by Diana Kirk
"How long have you been going to college, Suzanne?"
"Ten years, and I'm getting tired of it. I want to settle down and start a family. I think I just might have gotten lucky this time." She blushed. "Excuse me, Father. I've met the most wonderful guy. I think he feels the same way. I won't know for sure unless I can spend more time with him. Taking so many night courses each semester doesn't leave me much spare time."
"Sounds like you've already made up your mind. Who is this man?"
"Sam Trenton, Father. He's one of the officers investigating Dr. Grafton's murder. I met him through Andrea Pearson."
"Andrea Pearson?"
"Yeah, you know her. She was working with Dr. Grafton. Wasn't it terrible about him, the murder and all?"
"Oh, my." His gaze skittered around the room. The phone bell interrupted their silence and Suzanne jumped.
Father Jamison picked up the receiver. "Yes. Of course. I'll be right down." He replaced the phone gently on the receiver. "I've got to. . . there's someone to see me. I'm sorry. I've got to--give me the slip, I'll sign."
"Thanks, Father."
He edged her toward the door, almost urging her out. What was so important all of a sudden? She'd never been given the brush-off by any man, not even a priest. She padded back toward the smiling receptionist.
What did she care? The guy gave her the creeps, anyway. She'd gotten what she wanted. He'd signed the drop.
She glanced down at her watch. Now she was really late. The bookstore excuse was too lame. This time, she'd have to have a better one.
Chapter XII
. . . FURTHERMORE, I WILL NOT GIVE TO A WOMAN AN INSTRUMENT TO PRODUCE ABORTION.
The clergy residence hall was large and old. The dark corridor seemed to sag as if exhausted from years of service. Before Dorlynd had annexed it, it was a Community Center. Krastowitcz liked the building. It was collegial and stately. He'd never been to college.
It wasn't for him. He'd been too busy getting a different education, from the street. The only formal learning he'd had was the police academy twenty years before. Nowadays, even new recruits had at least a two year degree.
So what type of priest was involved in a sordid homosexual homicide? The circumstances were uncomfortable, but he had to follow all leads. Father Jamison was one of several.
"Excuse me." He whispered like the good parochial school grad he was. The elderly woman at the desk turned her attention to him. "I'm Sergeant Krastowitcz from the Omaha Police Division. Is Father Jamison in?"
"Goodness sake." Her eyes widened. "Sergeant? Police? Oh, my. I'll call him, right away. Oh, my. Please have a seat, sir."
"Sergeant."
"Oh, my."
He wandered down the hallway and settled in one of the several large leather and wood chairs. There seemed to be a preponderance of leather at Dorlynd. Universities always seemed to have an abundance of oversized leather chairs standing watch everywhere. Small, folding wooden chairs rested beside each desk in his homicide office, looking pathetic in comparison. He glanced around, his gaze resting on several cracked oil paintings depicting Dorlynd's founding fathers in various poses. He wondered what pose they'd have put Grafton in! Suspended from long thin wires attached to the ceiling, the sentinels hung watching and waiting in stoic silence. What the hell! It was almost as if they were waiting for him to solve the case.
Suzanne hurried by.
He stood and she skidded to a halt. "Hey, Gary. What're you doing here?"
"I came to see Father Jamison. How are you?"
"Fine, thanks. I just got through with him. You must be the important appointment he had." She laughed. "No wonder he was so nervous. Probably thinks if a cop wants to see him he's a suspect."
"A priest as a suspect? You'd better say another Hail Mary for even thinking of it." She laughed again. "I just need some background information. He's a psychologist, isn't he?"
"Sure. Hasn't helped me, though. I'm dropping his class."
"You are? How come?" Krastowitcz shifted his weight from foot to foot.
"So I can spend more time with your sexy friend. Sometime soon, we've got to sit down so you can tell me all about that hunk. Okay?"
He didn't want to stand here discussing his best friend's sex life. The bubbling woman bewildered him. "Sure, but--"
A smallish dark-eyed man entered the room and extended his hand. "Sergeant Krastowitcz? I'm Father Jamison. Please, follow me."
Jamison and Suzanne exchanged glances. She smiled, shifted her gaze to Krastowitcz, and rolled her eyes.
"Got to run," she said. "I'm supposed to be at the bookstore. See you later, Gary."
"Sure, Suzanne." Krastowitcz watched Jamison watch Suzanne. The priest's stare was a tad too intense. Was something there? What? He'd find out.
He followed Father Jamison down the corridor into his office and sat down.
"What can I do for you, officer?"
Krastowitcz scratched his ear. "Well, Father, this is awkward but I need to ask you a few questions regarding. . . That is, I'm investigating the death of Dr. Grafton. I was told you two were friends."
"Dr. Grafton? It's so sad. Such a good man with such worth-while work, with such sick, sick patients." The priest clasped his shaking hands together as if in prayer. "He did so much for the poor and afflicted."
"Yes, Father, and I'm particularly interested in his AIDS work. You worked closely with his patients?"
"Why, yes, Sergeant. I counsel many dying patients and ad-minister the last rights when necessary. W-why are you interested in AIDS patients?"
Why did Jamison stumble over his words? This guy knew more than he'd let on. Had Grafton told him something in confession? Something about serial murders? The ones he'd committed? "We've reason to suspect that Grafton was involved in the gay community."
"Everyone on that service is involved with the gay community. You don't understand, Sergeant."
"No. You don't understand, Father." Krastowitcz leaned forward and loosened his collar. This was harder than he'd thought. Too many years of Catholic upbringing. "Let's just say that his involvement was more intimate and brutal than anyone suspected." Krastowitcz eyed Jamison carefully.
Jamison's hand twitched. "What does that have to do with me?"
"Do you know anyone who might have reason to kill him? I mean, someone who knew Grafton socially."
"What," the priest said, wiping his forehead with his hand-kerchief, "possibly gave you that impression?"
Krastowitcz held up the picture of Milton and Jamison in an embrace. "This."
The good father slumped his shoulders and collapsed into his chair. "That doesn't mean a thing, Sergeant. Milton was merely a friend. That's all." Krastowitcz got up to leave. "Is there anything else?"
"Not now, Father. I'll call you if I need you. Oh, by the way, you were at Grafton's funeral this morning, weren't you?"
"I--ah-- went to pay my respects. Is there anything wrong with that? I mean, that's not a crime these days. Or is it?"
"No, Father. Just asking."
Bingo. The priest was definitely hiding something. Guilt tweaked Krastowitcz for his interrogation. Must be his Catholic upbringing. All those years of catechism and nuns. Priests were sacred--you stood when they entered the room. Yes, Father. No, Father. Have a nice day, Father. May I have your blessing, Father? It still left a bad taste in his mouth. There was some-thing about Jamison that didn't ring true. Good or bad, he'd still have to check the priest further. The thought almost pleased him--odd reaction for a good Catholic boy.
ANDREA GLANCED at her watch. Her meeting with Hardwyn had lasted only twenty minutes. Now she was officially a free agent, well, for a few days, anyway. Since she was already at the medical school, it was a perfect time to check the files in the laboratory. Especially since Peter was at the cemetery.
Andrea entered the elevator and pushed Sub 7. It sped downward and from the gravitational pull, her heart felt like a lead weight in her chest. This particular elevator alway
s made her wonder. What if the cables broke and the elevator fell? An old myth said if she jumped up and down while in descent, the impact would be lessened and even save the passenger's life. The image of her jumping up and down as the elevator plummeted downward made her laugh and assuaged her fear.
The door opened and she stepped hesitantly into the deserted, green concrete hallway. She walked quickly toward the lab, nervously fumbling with the security card-key. She inserted it in the slot and waited for the latch release. Nothing happened. She reinserted it, right side up. After some jiggling, the tumblers turned and she opened the door. That's what she got for never using her card key. When she needed it, she stumbled. She edged her fingers along the rough wall, searching for the light switch and flicked it up. Light flooded the lab. On the inside wall, were the three, locked file cabinets.
She approached them, Andrea pulled out the letter she'd found under Milton's blotter. The key was still taped to it. She examined it closely, then the file-locks.
It opened files, all right.
She placed the key in the first cabinet's lock and twisted. Nothing happened. The second cabinet, however, popped open with ease. Just like Peter had said, it was jammed with reprints and miscellaneous papers. She went through manila folder after manila folder, scratch note after scratch note. Frustration made her teeth ache. Finally, she spotted a file marked NIH Grant. Without studying it further, she pulled it out and jammed it into her purse.
She turned back to extend the search. The lab door knob turned. She didn't exactly see it move, but the sensation over-whelmed her.
Quickly, she shut the cabinet, relocked it and wedged the key down into the crack between the cabinets. The door flew open.
"You, bitch! What're you doing?" Peter Mueller slammed the door against the wall, launching tiny missiles of flying concrete shrapnel.
"Peter. . . I--"
"Can't you leave his things alone? Haven't you had enough, going through his apartment?"
"How did you--?"
"Now you're playing amateur detective with that cop."
How did he know she'd been with Krastowitcz at Milton's apartment? Was he the one who'd followed her in the Old Market? Andrea took a deep breath. If he was the killer, she'd better be careful.
"I've got as much right as you to be here. Milton's research was important to me, too."
"Important for what it could get you, you mean. Like a date with that detective--"
"I hardly think--"
"Shut up."
Andrea inched away. "You're being ridiculous. I'm trying to help the investigation. Do you want the killer to go free?"
"The killer'll go free, `cause no one really cares when a fag is involved. Isn't that what you're all thinking?" His eyes widened and his gaze darted about the room. "Well this is my domain now. No one touches anything here. Understand?" He inched his way toward her.
The key was safe and Andrea had gotten what she came for. Perfect time to get out. "All right, Peter, have it your way. I'm leaving, but the police will be with me next time." She turned to leave.
Peter wiped off the counter and busied himself arranging beakers. "Great. By then I'll be out of here for good. You're all the same. You only care about yourselves, nothing else." His eyes misted. "You didn't even go to the cemetery."
"I had an appointment with the Dean. I had no choice." What did it matter to try and reason with him? He'd already determined everyone was against him. What did he mean by `I'll be out of here for good'? She firmly gripped the door handle. He wasn't thinking straight. Was he leaving town? She tried to smile. "Thanks, Peter."
"Get out. Get out. Get out!" He screamed and buried his head in his hands.
Andrea hurried back to the elevator, glancing back to make sure he wasn't behind her. She pushed the elevator button several times as though it would make the elevator come faster. She had to find Krastowitcz and tell him about Peter. He'd definitely gone over the edge.
SUZANNE GLANCED at the clock; four-thirty. Still another hour to go before meeting Andrea. Why did an hour seem longer than sixty minutes? When she waited for something, it seemed like days.
"Everything is relative," she said. Einstein's Theory. Every-thing was relative, but to what, she wasn't sure. The only thing she was sure of these days was how wonderful she felt in Trent's arms.
Finally, she'd fallen in love and couldn't wait to tell Andrea all about it. Of course, she'd say everything had happened way too fast, but Suzanne didn't care.
This time, she was positive.
Andrea would be skeptical, as usual, and Suzanne would have to listen to another lecture, not that it would make any difference. Not this time. A twinge of sorrow niggled at her. Trent wasn't the first man she'd slept with. In fact, he wasn't even the tenth or twentieth. She'd lost count. In a way though, he was the first, the first she'd loved. That fact was enough for a year's worth of happiness.
She could hardly wait for Andrea. Only forty-five more minutes.
ANDREA ENTERED the squad room and asked for Krastowitcz. Hunched over, oblivious to the phones, yelling, and traffic in the main room, he read from a growing mound of notes and papers on his desk. He looked handsome in a strange way. His fingers raked through his thick, curly hair and he clenched his jaw in concentration, looking almost angry. Smiling, she walked toward his desk. The man was definitely growing on her."Gary?"
He looked up, startled, then smiled. "Hey Andrea." He glanced at his watch. "I didn't realize the time. Either you're early or I'm late."
She sat down on the wooden, folding chair at the end of his desk and withdrew the large file from her purse. "I found the grant."
He reached over and picked up the folder. "The what?"
"Milton's research. I spent the afternoon reading it in the library. For the past three years I worked on this project, I never took the time to read the proposal."
He thumbed through the thick manuscript. "I can see why. This is some book."
"I should've, though. I was always too busy, I guess. It's impressive."
She crushed the file against her chest. "Now, I know why he was such a prima donna."
"What do you mean?" he said, pulling her chair closer so they could talk privately. She sensed his nearness and warmth filled her veins.
"Milton delved into gene splicing and DNA cell bathing. I don't really understand it all. I'm not a geneticist or a virologist, but, from what I could tell, he was trying to bathe sick cells with a bacterial DNA solution of some sort, making the infected cells absorb the new characteristics of the DNA bath. Forming super cells."
"Super cells?"
"Yes. In turn, they'd devour the sick cells, changing the genetic makeup of the super cells, making them disease- resistant."
"How could their genetic makeup be altered?"
"I don't know exactly. Except, the super cells would have some of the sick-cell characteristics, I guess."
"What do you mean disease-resistant?"
"Just what I said. You could take an immunocompromised host–"
He frowned at her. "Speak English."
"Oh, sorry. You could take a person with cancer or any other immunological disease like AIDS and change their individual cells by forming a shield around them, making them immune to disease."
"What disease?"
"Any disease. That's what's so remarkable."
Krastowitcz leaned closer. "Could that really happen?"
"Who knows? According to the grant proposal, this shield would not only cure the patient, but make him resistant to new infection. Not only would they be cured, but they'd have drunk from the fountain of youth."
"Whew. A regular Dr. Frankenstein. Did he do it?"
"I don't think so. This is only a proposal, filed three years ago."
"Three years?"
"Yes. It takes years to get a project like this going. First, you experiment on animals. Then, if you see startling results, it can be tried on humans. Only after approval by the FDA, of course."
Krastowitcz put his hand on her arm. "What kind of humans?"
She stopped and gazed into his eyes. What was he getting at? "Volunteers, but only with approval from the IRB."
"IRB?" Krastowitcz strode over to the coffee-pot and poured them both a cup of stand-alone black. "What's that?"
"Internal Review Board. Of course, the NIH has to approve human experimentation, too."
"What volunteers?"
Andrea sipped the coffee, made a face and put the cup down. "Usually medical students. Or in this case, AIDS patients. And only after the project clears all the human subjects review boards. That's the law."
"Really? It's not on our books." He gulped his cup dry and rose for another.
"It is in ours. To my knowledge, Milton never requested an IRB review. Yet, he talked about using the Phase I Vaccine on Mr. Randolph. Still, he couldn't do it without clearance."
"You think those pictures we found and Grafton's death had anything to do with his experiments?"
"I can't see how. His theory was so advanced. It was his project, his knowledge, his experiments."
Kratowitcz scratched his head. "What if he couldn't get any subjects?"
She stopped, staring, lost in thought. "Oh, God, Gary!"
"What?"
Andrea clasped her hands over the grant and her breathing quickened. "Peter said Milton experimented on himself. You don't think?"
"It's beginning to fit."
"Maybe Milton found the cure. And Peter. . . Maybe he knows more than he's saying?" Andrea paced around the desk. "Wait a minute. Peter said something about leaving. Permanently."
"When?"
"This morning."
"When, exactly?"
"I--ah, looked through lab files. I have a key to the file cabinet."
"Key? Where'd you get it?"
"From Milton's desk. I wanted to see if--"
"That's evidence! You took it off Grafton's desk and didn't tell me?"
"I was so confused and upset, I stuck it in the pocket of my lab coat. I forgot all about it until this morning." Andrea hoped he couldn't tell she was lying.
