The Betrayed

by David Hosp

  Elliot smiled. “Oh, come now, Detective. I’m sure you’ve done enough digging to discover that already. Otherwise I find it hard to believe you’d be here.”

  “Consolidated Pharmaceuticals,” Train replied, answering his own question. “According to the company’s records, you were an executive vice president there in the late 1950s and ’60s.”

  Elliot nodded. “Excellent,” he said.

  “You would have been involved in the experiments that were going on at the Institute, and when you were elected governor of Virginia, you had the power to clean the place up and destroy all the records.”

  Elliot shook his head. “Involved? No. I was aware of the experiments, but I opposed them. That’s why I shut them down when I became governor.” He gave Train an oddly amused smile. “So tell me, what’s your theory now, Detective?”

  “It looks to us like the government started a wide program of illegal medical testing on patients up at the Institute—at your direction, we think—once you became Secretary of Health and Human Services. You commented to us before on the amount of autonomy you have in your position. We traced the payments to Dr. Mayer a few years back, when you took your job. It also looks like Leighton Creay had nothing to do with his exwife’s death. He was just trying to take advantage of her murder to blackmail Lydia Chapin. She killed him for it.”

  Elliot leaned his head back into his chair. “It’s an interesting theory, but it will be very difficult to prove.”

  Train shook his head. “Dr. Mayer is cooperating. He’ll do some time, but he’s working with the prosecutors to get the full story.”

  Just then, there was a knock at the door, and the butler appeared with a tray containing a glass of water and two pills. “Thank you, Matthew,” Elliot said politely. The butler perched the tray on the table next to him and retreated, closing the door behind him.

  Once the butler was gone, Train continued. “You had the power to begin medical testing programs again. You had the ability to control the information; you had the ability to direct the resources and cover them up; you had the money. You also knew Lydia Creay, and had worked at Consolidated Pharmaceuticals, and had the connections to direct the production of experimental drugs. The only thing we can’t figure out is your motivation. As near as we can tell, you never took any payoffs.”

  “It was never about money.” Elliot sat in silence for several moments.

  “What was it about?” Train asked at last.

  Elliot sighed. “You’re both too young to remember this,” he began, “but in the early 1950s the country was in the throes of the worst polio epidemic in history. Sixty thousand people were diagnosed every year, and for many of them it was a death sentence. For others, it left them with varying degrees of paralysis. Then, in 1955, a team led by Dr. Jonas Salk at the University of Pittsburgh announced that a vaccine had been developed. Within a few months, polio was rendered a problem of the past.” Elliot paused.

  “That’s interesting,” Cassian said, “but what has that got to do—”

  Elliot cut him off. “The prototype of the vaccine was first developed in 1952, and it was administered to the general population by 1955. Do you have any idea how fast that is? Under today’s medical testing procedures, it would have taken between ten and fifteen years in all likelihood for the necessary testing to be conducted to generate enough data to pronounce the vaccine safe. Do you know how they managed to shortcut the system?”

  Train and Cassian both shook their heads.

  “The testing was conducted at mental institutions. The first testing in noninfected individuals took place at the Polk School for the Retarded and Feeble-Minded in Pittsburgh. More testing was then done at places like the Juvenile Institute for the Mentally Defective in Virginia and similar places around the country. As a result, the time it took to provide the vaccine to the public was cut by a factor of four. In terms of lives, that’s over half a million people who were spared in the intervening years.”

  “How many of those healthy ‘feeble-minded’ children contracted the disease as a result of being used as human guinea pigs?” Train demanded.

  “A few, no doubt. But the numbers were so small compared to those who were saved in the long run that the sacrifices were minimal. Besides, these were children, in many cases, without families or futures.”

  “Polio has been cured,” Train pointed out. “What’s your excuse today?”

  “Ah, Detective, if only today’s threats were as benign as polio.” Elliot shifted in his chair. “The world today is a different place than it was a half century ago,” he said. “Back in the 1950s and ’60s, many, if not most, of the experiments were aimed at the pursuit of a policy of eugenics. I was always opposed to that. I disagreed with forced sterilization, and I thought the work done to ‘purify’ the gene pool was abhorrent. After the horrors of the Second World War, many of us saw the errors in that strain of Darwinist philosophy, and we fought to change the system. But now the need for preventative medical experimentation is paramount. It is the only way we can protect the country—and the world—from our enemies.”

  “Bioterrorism?” Train asked.

  “Certainly. We live in a world today where hundreds of different factions hostile to the United States are spending enormous amounts of money to develop or distribute bioweapons to attack this country and its allies. Anthrax, smallpox, botulism, and a host of other infectious agents have been weaponized, and it’s only a matter of time before they are deployed here. Two years ago, estimated mortality rates in major urban areas hit with a significant attack ranged from two percent of the population to twenty percent. In a city like New York, that translates to between one hundred and fifty thousand and one and a half million people dead. In order to be prepared for something like that, we have to have sufficient antidotes, not just for the well-known agents, but for all agents. You don’t develop the antidotes and vaccines without human testing.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Cassian objected. “There are other ways to fight terrorism. There’s no need to conduct illegal experiments.”

  “Perhaps,” Elliot mused. “But it’s not just terrorism we’re fighting, Detective. Nature itself may be our greatest enemy.”

  “How so?” Train asked.

  “Viruses,” Elliot replied. “Did you know that in 1918 and 1919 the Spanish flu pandemic killed over forty million people? More than all of the people killed in World War I from all countries combined—more than the black plague killed in five years in the Middle Ages. It circled the globe in less than a year, with staggering mortality rates.” He looked Train in the eye. “It’s coming back.”

  “The Spanish flu?”

  Elliot shook his head. “Avian flu, most likely. Most medical experts agree that a pandemic is a virtual certainty in the near future. It’s no longer a question of if, but of when. Most estimates are that it will kill more than one hundred and fifty million people worldwide, perhaps more. This pandemic will likely be the most deadly event in human history. It will spread through the population like wildfire, and we will be powerless. Our best estimate is that it would take six months to a year to develop an effective vaccine, and longer to produce it in quantities sufficient for the population. That’s even using the most expedited testing protocols possible. We must develop the vaccines now.”

  “You’re crazy,” Cassian commented. “If you really believe this, why did you shut down the illegal testing in the 1960s?”

  “I was unaware of the dangers. Besides, as I told you, back then the experiments weren’t being conducted for the primary purpose of saving lives. They were a front for eugenics programs. But now, those of us conducting these experiments are enlightened. We only test when necessary, and only for the good of mankind.”

  “That’s an awfully subjective standard, don’t you think?” Cassian noted angrily.

  “You don’t understand, Detective. Medicine has come so far. We are working to find cures for diseases that are wiping out generations—avian flu,
AIDS, and cancer. But these cures take decades to be tested to the point of acceptance. What we’re doing is shaving years off the approval process. It will ultimately save millions of lives. That’s progress, no?”

  “How many children at the Institute have been sacrificed in the name of that progress?” Train asked.

  “Some, no doubt; but, as with the development of the polio vaccine, it’s a tiny number in light of the overall benefits. And in the end, can you really say that, in light of what’s at stake, we’re doing something wrong?”

  “It’s illegal,” Cassian stated outright. “And immoral.”

  “Illegal, I’ll grant you,” Elliot agreed. “But as to its morality, while we know that there are some risks to the test subjects, on a strictly utilitarian basis I’d say you’re mistaken.”

  “What about Elizabeth Creay? What about her daughter?” Train challenged him.

  At this, Elliot paused, and Train thought he saw a flicker of remorse, or perhaps doubt, flash on the old man’s face. Then it disappeared. “It was unfortunate, but necessary,” he admitted coldly. “Elizabeth talked to Willie Murphy. He was very bright, as it turned out, and he began to link the testing that was done years ago on him with what he’d seen happening at the Institute in recent years. He hinted at this to her, and being the excellent reporter she was, she wouldn’t let it drop. Given the benefits our program was providing, I had no choice.”

  “No choice? She was your goddaughter, and you had no choice? How can you possibly say that?”

  “It may seem ruthless, Detective, but it is the truth. When you have the responsibility of protecting a nation, sometimes choice is a luxury not afforded to you.”

  “You’re sick,” Cassian concluded.

  “One man’s sickness is another man’s salvation,” Elliot retorted. “As to the relative morality of my actions . . .” He paused. “I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree, and let God be the ultimate arbiter of that point.”

  Train looked at the old man in front of him, thinking that he no longer seemed human. His gray head poked out of the folds of his oversized shirt and sweater; his frame seemed lost in the chair. This man whom Train had once admired now seemed petty and small. Train stood up. “I suppose that’s right. But for now, I’ll be satisfied putting you under arrest.”

  Elliot nodded. “Of course. I’ve been prepared for this moment since Elizabeth first came to see me to discuss this. I had hoped to avoid it, but . . .” He reached over to the tray left on the table. “If I might just take my heart medication?”

  “Yeah,” Train said. “Then we have to go.”

  Train watched as Elliot reached over and picked up his pills, pausing as he touched them to his lips. Something about the man’s movements struck Train, and an intuition of something gone wrong echoed in the back of his head, but he intentionally ignored it. Then Elliot pushed the pills into his mouth and grasped the water to wash them down. He set the water back on the table and looked at Train with contentment. Train even thought he saw the man wink.

  Train knew it was happening even before the physical manifestations became obvious. It started in Elliot’s fingers, as a trembling that escalated rapidly into a spasm. The man’s eyes seemed to grow and then shrink back into his head; his lips turned from ashen to scarlet to blue; and finally his body convulsed.

  For the rest of his life, Train would be left to wonder whether he could have saved him. If he’d acted to knock the pills from the man’s hand before they were swallowed, or if he’d acted immediately once he realized what was happening, could he have stuffed the life back into the dying shell of the man? And yet the question was moot from the outset; Train’s mind had been set as soon as the realization had taken hold. It was better this way.

  Cassian rushed forward, pulling Elliot out of his chair. Elliot fought against him with all the strength in his eighty-year-old body. “Jesus Christ!” Jack yelled. “He’s having a heart attack!”

  Train moved forward, looking at the tray next to the old man. “Overdose,” he said. “He knew we were coming. There’s nothing we can do.”

  Cassian looked in shock at his partner. “We can’t let him go!” he yelled.

  Train shook his head. “It’s too late. And what would happen if he did survive? Any trial would last longer than his health would hold out. During that time, his people’d throw enough lawyers at the charges to make a mockery of it all.” He shook his head. “I won’t let this turn into nothing more than a ratings bonanza for the twenty-four-hour news channels.”

  “So that’s it?” Cassian asked. “That’s the end of it?”

  Train looked into Elliot’s eyes. There was life there, still, waning though it was. Train spoke to him. “No, that’s not it. We have Dr. Mayer, and he’ll cooperate to make sure it’s all shut down. Mr. Elliot’s suicide will be enough to convict him in the minds of most reasonable people, and after he’s gone, we’ll clean up his mess. As for him, he’ll face his judgment. Just not here.”

  Elliot gagged as he tried to speak, but there wasn’t the strength left in him. And as he struggled with his last breath, a look of torment crept into his eyes; it was the look of a condemned man.

  “Call it in, Jack,” Train said. Then he walked out of the room without another word.

  Epilogue

  “GET HIM!”

  Train’s voice could be heard above the din, booming out directions through the crisp autumn air. “He’s comin’ around the corner! Don’t let him get free!”

  Out on the field, the protection from the front five was breaking down, and the left tackle for the Central High Cougars had slipped around the end of the line and was making for Leshaun Johnson in the pocket as the junior quarterback surveyed the situation downfield with a confidence and poise seldom seen from a high school athlete.

  “Back side! Back side!” Train shouted out a warning as the 220-pound defensive lineman left his feet, launching himself at Leshaun from behind. Cassian couldn’t bare to watch as the final seconds of the city championship ticked away with Anacostia High down by three. The collision was going to be brutal, he could tell.

  But then, just as the outcome seemed inevitable, Johnson ducked to his right, raising his elbow to fend off the blow. The lineman sailed high and to the left, his fingers grasping at the quarterback’s jersey as it slipped through his hand.

  Johnson took two steps to the side, squared himself to the line, and fired a bullet twenty yards downfield to a streaking wide receiver. Time paused as the ball hung in the air, the world narrowing to two boys racing down the sidelines. And then, as if released from indecision, it accelerated toward the ground and both boys leaped in perfect unison. The ball slipped through the defender’s arms and into the hands of the wide receiver, who stumbled, tripped, and crashed gloriously to the ground in the end zone

  The pandemonium was complete. A roar went up from the crowd, half in anguish and half in jubilation, as the field was stampeded by the Anacostia High faithful, some rushing to pounce on the skinny wide receiver on the ground in the end zone, others heading straight for Leshaun Johnson, who knelt at the twenty-yard line, head down in joy and relief.

  Jack looked over at the sideline, deserted now by all except a giant figure of a man—Darius Train, Anacostia High’s volunteer head coach, at the end of his first season. His smile lit up the field brighter than any of the bulbs that rained light down on the cool Washington evening, and Cassian knew that he’d never seen his partner so unguarded and happy.

  Later, when the celebration had died down and people were left standing around in small clusters marveling quietly at the impact of such a seemingly inconsequential event, Train made his way over to where Jack and Sydney were standing.

  “Hell of a game,” Jack said, smiling as he held out his hand.

  Train accepted the compliment. “Hell of a game,” he agreed, shaking his partner’s hand. He swallowed Sydney in a hug. “Thanks for coming, it meant a lot to me.”

  “Wouldn’t have m
issed it for the world.” Sydney smiled back at him.

  “Where’s Amanda?” Train asked.

  “She was with her friends in the stands. Now I think she’s off boy-watching.”

  “Good sign,” Train noted.

  “Yeah, she’s doing all right. It’s still tough, but then, so’s she.”

  “In your family? It’s not a surprise.”

  “How does it feel to be back on the field?” Sydney asked.

  Train looked down at the ground and poked a toe into the sod. Then he looked up and smiled. “Best damned thing I ever did,” he said.

  “Don’t go gettin’ all sentimental on me, Sarge; I don’t have the patience to break in a new partner.”

  Train shook his head. “I’ll always be a cop,” he assured Cassian. “But this”—he pointed over his shoulder to the players still gathered in celebration on the field—“this is home for me. And it’s great working with the kids. They’re a good group; they just need role models.”

  “Good role models are hard to come by,” Sydney said. “I should know. They’re lucky to have you.”

  “You doin’ okay with everything?” Train asked.

  Sydney thought for a moment before answering. “With everything? No, not everything. Not yet. It’s a lot to deal with. I suppose I should take comfort in the fact that my mother didn’t have my sister killed, and wasn’t trying to kill me.”

  “Always looking for the silver lining, huh?”

  “It’s good that you and Amanda have each other, at least,” Train pointed out.

  “Absolutely. I’ve transferred to George Washington, and I’m finishing law school there. Then I’ll figure out what’s next.”

  “No interest in Georgetown?”

  She shook her head. “Too many creepy memories.”

  “Barneton?”

  She nodded.

  Train laughed. “You know we checked him out. He had nothing to do with this. He was just unfortunate to have been the last person to see your sister; and then he was stupid enough to make a clumsy pass at you, which made him seem suspicious.”