by Jamie Metzl
“Nothing yet. MaryLee may not have been the only young woman impregnated with a modified fetus. We’re trying to see if there are more.”
“When will you know?”
“Hopefully by tomorrow.”
“Look, Azadian,” she says, “I’ve got to tell you something. Wes came to see me this morning. The lawyers told him that it’s not enough we’ve suspended you. We’re sending out the letter today. I’m sorry.”
I knew this was coming, but it still stings.
“And this means that you’re all alone on this. If you choose to go forward, it’s even more on your shoulders. No one can help you if you get in trouble with the government,” she says, as if her earlier words weren’t clear enough.
“Gillespie told me the same this morning,” I say.
“You’re in touch with him?”
“That’s one way to put it.”
The pause becomes awkward.
“Look, Azadian . . . Rich,” Martina says, “I need to stay away from this. No more calls. I’m sorry.”
“And if I can confirm everything?”
“The entire paper is on the line. The headwinds are still pretty fucking strong.”
They are almost blowing me away, but if I can nail things down at least I may have options. “I guess that’s it, then,” I say coldly.
I wait for a hint of remorse until the silence becomes strained.
“Azadian,” she then says, “be careful.”
53
I only realize I’m asleep when the doorbell wakes me. I’m on the couch, a box of mostly eaten phad thai beside me on the floor. My brain takes a moment to focus.
The bell rings two more times in quick succession.
I walk dizzily toward the front door, my mind flipping through the possibilities.
“Rich, it’s me, Jerry. Open the door.”
He comes charging in.
“Look at this,” he says, breathlessly splashing the content from his u.D monitor onto my coffee table monitor. “It took me a little while to figure out how to run the searches once I got into the KCPD database. Here’s the list of women between the ages of twenty and thirty who’ve died in the United States over the past year.” He taps his u.D, and the names start scrolling.
“How many are there?” I ask.
“One hundred and thirty-seven thousand two hundred and fourteen.”
“All right.”
“But you said single women,” Jerry adds, tapping the u.D again. “That takes us down to eighty-six thousand six hundred and seventy-nine.”
“Okay.”
“And you said no criminal record,” Jerry taps a few more times, “which brings us down to sixty-seven thousand four hundred and fifty-five.”
“At least we’re making progress.”
“But that gets us to the end of your first set of questions. If you’re right that MaryLee was murdered based on being part of a certain group, but we don’t know exactly what criteria define her group, we’d need to narrow things down based on a series of deductions. Your first hypothesis was that MaryLee was killed, that’s why we’re looking in the police database. Your second was that it was because she was a woman, and your third that she was a woman without a criminal record, that she’d become part of the group, whatever it is, by nature of her positive qualities rather than her negative ones.”
“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” I say, “but makes sense.”
“So, if we assume that all of these things are true, the next question is, which other search criteria might be true?”
“Keep going.”
“You said that there were three potential perpetrators, Cobalt Becker, the Chinese government, and the US Department of National Competitiveness, right?”
“At least that’s what we’ve come up with so far.”
“So tell me again. If you are Becker choosing MaryLee, what are the criteria you’re using to make your choice and are you choosing one person or more than one?”
“I’m choosing her because she has no history. She’s adopted from some faraway place, so in my mind she comes with a clean slate, like a transgenic mouse. She’s worthy of being the mother of the messiah because I’ve watched her grow, she’s smart, and because I think she’s a good person, and—” I pause. “And I think I might be able to get away with it because everyone around her trusts me.”
My mind flashes back to my encounter with Carol Stock at the Holy Virgin Church. If Carol was such a believer that the Second Coming was imminent, how far might she have been willing to go to help make it possible?
“So there can’t be so many women that fill all or most of those criteria?”
“If you’re a believer, how many Virgin Marys can there really be? Once you go down that thought path, you’re pretty much locked in.”
“Okay,” Jerry says feverishly. “Let’s explore option B. Do it again, you are the Chinese government, what are you looking for?”
“I’ve invested billions in genetic technologies, but somehow my plans aren’t working. I’m missing a key technology. I buy a chain of fertility clinics to get it. Or I’m running a genetic enhancement program at home in China and get an inkling that America may be doing something similar. I begin snooping around and send over an agent, maybe more. I discover something is going on and decide to try to block it. I find out which women are getting impregnated with genetically enhanced embryos and start knocking them off. That’s option B-1. Option B-2, I send someone over to look around and when the impregnated woman she’s monitoring gets killed, I assume that our cover is blown and order her to get out of Dodge as quickly as possible.”
“Which still leaves us with the question of how MaryLee was selected,” Jerry says. “Why do you choose MaryLee?”
“If we’re selecting for intelligence at home in China, I’d imagine we’d at least explore a similar link here.”
“Option C?”
“You know option C,” I say. “I’m the US Department of National Competitiveness. My mandate is to make sure America gets back its edge as China surges ahead. I have a broad platform of legislative changes I’ve gotten through Congress, but I know that even with all of my agency’s powers there’s no way Congress is going to green-light a genetic enhancement program. So I set up a dummy company and buy a small chain of IVFGS clinics to begin seeding the population with genetically enhanced babies.”
“So if you had to pick one data set as your highest priority, what would it be?”
“Intelligence for sure,” I say, “at least as a start. It’s the quality with the greatest applicability across the board. It’s also what Gillespie said the Chinese were selecting for.”
Jerry nods. “So I hacked the College Board’s database and ran a program that searched automatically under each of the sixty-seven thousand four hundred and forty-five names and matched them with scores. I used the 600 across-the-board benchmark, which was still pretty high relative to the general population. A lot of them came up blank. Probably means that they didn’t take the test.”
“And?”
Jerry taps the screen again. “There are three hundred ninety-seven women who died over the last year between the ages of twenty and thirty who scored six hundred or above on their math, science, and writing SATs.”
I grab the u.D monitor from Jerry’s hands and start frantically scrolling down.
“What are you doing?” He asks.
I hardly hear him. My fingers can’t move quickly enough as I scroll down through the names.
And then I see it.
“Megan Fogerty is on this list,” I say, my heart pounding. “What are the chances that two pregnant women about the same age and with similar SAT scores die mysteriously at the same time in the same city?”
“Not impossible but not high,” Jerry says solemnly.
“And do we know if any of the other women on this list were pregnant when they died?”
“I’ll get Joseph working on that right now,” Jerry says.
<
br /> “Where is he?” I ask.
“In my basement.”
“Doors locked?”
Jerry gives me a funny look.
“And what about the Bright Horizons database? We need it now,” I say with a harshness I regret as soon as the words leave my mouth.
“I know,” Jerry says dejectedly. “We’re getting close. I think we’ll get it.”
“When?”
“Soon. It’s hard to predict.”
My heart is pounding. MaryLee Stock and Megan Fogerty are both dead. There may be others like them who are still alive.
And the only thing that may stand between any of them and the list of deceased might very well be Maurice and me and our little ragtag group of helpers.
54
“Henderson,” Maurice says in full grog.
“Sorry to wake you,” I say.
“It’s five thirty in the morning,” he grumbles, stating the obvious. “Hold on a second.”
I hear rustling and assume he’s moving out of his bedroom.
“What do you have?”
“You think we can talk on these phones?”
“Who the hell knows? God dammit. Meet at the usual place in forty-five minutes, six fifteen.”
“See you there.”
Maurice still looks half asleep when we rendezvous at Swope Park.
“And obviously it can’t be a coincidence that Becker tries to use genetic technologies to breed a red heifer in Texas, then gets MaryLee pregnant with a genetically enhanced fetus,” I say after briefing him on what we have.
“It’s impossible. Becker isn’t telling us what he knows.” Maurice pauses. “And I’m starting to think we’ve been too damned nice with the guy.” He taps the u.D on his wrist.
“Reverend Becker,” Maurice says, “is that you?”
Pause.
“Six thirty-four, actually. You are four minutes off. . . . I’d feel the same if I were you, but then again if I were you I wouldn’t know about the forensic evidence implicating me in a crime.”
Maurice looks at me as Becker speaks.
“No, I’m not. I’m just telling you how I would feel if I were you . . . You’re right. You don’t have to listen to this. If you think hanging up is a better option, I encourage you to do it now. See how that strategy goes for you . . . Good, Reverend. I have two things to tell you. I’ll tell you both together so you don’t need to respond. I just want you to know what we’ve found. Okay? . . . Good. First, we did a genetic analysis of the tissue from the fetus MaryLee Stock was carrying when she was killed, and we tested it with a hair I took when I met you in your office . . . I’m an inspector. This is what I do for a living. The two matched. You were the father. Congratulations.”
Maurice stops speaking, but I don’t hear any noise coming from his earpiece.
“Reverend Becker, are you there? . . . You have that right. Of course we can speak with your lawyer. But just to be clear, I’m not charging you with anything. I’m just telling you what we’re finding in our investigation. Of course, this doesn’t mean we think you were necessarily involved in the murder. But, Reverend . . . It does mean that we’re going to need a lot more help from you to prove otherwise.”
Maurice looks fiercely annoyed as Becker speaks.
“Yes, Reverend. I told you before. I am out of school here. The question for you is whether you think muzzling me is going to work. That’s for you to decide. My own sense is that it’s a low-probability approach. . . . That’s the right question, Reverend. What we need is more information. Here’s our working hypothesis. Your people explored using genetic technologies to engineer a red heifer out of your ranch in Texas, Rapture Grove. You then got it in your mind to breed the next messiah, so you selected the purest girl you knew, MaryLee Stock, and somehow had her impregnated with an enhanced fetus incorporating your genetics at the Bright Horizons fertility clinic. Are you still there? Good. We also still don’t know about the murder. The idea that you may have done it has certainly crossed our minds, but why would you do that after going to such lengths to get her pregnant? Then again, who am I to know how you think?”
Maurice pauses again.
“So here’s where all of this leaves us. I want to learn everything you know about MaryLee Stock, Bright Horizons, and your breeding operation in Texas. You have every right to get Senator King or Chief Roberts to pull me from the case. If you do, I’m sure you’ll succeed. But the question for you is whether by doing that you’ll kill this story. In fact, I’m sitting here with my friend Rich Azadian. Say hello, Rich.”
Maurice holds out the ear piece.
I feel strange piling on, but only for a moment. “Hello, sir,” I say.
“You’re probably thinking you can kill the police investigation and kill the Star’s story,” Maurice says, “and you may be right, but that’s a lot of faith in your own abilities and, if I can say, a lack of faith in ours. It’s up to you. I’m not forcing you to tell us anything. You are under no obligation. I’m not even investigating this case. But I am only calling you to ask you one thing. Of your own volition, are you going to tell us what you know, or are you going to roll the dice in the hope that you can put this genie back in the bottle?”
An impish grin crosses Maurice’s face as he listens to Becker.
“I’ll only give you a little time. You need to call me at this number by seven tonight. I want everything. If you don’t, we’ll follow up on our leads in the manner we see fit, and I’m quite sure you won’t like where that path leads. Am I clear?”
55
“Got it,” Jerry says feverishly as his face pops up on my screen.
“Where are you? I’ll come to you.”
“At the office, the door is open.”
“Lock it,” I say. “I’m on my way.”
I call Maurice on the bat phone and tell him to meet me at UMKC. We enter the building together.
I knock three times in quick succession on Jerry’s door. The latch pops open. I open the door and see Jerry scurrying back to his computer wall.
“It was incredibly well protected,” Jerry mutters, “but we probed from a lot of different angles. I’m not sure if we’ve been detected, so we’ve got to work fast. I’m downloading the Bright Horizons database, but it’s taking time. They have a custom system, so I need to download the whole underlying program infrastructure, not just the data, and chunks of that program are encrypted separately. I’m also accessing the database itself as if I’m one of their internal users. I’m not sure how long that’s going to last.”
“Jerry, I need you to check whether MaryLee Stock and Megan Fogerty’s names are in the Bright Horizons database,” I interrupt impatiently.
Jerry dictates in a search function. “MaryLee Stock was there August 29 and October 13, Megan Fogerty on July 12 and August 14.”
Maurice and I look at each other.
“Now compare the names of the dead young women from the police database with names from the Bright Horizons database,” I order.
“Yeah,” Jerry says. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”
“And?” I ask.
“I need a little time to set up the search. Give me fifteen minutes.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean there’s a Coke machine on the second floor. Please go for a drink.”
I marvel at how assertive Jerry has become. Maurice and I make our retreat. Fifteen minutes feels like an hour.
I knock on his locked door. It opens slowly. Jerry’s face is ashen, his eyes wide as he steps into the space. “Nine,” he says, the word weighing him down. He is shaking.
“Tell us.”
Jerry takes a deep breath in as if collecting pieces of himself scattered across the room. “It’s pretty simple really. I matched the two databases. Nine women who were clients of Bright Horizons showed up on our list of three hundred and ninety-seven women from the police database.”
We stare at the screen. The nine names seem to hover in space.
MaryLee Stock, the fourth, pulsates. This beautiful woman who woke up and had breakfast one week ago, who stopped at the Hospital Hill Café for a hazelnut cappuccino, who played second base for the Springfield Tigers Women’s softball team and danced herself into joyous abandon Somewhere beyond the sea is now just another name in a list of the dead.
Nine names. Nine pieces of data. Nine entire life stories crammed into this little space. Kathryn Allison, Dakota Barnes, Lorelei Patterson, MaryLee Stock, Amanda Sullivan, Celia Guttierez, Megan Fogerty, Louise Osten, Sunita Patel. We stand silently before the screen like pallbearers.
Then Maurice breaks the silence. “Now we’ve got to figure out what we’re looking at.”
His words seem cold, but he is right. Whatever else they may once have been, these names of the dead may now be our only data sets that can point us in the direction of any women like them who might be in mortal danger but possibly still alive.
“So what qualities do they all possess besides being smart, single women under thirty, patients of the Bright Horizons fertility clinic, and dead?” I say, grabbing a stack of paper from near Jerry’s printer. I start writing. Age, height, education level, SAT scores, marital status. “What else?”
Jerry starts calling out characteristics, listing where each of the five fit in compared to the entire database. All of them are between twenty-two and twenty-seven, compared to an overall average of thirty-three. All of them are five six or taller, compared to an average overall height of five foot five.
“Can you bring up anything about education level?” I ask.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Jerry says, “but can we get Joseph to work on this?”
“Look at those dates.” Maurice points to a far right column. “What does date of submission mean?”
“When the last data was inputted,” Jerry says tentatively, “when they visited Bright Horizons the last time.”
“So for MaryLee Stock we have October 13, 2023, three days before she died. All of the others have been in the last two months.”
The inescapable outcome surges through each of our minds.
I say what we are all thinking. “These women are being hunted down one at a time.”
