on, you can tell us.”

  “I gotta pee,” she said.

  Greenwood burst out laughing. “OK, this has got to be a prank.” Looking about the room, he punched his partner in the arm. “Where’s the camera? Come on— Hello? Very funny, guys.”

  Sheldon’s brow bunched together as he watched Nina looking more and more anxious. “Uh, I think she’s serious.”

  Danny was remanded by Sarkis to the armed guards who emerged from their corners to escort him to the detention block on the other side of Level 4. The block was a large open area, not unlike the kind found in prisons but with thick, transparent plexiglass walls instead of traditional concrete and steel. The armed men opened the entry to the block and motioned for Danny to enter, and closed the door behind him.

  Inside the block, Danny could see five men, all aged from their late forties to their early sixties—clearly, Bio-Justice processees. One of them, a thin man with suspicious but focused eyes approached Danny first.

  “Felix Dobie,” he said. “Did they pay you yet?”

  “Pay?”

  “I don’t know about these other guys, but I was offered three hundred dollars for some blood. Two days is enough. And then they put us in this pen. I mean, just pay me and let me get the hell out of here.”

  “Well, well—” came a voice that caused every muscle in Danny’s body to clench. Stepping past Dobie, the sub-simian figure of Wilson Caine approached Danny, confronting him with his angular, asymmetrical face and his rotten breath. Seeing Caine’s sneering, self-satisfied countenance again, for Danny, was like a scab being torn off before the heal, still rife with nerves and blood and pain. Danny searched with his peripheral vision for anything he could pick up in his grip that could hurt someone bad. A shadow passed over Danny’s face as he saw Vic Carbona’s murder replay again in his mind, that horror permanently seared into his consciousness.

  “What, no gun?” Danny said.

  “If I want to kill a man, I can tear him apart with my hands,” Caine replied.

  “Or breathe on him,” Danny said. Dobie instinctively stepped back.

  Caine mocked Danny with a fake laugh, the kind that usually precedes a remorseless display of sickening violence. “I should have killed you that day. That’s what I get for being a nice guy. But don’t worry, after I leave here, I’m going to come looking for you and we’re going to have another dance.”

  Dobie grabbed Danny by the arm and directed him away from Caine. “Let me introduce you to the other guys.” Danny yanked his arm from Dobie’s grip as they approached the others. “Don’t be a dick,” Dobie said. “That’s one thing I learned after being turned into a walking freak show—there are a million ways people are going to use to get at you. The important thing is to pick your time.”

  The other three detainees were seated at a table playing five card draw. Dobie introduced Danny to each one. “The guy over there showing nothing but Queen high is Tim O’Neal.” O’Neal was chronologically a man of forty-five with a mobster’s full head of dyed black hair but with a hipster’s goatee. He wore glasses but became very sensitive when someone pointed it out.

  “Fuck you, man,” O’Neal said to Dobie. “I was going to bluff these fuckers good. I want a new deal.”

  Dobie whispered to Danny, “If you get into it with Caine, you’re gonna have to fight O’Neal too. Both share similar lofty outlooks on life.”

  The second man at the table was lean and gangly, hovering around fifty, with salt and pepper hair doing its best to hide his friar’s crown.

  “Seven Williams,” continued Dobie to Danny. “Pretty laid back, doesn’t start any trouble unless you ask him why he’s got a name like Seven Williams.”

  “Don’t talk about me like I can’t hear you, Dobie.”

  “Maybe he crosses himself seven times before he robs your gas station,” Dobie said low.

  “I heard that,” Williams said. “Prick.”

  “And lastly, this guy over here who wouldn’t know a straight from a full house is Paul Vogel—so far, I haven’t heard him communicate in anything but grunts and belches.” Vogel, a corpulent but imposing man now carrying about sixty years, looked up from his cards at Dobie. “Dobie, why don’t you talk about yourself and that girlfriend of yours that you killed.”

  Dobie looked genuinely startled by the remark. Caine who was smoking a distance away started to cackle.

  “I was an addict—heroin,” Dobie explained to Danny. “I injected my girlfriend and gave her too much, and she overdosed.”

  “It can happen to anyone,” Caine said, “but if a girl isn’t giving me enough head, I don’t turn around and pop her with smack until her brain turns to mush.”

  Dobie walked away from Danny and stood at the opposite end of the block. He faced a guard on the other side of the plexiglass and lit a cigarette. After smiling distastefully at Caine, Danny joined Dobie and didn’t say anything for a few moments and then asked him for a cigarette. When Dobie tossed his lighter, Danny offered, “Like you said—wait and pick your time.”

  The sun had already risen when General Winfield entered Dr. Conlan’s office and everything looked saturated in a golden spray. His assistant, Lieutenant Rosalind Davis, opened doors and looked out for any obstacles in the General’s way, for Winfield was now shuffling dramatically. His left leg, a pillar of arthritic pain, would be all but useless soon.

  Conlan beckoned Winfield to have a seat. Winfield, in full uniform, waved his arm at Lieutenant Davis. “Wait outside the door,” he said.

  When Davis was gone, Winfield leaned across Conlan’s desk. “Well?”

  “Good news, General.”

  “Better be. I’m running out of time.”

  Conlan put his hands together and locked his fingers. “We’ve got the serum.”

  Winfield smiled. It was the news he had been hoping for. He knew his doubts were the product of an aging, weakening resolve. “Type A or B?”

  “Type A,” Conlan said, allowing himself a smile. From behind his desk, Conlan opened a drawer from which he withdrew a gleaming crystal vial of the golden serum, presenting it to the General like a gift from the Gods.

  General Winfield’s hand shook as he presented his outstretched right arm. “Give it to me—now!”

  Security guards Eric Greenwood and Ty Sheldon stood outside the ladies rest room in the corridor. The girl had been inside for a few minutes now and they were beginning to wonder if coming upon her had been the worst thing that could have happened to them.

  “I think we should go in,” Greenwood said.

  “What if she isn’t finished?” asked Sheldon.

  “This whole thing is screwy. Let’s go in.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll follow you.”

  Greenwood let out an exasperated sigh and was almost hit in the face by the door swinging out. Nina looked up at Greenwood and then Sheldon, and started back to the holding cell down the corridor.

  The sight of Nina’s blackened soles carelessly walking away paralyzed them for a moment before Greenwood ran to catch up. Sheldon followed sl
owly behind, becoming more disenchanted with the whole bizarre situation.

  “Miss,” Greenwood said, resorting to a passive threat, “if you don’t cooperate with us, we’re going to have to have the local police get involved. And they’re some mean S.O.B.s. You get what I’m saying? Miss?”

  Nina reentered the holding cell and sat down in the chair, still warm.

  As Greenwood entered the room, his personal cellphone vibrated with an Elvis ringtone. I’m All Shook Up spoke to the level of his wit. A photograph of Greenwood’s family appeared with his wife Sandra’s name announcing the call. Greenwood grimaced and turned to Sheldon. “Let’s call McQuinn. Have his boys come get her.”

  “How do you feel, General?” Conlan asked.

  “Rejuvenated,” Winfield said. “You know, Dr. Conlan, when you’re a vigorous man and have been all of your life, and one day you find yourself in a doctor’s office and he tells you that within a year you may be confined to a wheelchair with a pair of useless limbs, you begin to falter. You even question your own faith. Now the country’s faith will be restored by Serum 59.”

  Conlan had carefully observed the transformation before his eyes. It wasn’t quite like Larry Talbot in a series of cinematic dissolves turning into the Wolf Man but it was certainly as close to it as anything he had ever seen before. Conlan felt that he was present in a moment of his own greatness and it was a thrill that surprised him. It was a sensation that felt present and immortal at the same time and Conlan didn’t want it to stop.

  “Don’t forget,” Conlan said, “you need two follow up injections within the next three weeks. Otherwise, the effects of the serum will be temporary and your body will regress back to its original state.”

  Winfield smiled. “Well, we just won’t let that happen, now will we?” He squeezed his left leg and didn’t feel pain there. “Where’s this Fierro at?”

  “With the others,” Conlan said. “In the holding block.”

  Winfield jumped up from his seat. “My God!” he shouted in alarm. “Isolate him at once!”

  Conlan was startled by Winfield’s outburst and then he saw what the General saw in his mind’s eye, and his stomach dropped. “Of course, General,” he said. “Right away.”

  CHAPTER 23

  “Vogel, isn’t that the fifth motherfucking Jack I’ve seen you pull?” Caine roared.

  “Sore losers need to excuse themselves from the game,” Vogel said.

  “I aint no sore loser, but if you pull another Jack, I’m gonna cut your motherfucking hand off!”

  Danny and Dobie kept as much distance between themselves and the others as possible. Caine periodically looked up from his hand to glower at the two as if they were bound by some conspiratorial purpose.

  “I wouldn’t count on that three hundred dollars,” Danny said to Dobie as he rubbed out his third dropped butt on the ground.

  “Why do you say that?” Dobie asked nervously.

  “There’s something that’s showing up in our blood, something they want bad. They’re not going to let us just walk out of here.”

  “All I got in my blood is about ten percent alcohol,” Dobie said.

  “Well, there’s something in that ninety percent they’ve been after since I was released.”

  Dobie became persistent, his head bobbing forward, his voice shrill. “They’re not going to let us out of here?”

  “I don’t think so,” Danny said.

  “Maybe just a few more tests.”

  “They framed me for the murder of my support officer,” Danny said in a muted voice. “I can’t go back.”

  There was a movement from the armed guard that caught Dobie’s attention. Dobie motioned to Danny who watched as Dr. Sarkis suddenly appeared. Sarkis spoke to the guard, his eyes never leaving Danny.

  The guard, now joined by five others with weapons ready, opened the locked door and motioned to Danny. Dobie observed with great interest and the card game was now quiet, the players watching intently.

  Sarkis spoke to the others but kept his distance. “Gentlemen, your presence is requested at once in the conference room. Before you leave us, we want to thank you all for your participation and cooperation. As promised, you will receive compensation for your efforts.”

  Caine, O’Neal and Vogel gave each other high fives while Seven Williams nodded his approval. They rose from their seats and Dobie moved forward as Sarkis leaned in to whisper to Danny. “Mr. Fierro, you will come with me.”

  Danny looked at Dobie and then responded to Sarkis. “After you thank the group. I wouldn’t want to miss that.”

  Sarkis looked frustrated but nodded reluctantly.

  Felice Bennett reentered her password for the Project Talon file but was blocked again. Her fingers pecked at the keys, searching for another way in. She accessed Dr. Sarkis’ common files but couldn’t gain entry. She studied the file names all encrypted with a seemingly random sequential number. One file seemed separate from the others, as if still open. And this one did have a file name: Scipio. Felice toggled to the Project Talon file and accessed the password window, entering Scipio.

  It opened.

  At first, Felice was disappointed for the file seemed to only consist of a simple list of eight names. Then she realized the names were everything. General Winfield’s name topped the list and the remaining seven were Generals and Admirals whom she was not familiar with. If Project Talon was a Pentagon baby, she wasn’t surprised it had eight fathers. As Felice scrolled down, a full report appeared with a history, a chronology, an analysis, and projections extending through the next ten years. The report was authored by Conlan as a presentation piece to the exclusive group of eight. To all of them, it would provide the blueprint supported by the extensive research of Conlan’s team which showed the prescient path forward, the foreseeable reality of their collective destinies. The report was thorough and meticulously detailed, just like Dr. Conlan, and trying to absorb all of it was proving a difficult task for Felice with paranoia gnawing at her shoulder.

  She inserted the flash drive and waited as time slowed to an unbearable crawl. Finally, the file was downloaded and Felice snapped her purse shut.

  The silence in her office, other than the hum of her computer, had been so absolute that when the phone rang, Felice felt sharp quills shooting up and down her spine. Picking up the receiver on her console, she made herself sound calm, “Yes? Dr. Bennett…”

  It was Sarkis, of course. “Dr. Bennett, we’re ready to begin.”

  “I’ll be right there,” Felice said. She wondered if she could excuse herself from attending the meeting thanking the subjects, if there was still time to leave without notice.

  She decided against it. Everything had to look normal. If only for a few hours.

  The conference room was often used as a small lecture hall for media events. It had one exit and through it each of the processees marched in and took a seat in a row of chairs facing a podium flanked by two long tables. The logo for Premium Sentencing was affixed to the podium facing out and there was champagne and a generous assortment of thickly piled sandwiches on the tables. Vogel noticed these immediately and was smacked on the back by O’Neal when his hand started to reach for one.

  High above the room looking down at the seats was a one way window behind which General Winfield had a central perch of observation. Lieutenant Davis stood behind him and Dr. Conlan sat to the right of Winfield. There was empty seat next to Winfield for Felice and it did not afford her a discreet path out in case she needed to leave suddenly. When Felice left her office and made her way to the observation booth, she noticed out in the hallway a massing of a dozen tactical operatives, soldiers on special duty assignment to the General. They were clad for a military conflict with helmets, body armor and high capacity assault weapons and stood in stiff attention waiting for a potential command. Was Winfield expecting a siege, a riot, or was she looking at it in reverse?

  Danny was the last of the processees to enter the conference room and
he took the seat at the end of the row. At the sight of Danny, Winfield stood up, clearly upset and hammered on the panel in front of him. He quickly turned to Felice and barked out his order as if she were under his command. “Get Fierro out of that room. Now!”

  Not only did the harsh edge of Winfield’s voice startled her but now Felice could see his face up close with the light pouring in from the conference room bathing his features into details of extreme clarity. General Winfield was transformed. His snow white hair was now black, his jowly face tight and chiseled, his eyes no longer glazed over with age but sharp, black, like the piercing eyes of a falcon. His look was predatory.

  Felice got up and slowly made her way past Lieutenant Davis.

  In the conference room, Sarkis had begun to speak. “Gentlemen, I am happy to announce the end of our research project. To all of you, the entire staff wishes to thank you for your participation. Because of your contribution, we are that much closer to the answers which we have been seeking. To that end, we are most grateful.”

  “Fuck the gratitude. Where’s our checks?” Vogel yelled out. O’Neal and Williams chuckled as if they were back in ninth grade, enjoying the class clown.

  “Of course,” Sarkis said, “they are being prepared as I speak. In the meantime, enjoy a few of these refreshments.”

  “Give me some of that champagne,” Caine hollered.

  Felice had hesitated, her instinct telling her that she was now a co-conspirator of something ugly and calamitous. Just outside the door to the observation room, she stopped to overhear Conlan speaking in normal tones as Winfield raised his voice to dominate.

  “General, perhaps there is another way,” Conlan proposed. “We could put these men under, by a perfectly harmless gas. There is a procedure where we could alter the memory cells of the brain, causing an eighteen minute gap, so to speak, on the individual’s memory. They need not know they were even here.”

  Winfield dismissed Conlan with his hand. “No time. There are necessary casualties in every conflict, Doctor. My God, these are murderers, career criminals. I would spare my sympathies for a rabid dog and not on these soulless excuses for men.”