by Kathy Reichs
“You’re a laugh riot, Brennan. I need you to translate.”
“Your Spanish is better than mine.”
“Different type of translation. Biology-ese.”
“Can’t you work it out? Ever since I agreed to help Galiano I’ve hardly had time to look at Chupan Ya bones, and that’s my day job.”
“Bat told me you hadn’t had lunch.”
Ryan made my grandmother look like an amateur when it came to concern for eating regular meals.
“I promised Mateo—”
“Go.” Mateo had materialized beside my workstation. “We’ll all be here when you catch your killer.”
I held the phone to my chest.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded.
I gave Ryan directions and cut off.
“Can I ask you something, Mateo?”
“Of course.”
“Who is Alejandro Bastos?”
The scar on his lip went dagger-thin. He waved a hand at the skeleton lying between us.
“Army colonel. The murdering bastard responsible for this, may he rot in hell.”
* * *
Next to a hot poker up the nose, my favorite thing is mealy, overfried fish. That’s what I was eating as Ryan leafed through the date book he’d found in Nordstern’s suitcase.
Locating the entry, Ryan held the book out so I could read.
On May 16 Nordstern scheduled a meeting with Elias Jiménez.
I thought back.
“That was two days before his interview with me.”
I chewed and swallowed. The former was a formality.
“Who’s Elias Jiménez?” I asked.
“Professor of cell biology at San Carlos University.”
“Was the interview taped?”
“It isn’t on any of the cassettes I’ve been through.”
“Is the professor about to enjoy the pleasure of our company?”
“As soon as Detective Galiano is free.”
“Intimidated by academia?”
“I’m a visiting cop in a foreign land. No authority. No weapon. No support. I might as well be a journalist.”
“And a strictly by-the-book kind of guy.”
“Straight arrow.”
I pushed the fish as far from me as possible.
“Jumping genomes! Another ride in the Batmobile!”
* * *
On the way to Ciudad Universitaria in Zone 12, Galiano updated Ryan and me on the afternoon’s progress. There was little to report concerning Jorge Serano. The kid had a thick jacket, mostly minor offenses. Shoplifting. Vandalism. Drunk driving. But Jorge hadn’t stuck around to discuss past indiscretions. He’d vanished like money into a wahala.
Galiano’s partner had researched Antonio Díaz.
Hernández discovered that the DA had been an army lieutenant in the early eighties, served most of his hitch near Sololá. His commanding officer was Alejandro Bastos.
Terrifico.
Hernández also learned that a number of high-ranking police officials had served under Bastos.
Mucho terrifico.
Professor Jiménez’s address was in Edificio M2, a blue and white rectangular affair in the center of campus. We followed the signs to Ciencias Biológias, and located his office on the second floor.
The thing I remember about Jiménez is the goiter. It was the size of a walnut and the color of a plum. Otherwise, all I retain is the impression of a very old man with intense black eyes.
Jiménez didn’t rise when we appeared. He merely watched us troop through his door.
The office was approximately six by eight. The walls were covered with color photos of cells in various stages of mitosis. Or meiosis. I wasn’t sure.
Jiménez didn’t give Galiano a chance to speak.
“The man came asking about stem cells. I gave him a synopsis and answered his questions. That’s all I know.”
“Olaf Nordstern?”
“I don’t remember. He said he was researching a story.”
“What did he ask?”
“He wanted to know about the embryonic stem cell lines President George Bush approved for research.”
“And?”
“I told him.”
“What did you tell him?”
“According to the NIH—”
“National Institutes of Health,” I translated.
“—seventy-eight lines exist.”
“Where?” I asked.
Jiménez dug a printout from a stack of papers and handed it to me. As I skimmed the names and numbers, Galiano got a crash course on stem cell research.
BresaGen Inc., Athens, Georgia, 4;
CyThera Inc., San Diego, California, 9;
ES Cell International/Melbourne, Australia, 6;
Geron Corporation, Menlo Park, California, 7;
Göteborg University, Göteborg, Sweden, 19;
Karolinska Institute, Stockholm, Sweden, 6;
Maria Biotech Co. Ltd.—Maria Infertility Hospital Medical Institute, Seoul, Korea, 3;
MizMedi Hospital—Seoul National University, Seoul, Korea, 1;
National Centre for Biological Sciences/Tata Institute of Fundamental Research, Bangalore, India, 3;
Pochon CHA University, Seoul, Korea, 2;
Reliance Life Sciences, Mumbai, India, 7;
Technion University, Haifa, Israel, 4;
University of California, San Francisco, California, 2;
Wisconsin Alumni Research Foundation, Madison, Wisconsin, 5.
My attention ricocheted back to the third listing. Quietly, I showed it to Ryan. His eyes met mine.
“Is seventy-eight enough?” Galiano asked, having listened to ES cells 101.
“Hell, no.”
Jiménez had an odd way of dropping his head to the left when he spoke. Perhaps the goiter pressed on his vocal cords. Perhaps he wanted to hide it.
“Some of those lines could get stale, or lose their pluripotency, or just plain crash. Four of the six colonies created by one U.S. biotech firm, won’t say which one, are turning out to be unstable.” Jiménez snorted. “There’s already a backlog of requests.”
He pointed a bony finger at the printout in my hand.
“And take a look at that list. Many of those lines are in private hands.”
“And private companies aren’t known for sharing.” Ryan.
“You’ve got that right, young man.”
“Is the American government doing anything to assure access?” Galiano asked.
“The NIH is creating a human embryonic stem cell registry. Still, NIH admits distribution of cell lines will be left to the discretion of those labs that birthed them.”
“ES cells could become a valuable commodity.” Ryan.
Jiménez’s laugh sounded like a cackle.
“Stem cell stocks soared following Bush’s announcement.”
A very troubling conjecture was coalescing in the back of my brain.
“Dr. Jiménez, how sophisticated is the methodology for growing cultures of human ES cells?”
“You’re not going to do it in your sophomore biochem class, if that’s what you’re asking. But it’s not that complicated for someone with training.”
“How does it work?”
“You get fresh or frozen embryos—”
“Where?”
“IVF labs.”
“Clinics for couples undergoing treatment for infertility,” I translated for my police buddies.
“You extract cells from the inner cell mass of the blastocyst. You put the cells in culture dishes with growth medium supplemented with fetal bovine serum—”
My heart rate shot to the stratosphere.
“—on feeder layers of mouse embryonic fibroblasts that have been gamma-irradiated to prevent their replication. You let the cells grow nine to fifteen days. When the inner cell masses have divided and formed clumps, you dissociate cells from the periphery, put them back in culture, and—”
I was no longer listening. I knew what
Zuckerman was up to.
I caught Ryan’s eye and indicated that we should go.
Jiménez droned on about an alternative technique involving the injection of ES cells into the testes of immunocompromised mice.
“Thank you, Professor,” I cut in.
Ryan and Galiano looked at me like I was crazy.
“One last question. Did Nordstern ask about a woman named Maria Zuckerman?”
“Might have.”
“What did you tell him?”
“Same thing I’ll tell you, young lady. Never heard of her.”
* * *
“Zuckerman’s trying to develop a stem cell line.”
We were back in the Batmobile. My face felt hot, and strange creatures were running patterns in my belly.
“Why?” Ryan asked.
“How the hell should I know? Maybe she’s the one bucking for a prize. Or there’s a black market out there.”
I closed my eyes. The lunch fish played on the back of my lids. I opened them.
“But I’m certain that’s what Zuckerman’s doing. I saw the lab, saw the fetal bovine serum.”
“There must be other uses for the stuff.” Galiano.
“Six of the existing stem cell lines are at the Monash Institute of Reproductive Biology in Melbourne, Australia.” I swallowed. “Zuckerman spent two years at a research institute in Melbourne. If you check, I bet Monash rings the bell.”
“But why?” Ryan repeated.
“Maybe Zuckerman anticipates a growing black market now that the U.S. government has turned ES cells into a limited resource by limiting government funding.” Galiano looked over at me. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re flushed.”
“I’m fine.”
“And the good doctor plans to make a bundle,” Ryan said.
Galiano looked at me again, started to speak, instead picked up and keyed the radio.
“Like the hairballs that trade in illegal donor organs.” Ryan was sounding less skeptical. “Holy sh—”
I cut Ryan off.
“And Jorge Serano is helping her.”
I listened to Galiano put out APBs on Zuckerman and Serano. My stomach made an odd sound. Though both men glanced at me, neither commented.
We rode several miles listening to my rumblings compete with the radio.
I spoke first.
“Where does Patricia Eduardo fit in?”
“Where does Antonio Díaz fit in?” Galiano asked.
“Where does Ollie Nordstern fit in?” Ryan asked.
No one had an answer.
“Here’s a plan,” Ryan said. “Bat rolls out a judge to get his warrant.”
“And it damn well won’t be that scumbag Díaz.”
“I finish the interview tapes. Brennan goes through the rest of Nordstern’s papers.”
“Fine,” I agreed. “But I’ll work at my hotel.” I felt a sudden need to stay near my bathroom.
“Don’t like my company?” Ryan made his hurt face.
“It’s the fly,” I said. “We don’t get along.”
By the time we swung by headquarters, picked up Nordstern’s file folders, and returned to my hotel, it was after five.
The sidewalk now looked like it had been struck by a tomahawk missile. Four jackhammers were engaged in a full-throttle assault that sent vibrations through every lobe of my brain. Floodlights and lunch pails suggested the noise might continue through the night.
I muttered a particularly colorful expletive.
Ryan and Galiano asked if I’d be all right. I assured them all I needed was rest. I didn’t mention the bathroom.
As they roared off I noticed the boys were laughing.
The paranoia flared.
I repeated the expletive.
Upstairs, I went straight to my med kit.
Katy always laughs at me. When traveling to foreign countries, I carry a drugstore. Eyedrops. Nasal spray. Antacid. Laxative. You never know.
Today I knew.
I downed an Imodium and a mouthful of Pepto-Bismol, and stretched out on the bed.
And shot straight to the bathroom. Decades later I lay down again, shaky but better.
The jackhammers pounded.
My head joined in.
I turned on the fan. Instead of blunting the noise, the fan added to it.
I returned to the bathroom, soaked a rag in cold water, placed it on my forehead, and went supine again, questioning whether I really wanted to live.
I’d barely drifted off when my cell phone rang.
Expletive.
“Yes!”
“Ryan.”
“Yes.”
“Feeling better?”
“Damn you and your fish.”
“I told you to have the corn dog. What’s that noise?”
“Jackhammers. Why are you calling?”
“You were right-on about Melbourne. Zuckerman spent two years there on a Reproductive Biology research fellowship or something.”
“Uh huh.”
I was half listening to Ryan, half listening to my stomach.
“You’ll never guess who else was there.”
The name got my full attention.
28
THE LUCAS WHO CONFISCATED THE PARAÍSO skeleton for Antonio Díaz?”
“Hector Luis Castillo Lucas.”
“But Lucas is a forensic doctor.”
“Apparently he didn’t start out that way.”
“What’s the Díaz-Lucas link?” I asked.
“Better question: What’s the Zuckerman-Lucas link?”
“Any progress on netting Zuckerman or Jorge Serano?”
“Not yet. Galiano has Zuckerman’s clinic and home staked out, has an APB out on her car. He’s also set up surveillance at the Paraíso. We should nail ’em before the ten o’clock news.”
“Did Galiano get his warrant?”
“He’s talking to a judge now.”
I clicked off, replaced the washcloth, and lay back on the pillows.
This really didn’t make sense. Or did it? Was Dr. Lucas working for Díaz? Had the doctor ordered the destruction of Patricia Eduardo’s bones at the request of the DA? Or was it the other way around? Did Lucas have influence over Díaz?
Díaz could link to Chupan Ya, perhaps even to the shooting of Carlos and Molly. But why would he want the Paraíso bones confiscated? Why would he have an interest in the murder of a pregnant young girl?
Carlos and Molly! Had their attackers really spoken my name? Was I the next target? Whose?
Feeling frightened and chilled, I crawled under the blankets.
Still my head swam with questions.
Lucas must know Zuckerman. Two Guatemalan doctors at an Australian research facility at the same time could hardly fail to be aware of each other. Were they now working together? On what?
What was Nordstern’s big secret? And how had he learned it?
Was there a Bastos-Díaz connection other than their time together in the army? Why did Nordstern circle the picture of Díaz with Bastos together reviewing the parade at Xaxaxak?
Did all these things tie together? Did any of them? Were these just episodes of corruption in a corrupt country?
Was I in danger?
The jackhammers obliterated the clamor of rush hour traffic. The fan hummed. Slowly, the room dimmed, the sounds ebbed.
I wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the room phone shrilled. When I bolted upright, it was dark.
Breathing. Then a dial tone.
“Goddamn inconsiderate bastard!” Must have called the wrong extension and just hung up.
I slammed the receiver.
Sitting on the edge of the bed I held my hands to my cheeks. They felt cooler. The meds were helping.
Rat-a-tat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat-taaaaat. Rat. Rat. Rat.
How much cement could there be down there?
“Enough of this.”
I got a Diet Coke from the mini-fridge and
tried a sip.
Oh yes.
I knocked back several swallows as a test run, and set the can on the table. Then I stripped off my clothes and showered until the bathroom was gray with steam. I closed my eyes, let the water pound my breasts, my back, my distended abdomen. I let it roll off my head, my shoulders, my hips.
After toweling off, I combed out my hair, brushed my teeth, and pulled on cotton socks and a set of FBI sweats.
Feeling like a new woman, I dug out Nordstern’s files and settled at the table. In the next room I heard the TV go on, then aimless channel switching. My neighbor finally settled on a soccer match.
The first folder I picked up was labeled “Specter.” It held press clippings, notes, and an assortment of photos of André Specter and his family. There were two Polaroids of the ambassador with Aida Pera.
The second folder was unlabeled. It contained restaurant and taxi receipts. Expense records. Pass.
I finished my Coke.
Outside, the jackhammers droned on.
I recognized the label on the third folder: “SCELL.” I was halfway through when I found it.
Stem Cells Grown from Dead Bodies.
As I read the report, my chest tightened.
A research team at the Salk Institute in La Jolla, California, had developed a technique for sourcing stem cells from human post-mortem samples. The finding was reported in the journal Nature.
“Jesus Christ.”
My voice sounded loud in the empty room.
I read on.
When placed in a succession of solutions, the tissues of an eleven-week-old baby and a twenty-seven-year-old man had yielded immature brain cells. The Salk team had used the technique on others of different ages, and on specimens extracted as long as two days after death.
A footer indicated that the report had been downloaded from the BBC News home page. Beside the http address, someone had written the name Zuckerman.
I felt icy-hot, and my hands were shaking.
Relapse.
Time for an Imodium hit.
Returning from the bathroom, I noticed an odd shadow falling across the carpet in front of the door. I went to check. The latch had not properly engaged.
Had I left the door open when I’d arrived and dashed to the bathroom? I was feeling lousy, but such carelessness was out of character.
I closed and locked it, a sense of trepidation joining the rest of my symptoms.
Dialing Galiano, I felt weak all over. The trembling in my hands had intensified.
Galiano and Ryan were out. I had to swallow before I could leave a message.
