by Karen Dionne
“I don’t know. Sounds pretty thin.” Goddard licked the sugar from his lips and wiped his fingers with a paper napkin. “Could be just the paranoid imaginings of a tweaker.”
“I considered that. But by that point in the interview, she was fairly lucid. And people don’t generally notice things unless there’s a reason to.”
Which was true. How many times had he asked an interviewee to tell him anything they could remember, anything at all, no matter how inconsequential they thought it might be? If you let people tell you only what they considered important, you could easily miss something important.
“You know, this could fit with something the waitress at the coffee shop told me,” he said. “She thought Guy was keeping a secret. She saw him sitting and smiling to himself for an extended period of time, something he never usually did. Odd enough for her to remember and mention it. Something that made him happy, was how she put it, like he was expecting something nice to happen. A payoff, or some other good news is the sense I got from her, though she didn’t spell it out like that. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but if you put the two together, it could be a start.”
He went over to the whiteboard and added “Asperger’s?” to the list under Guy’s name, “gambling problem” under Lance’s, and “secret project” under both. He stepped back and studied the board.
“There’s one other thing that’s still hanging,” Linden said. “Lance’s computer. Or rather, his tablet. One of his former coworkers at Stratoco told me Lance had an expensive Surface Pro. Tiffany confirmed he used it when he was living with her at the trailer, but it didn’t turn up in the inventory list.”
“Did you check local pawnshops? If the murderer took it, he or she might’ve pawned it.”
“I already called around yesterday. I’ll check again later today. See if anything turns up.”
“Meanwhile, we should take a look at Guy’s computer. If the brothers were working together on a project, there might be something on it. Ray should be about finished with it by now. Grab your coffee, and we’ll go check it out. And bring your file on Guy. I’ll bring Lance’s.”
Goddard followed Linden into the corridor, then paused in the doorway and looked back at the sack of Krispy Kremes on her desk. Thought about bringing the sack along. Then he thought about his own burgeoning belly. He went inside and dropped the sack in the wastebasket.
23
In Sarah’s opinion, the tech guys at the station were unsung heroes. They rarely went out in the field; hardly ever left their cramped and cluttered offices. Some of the more devoted—some would say “obsessive"—practically never saw the light of day. But in an increasingly technological world, the work they did behind the scenes to support the cops out on the street was essential.
Most of the tech toys police departments invested in benefitted the officers in the field. Miniature cameras clipped to an officer’s chest pocket to verify and record witness statements. Patrol cars with dashboard cameras. A city-wide WiFi system that enabled officers to know where their fellow officers were at all times in case they needed to call for backup. Flashlights with different preset wavelengths designed to detect hair, fibers, and body fluids at a crime scene. Thermal imaging. Electronic whiteboards. Diagramming systems that allowed crime scenes and collisions to be charted in minutes instead of hours. K-9 cameras. But when it came to pulling evidence buried in somebody’s laptop, Sarah’s favorite tech guy couldn’t be beat.
She and Goddard positioned themselves on either side of Ray’s ergonomic office chair, effectively taking up all of the available floor space in the crowded office. Ray walked them through his findings.
“Here’s what you need to know,” he said, pointing to the screen. “Besides checking his emails, I also ran Guy Marsee’s recent computer history, looking for files he’d viewed or changed and websites he visited. A lot of the activity is mundane, but check this out.”
That was the other thing Sarah liked about Ray. Besides being good at his job, he always got straight to the point and never wasted time on small talk.
Ray clicked on a Google Drive doc that Guy had apparently created and then shared only with his brother. Sarah had no idea how Ray had broken Guy’s password in order to access the file, and she didn’t ask. She didn’t need to know how the trick was performed in order to appreciate the magic.
The file opened as an Excel spreadsheet labeled “PKD Project.”
“What’s a PKD?” Sarah asked, knowing that Ray would have already found the answer.
He handed them each a printout he’d pulled from www.pkdcure.org—the “Polycystic Kidney Disease Research and Education Foundation” website, according to the printout’s header.
Sarah read the opening paragraph out loud. “‘Polycystic kidney disease (PKD) is one of the world’s most common, life-threatening genetic diseases affecting thousands in the U.S. and millions worldwide.’ Okay. Why are we looking at this?”
“This spreadsheet on polycystic kidney disease the Marsee brothers put together represents a great deal of work.” Ray clicked rapidly through multiple pages so Sarah and Goddard could appreciate the extent of the file. “Like you, I wondered why they were investigating this particular disease. Especially since neither one of them was a medical doctor. It took a little digging, but I believe I know. According to their death certificates, your brothers’ parents both died in their early forties of polycystic kidney disease.”
Goddard whistled. “Nice work.” He turned to Sarah and raised his eyebrows. “Think this is our secret project?”
“Could be. Assuming there’s nothing else significant on the computer, then it probably is.”
“Just the usual,” Ray confirmed. “No porn. A lot of online shopping. This is the only thing that raised any flags.”
“Okay, then let’s upgrade that ‘probably’ to a ‘most likely.’” Goddard chewed on his thumbnail while he mulled over the information. “Don’t you think it’s odd that both parents died at such a young age from the same disease? I could see it if they died at the same time in a car crash. Or even if they both had cancer. But how common is polycystic kidney disease?”
Sarah flipped the pages of the printout Ray had given her. “Apparently it affects an estimated twelve and a half million people worldwide.”
“Twelve and a half million. Okay, then I guess it’s not impossible for them both to have it. Highly unlikely but not impossible.”
“But did you catch that the disease is genetic?” Sarah asked. “I just remembered something. Guy Marsee’s bank statements, the ones you got from his apartment—they were in his file when we first got together on this.” Goddard wordlessly handed her the folder. She flicked through the contents, found the sheet she was looking for, and ran her finger down the entries.
“There.” She showed the two men the statement, pointing at an entry. “I remember this. A big payment, four thousand dollars, made three months ago to Rockland Diagnostics. They do genome mapping.” She put down Guy’s file and pulled Lance’s from under her arm, rifling through it until she found a stack of bank statements held together with a paperclip. She removed the clip, split the stack into thirds, and passed one third to each man. “See if Lance Marsee had the same idea.”
Ray and Goddard began flipping through pages, Sarah doing likewise. It was Ray who spoke first. “Here. A four-thousand dollar charge from Rockland Diagnostics, made two weeks after Guy’s.”
“That can’t be a coincidence,” said Sarah. “And at four grand a pop, I doubt they did it out of idle curiosity.”
“You think the brothers wanted to know if they had inherited the disease?” asked Goddard. “If they were going to die young like their parents. How old were they again?”
“Thirty-six and thirty-two. If one or both of them had the gene for the disease, they would have been looking at maybe another decade at most.”
“And Guy worked for GenMod Labs. An outfit that conducts genetics-based research. Their family history c
ould be why he went into that field in the first place.”
Sarah nodded slowly as the pieces came together. They always did. You just had to keep digging, keep following your instincts, keep following up. During the first phase of an investigation, all you had was facts. You put them on a whiteboard, studied them, rearranged them, looked for clues. Patterns. Connections.
“So three months ago,” Goddard said, “Lance and Guy decide to get their genomes mapped or tested or whatever you call it to see if they carried the same gene that causes the disease that killed their parents. That still doesn’t address why they were killed.”
“Maybe they weren’t only interested in knowing if they were going to develop the disease,” Sarah said. “Maybe they also wanted to find a cure. That’s what I’d do if I were in their position. Maybe that’s why Guy was trying to access the trust fund. According to our timeframe, the tests were done one month after the trust fund was set up. It must have driven him nuts to see the money tied up like that. Especially after Lance had already burned through a similar amount. If I knew I had a terminal disease, and I was the beneficiary of serious money, perhaps enough to find a cure, I’d do everything I could to get my hands on it.”
“Even murder?”
She shrugged. “Somebody shot Lance.”
“Then who killed Guy?”
“We’ll sort it out. For now, we need to confirm whether or not the brothers had the gene for the disease, and what that would have meant for them if they did. What the knowledge might have motivated them to do. Know anywhere we can get a crash course in genetics?”
“I know just the place,” Goddard said. “I’ll ring ahead, see if we can get a tutor on short notice. Meet me in the parking lot. I’ll drive.”
24
Sarah clenched her hands in her lap as she sat in the passenger seat of Goddard’s four-door Ford Taurus. She hated being relegated to passenger status. Her obsessive need to be behind the wheel was well known at the station, even joked about on occasion. She knew what the others thought of her, but she couldn’t help it; she just didn’t like the feeling of someone else being in control. But GenMod was Goddard’s show. And after the exhausting and unproductive day he’d put in at GenMod yesterday, he’d earned the right to take the lead role.
“What exactly do they do at GenMod?” she asked to distract herself as he hung a left into the parking lot without using his turn signal. Her fingers twitched as he drove past not just one, but two empty parking slots before finally pulling into a third.
“GenMod Labs specializes in research into human genetics, with the objective of understanding and curing inherited diseases by modifying the genes that are responsible.” He pointed to a glossy trifold on top of the stack of papers stuffed into the console beside him and smiled. “Or so it says in their brochure.”
“Genetic modification. GenMod Labs. Got it.” Funny how easy it was to miss what in hindsight should have been obvious. She followed him through a set of revolving doors into an expansive lobby. High ceiling, leather seating, skylights above a fountain in the middle with enough foliage surrounding it to make a rainforest jealous. Just once, she’d like to see a corporate lobby that broke the mold.
“Morning, Megan.” Goddard greeted the woman behind the information desk. “It is Megan, is it?”
The receptionist looked up and smiled. “That’s right! What a great memory you have!”
Sarah didn’t have the heart to point out that her nameplate was clearly visible on her desk.
“Are you back for more interviews?” the woman asked. She looked around hopefully. “Where’s your partner today?” “Today, I’m just chauffeuring the lady.” Goddard smiled modestly and held up his car keys. “She’s the real brains of the operation.”
The receptionist turned expectantly toward Sarah. Sarah smiled back through gritted teeth. If the receptionist thought Sarah was going to toss back a clever quip or a banal rejoinder, she had a long wait ahead of her. Goddard might have the easy, joking way about him that for most people passed for genuine conversation, but small talk drove Sarah crazy.
“We have an appointment with Dr. Agnes Preston from Information Services,” Sarah said stiffly. “She’s expecting us.”
“Of course.” The receptionist filled out their visitors’ passes. “She’s on the fifth floor. Take the elevators and turn right. Room 527.”
* * *
Dr. Agnes Preston turned out to be a small woman in her mid-sixties with long gray hair and a fading ankle tattoo. Unlike nearly everyone else Sarah had seen roaming the halls, Dr. Preston was not wearing a white lab coat. Her flowing skirt, peasant blouse, and chunky turquoise jewelry struck Sarah as inappropriate, both for the work environment and the season. But with the Boho look in fashion, Sarah had noticed that a lot of women Dr. Preston’s age seemed to gravitate toward the style. Maybe they felt they owned the look because they’d created it. Or maybe they thought wearing the styles they’d worn when they were in their teens and twenties kept them young. Either way, Dr. Preston pulled off the look remarkably well.
She waved them toward a pair of mismatched floral guest chairs flanking a small rattan table. Apparently her Bohemian tastes extended to her décor as well.
“I was so sorry to hear about Dr. Marsee,” she said. “I assume you’re here as part of the investigation. Please, tell me how I can help.”
“Did you know Dr. Marsee well?” Goddard asked.
“Oh, no. Not at all, actually. I knew who he was, of course, everyone did. Such a brilliant man. But I didn’t know him personally.”
Goddard raised an eyebrow and shot Sarah a look that said You see what I was up against? At the same time, his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He took it out, checked the display, put it back, mouthed “sorry” and nodded to Sarah to continue.
“Dr. Preston,” Sarah began, “can you please give us a quick overview of what you do here at GenMod Labs? I don’t mean you specifically, I’m talking about the company’s objectives and purpose. After that, we can address specifics.”
“Certainly. But please, call me ‘Angie.’” Dr. Preston propped her elbows on her desk and tented her fingers under her chin. She looked like a college professor getting ready to expound on her favorite topic. Sarah settled in for a long, dull, and quite possibly incomprehensible lecture on the finer points of genetic research.
“To understand what we do at GenMod,” Dr. Preston began, “you first need to appreciate that almost every major disease afflicting mankind has some basis in our genes. Until recently, all doctors could do was treat the symptoms. Sometimes successfully. Many times not. But now that we can read and interpret the genetic code, we can isolate the mutated genes responsible for a specific disease, repair them, and thus offer a cure.”
Sarah sat up straighter. Clear, concise, and to the point. A pleasant surprise. No wonder Preston worked in Information Services.
“Is GenMod looking into any particular genetic disorders?” she asked.
“Currently our scientists are investigating a broad range of genetic diseases. Hemophilia, cystic fibrosis, Huntington’s disease, and sickle cell anemia are a few you’re probably familiar with. But there are many more which aren’t as well known.”
“What about polycystic kidney disease? Is that on your research list?”
“It might be. If it’s a heritable condition, odds are the answer is yes. I’d have to look it up to be certain.”
“Thank you, I’d appreciate that. You mentioned mutated genes. Could you clarify how they factor into the disease process?”
“Certainly. There are two kinds of mutations. A mutation in a specific gene can be inherited from one or both parents. Or a gene can mutate later in life due to environmental and other factors. Mutations that are passed from parent to child are contained in the DNA of egg and sperm cells. This means that this type of mutation is present throughout a person’s life in virtually every cell in their body. Someone who carries such a mutation has the potential to de
velop the disease, but whether or not they will still depends on many factors, including environmental influences, as is the case with cancer. On an individual level, predicting who will come down with a disease and who will not is very complex.”
“Sounds like we’re all walking time bombs,” Goddard remarked. “Doomed from the day we’re born.”
“Yes and no,” Dr. Preston said. “In truth, only a small percentage of mutations cause genetic disorders. Most have no negative impact on our health or development whatsoever. For instance, your lovely red hair,” she said to Sarah, “is actually the result of a gene mutation, the Melanocortin-1 receptor, or MC1R gene. For people with brown, black, or blond hair, this gene produces a protein called melanin, which colors the hair and allows the skin to tan. In redheads, the mutated MC1R gene produces pheomelanin instead, which accounts for the characteristics we typically see in redheads, including pale skin and freckles.”
Goddard grinned. Sarah could guess what he was thinking: Linden’s a mutant. She smiled back. If being a mutant meant being an individual, he’d get no argument from her. Anyway, she’d always taken pride in the uniqueness of her red hair. Worldwide, only half of one percent of Earth’s population had it.
“And here’s something else to keep in mind about mutations,” Dr. Preston continued. “There are a very small percentage of mutations that actually have a positive effect. For example, a beneficial mutation might generate a protein that protects an individual from disease rather than causes it. And because the mutation is genetic, the advantage would be passed to that individual’s future generations. To a pharmaceutical company, these positive mutations are incredibly valuable because they have the potential to form the basis for an entirely new drug or treatment. They can be worth billions.”
