Crime Zero (aka the Crime Code) (1999)

by Cordy, Michael

  "I know that," he almost shouted down the phone. "Is there a goddamn relationship or not?"

  A heavy sigh was followed by a long pause. For a heart-wrenching second he thought she was going to hang up. When she spoke again, her voice was calm but strained. "Yes." She seemed unwilling to reveal the results. "According to the Genescope, the samples are from the same family. Father and son."

  Decker's knees buckled, and he leaned against the car. On the phone he could hear her fingers tapping on a keyboard. "But, Luke," she was saying, her voice insistent, "there's something really strange here. We need to talk urgently."

  He was no longer listening. He had hung up, turned the phone off, and thrown it in the car as if it were somehow contaminated. But the phone wasn't contaminated. He was. His stomach contracted, and he dry-heaved. The words on the letter in his hand swam before his eyes, taunting him.

  I asked to see you, because for some reason I suddenly feel real bad about all the things I've done. I thought if I told you--my son--you could help me put things right. But when I saw you today, I couldn't tell you to your face. You looked just like my father. He was a strict man, a religious man, and I felt kind of ashamed.

  I've guessed you were my son for months. Ever since I saw your picture in the Examiner after saving some girl in a graveyard. Your face in the picture looked exactly like one of my father when he was about your age. And I remem bered the name. I've got a good memory, too good a memory. I wish I could forget all the things I've done. I raped a woman once near Union Square in San Francisco at about the time that fits with your age. I know her name because her husband tried to help her. He was the only man I've ever killed. According to the papers, he was a Captain Decker in the U.S. Navy, but they never said anything about the woman being raped....

  Decker sat on the ground, his back against the car, taking deep breaths. When he looked up, the tall treetops seemed to dance around him, a giddying carousel in the clear sky. Not only was he Axelman's son, but Axelman had killed the man Decker had worshiped as his father all his life. Decker felt his very being called into question. Every constant on which he had based his assumptions of who he was, what he did, and his place in the wider world had been irrevocably destroyed. Even the validity of his work was suddenly doubtful. If Kathy Kerr and Director Naylor were right and humans were little more than their genes, then what did that make him?

  Standing up, he replaced the letter in his inside pocket and looked down at the house below. A chill formed in his gut and then spread throughout his body. He got in the car and glanced at the brand-new spade and flashlight he had bought on his way out here, sitting ominously on the rear seat.

  He gunned the engine into life and turned the Ford around. Looking into the rearview mirror, he saw two green eyes staring back at him, judging him. And for a second those eyes weren't his at all, but Karl Axelman's.

  Chapter 12.

  Stanford University, Stanford. Thursday, October 30, 3:12 P.M.

  In her laboratory at Stanford University Kathy Kerr sat staring at the Genescope monitor in a state of shock. What the hell was Luke Decker up to?

  After her meeting with Madeline Naylor, Kathy had been so furious she'd been unable to concentrate on anything else. But when she calmed down a little, she'd tried to think through the consequences. What would she really achieve by exposing the unauthorized criminal trials? Apart from undermining the credibility of the Version 9 serum she had gained approval for. Not to mention the personal damage she would cause herself. However hard she protested her innocence, she would undoubtedly be tarnished solely by her involvement with Project Conscience. She could kiss good-bye any dreams she might have of fulfilling her ambition of treating violent crime.

  But what she saw on-screen in front of her eclipsed these concerns, making them seem academic by comparison. As she studied the DNA profile from the blood flake samples Luke had brought in the first evidence bag and compared it with the matching profile on the FBI DNA database, her anger turned to ice.

  The genome of the convicted killer called Karl Axelman had subtly changed.

  Switching to voice control, she instructed the Genescope to search Axelman's DNA in chromosome 1. As the lights blinked on the neck of the black swan, there was a grumbling noise, and then its mellifluous male voice said, "Sub-ject's 5-HT1Da receptor gene is instructing boosted serotonin production. Three hundred percent higher than normal levels."

  Kathy took a deep breath. "Go to chromosome nine."

  The monitor shifted out of focus and then back, revealing a multicolored double helix. Beside the colored image was a table showing codons of triple letters: CGA AGT TGA. Each codon represented an amino acid, and the order of amino acids determined the genes, which in turn instructed the production of proteins. Part of the multicolored double helix was highlighted, and a battery of codons showing the code at that particular part of the DNA strand scrolled down the screen.

  "Genetic abnormality present," said the honeyed voice. "The dopamine b-hydroxylase gene instructing boosted production of dopamine. In excess of four hundred percent typical levels. Effect exacerbated by similar boosting of dopamine receptor genes."

  When Kathy asked the Genescope to search out all similarly boosted genes throughout Axelman's genome, she discovered that the changes centered on the seventeen key genes her work had been focusing on. Karl Axelman had received gene therapy to modify his behavior. But it wasn't Kathy's Conscience Version 9 therapy. In fact it didn't look like therapy at all.

  Kathy's FDA-approved Version 9 serum was a genetically engineered viral vector that carried control genes to reduce excessive aggression and increase appropriate emotional inhibitors to violence. It did this by reducing a patient's key drivers of aggression, including the dopamine receptor, noradrenaline receptor, and testosterone genes, and boosting impulsive behavior inhibitors, such as the 5-HT1Da serotonin gene.

  But Axelman's modified profile indicated that all his hormones and neurotransmitters had been boosted to intolerable levels. Far from harmonizing and calming him, this gene therapy would have made Karl Axelman implode, on the one hand, boosting his aggressive impulses to unprecedented levels, while burdening him with huge emotional anxiety and guilt. She had never seen levels this high before, not even half as high. It was like pushing a foot down on a Fer-rari's gas pedal, revving it to the limit, while at the same time pushing your other foot down hard on the brake pedal. Eventually something had to give.

  She went into the Genescope's PACT menu and chose T for "threats." "What are the implications of these genetic changes?" she asked.

  "Subject's original genome shows no other major defects. Eighty-seven percent probability of prostate cancer in his late eighties but otherwise healthy. Realigned genome indicates intolerable levels of stress and anxiety. Subject's life expectancy reduced to days. Projected causes of death: brain hemorrhage, heart attack, or positive choice."

  "What do you mean, positive choice?"

  "Suicide," the soft voice said.

  Kathy's hands were shaking as the implications began to sink in. Had Axelman been treated in the unauthorized criminal tests? He was certainly a prime candidate. Suddenly this looked bigger than just a cover-up over FDA approvals.

  She reached for the phone and tried to call Luke, but his phone was switched off. Shit, she really needed to talk to him about this. Perhaps he knew what was going on here? Was this why he was so paranoid about going through authorized channels and involving the FBI labs?

  She inserted a Hi-Data Storage Zip disc into the base of the Genescope and made a copy of Karl Axelman's genome from the DNA database and another of his modified genome from the blood samples Decker had brought in. Given how sensitive these data were, she wanted to keep them safe.

  She took the disc out of the Genescope, walked across the main lab, past her two lab assistants busy emptying the autoclave, and retreated into the relative privacy of her office. Having closed the door behind her, she rushed to her desk, turned on the co
mputer, and moved the cursor to the folders holding all historical Conscience files. She wanted to check if she'd overlooked anything in the original viral vector that might have caused Axelman's fatal genetic mutation. Moving the cursor, she clicked on the directory folder marked "FDA Approval: Clinical Trials History."

  A message appeared over the folder: "This file has been moved to a different directory. Please seek authorization."

  Only hours ago she had had open access to these data, to her data. An irrational paranoid thought rose in her consciousness, but she quelled it. Nervously she looked out of her office at the technicians in the laboratory. She didn't know any of them well enough to trust. Christ, if only Karen and Frank were still here and not somewhere in the middle of the Congo.

  Still keeping calm, she walked back into the laboratory, to the two large filing cabinets by her office. Although most of the data were stored electronically, a number of the text-based reports and completed approval applications were stored as hard copy as well. Opening the middle drawer on the left cabinet, she immediately spied the blue folder marked "Project Conscience Trials." It seemed significantly thinner than she remembered it. The paranoid thought nagged at her now. With trembling fingers she opened the folder. Seeing the batch of files on the FDA-approved Version 9 vector, she breathed a sigh of relief and admonished herself for being so foolish. But then she looked for documentation on the original serum, the one used in the unauthorized trials. There was no trace of it at all.

  The paranoia returned with a rush. What the hell was going on? Someone was shutting her out, isolating her.

  She turned to one of the laboratory technicians stacking up clean culture bottles by the autoclave. "Warren, do you know what happened to these files?"

  He put the bottles down and shook his head. "Nope, I haven't touched any of them in days."

  She looked at him for a moment. Had he or one of the other technicians taken the files under orders from Director Naylor to ensure she didn't rock the boat? Or had men come in the night and removed them? A shiver ran through her.

  This was getting way out of hand. "No problem," she said, "I must have left them at home."

  As casually as she could she strolled back to her office and sat at her desk. Something that she didn't understand was happening. And after her less than constructive meeting with Director Naylor, she didn't know whom to turn to. That included Alice Prince. There was only one person who might be able to shine some light on this, someone whom, despite whatever else she felt about him, she still trusted.

  She quickly scribbled a note to Decker. When she was finished, she pulled a small brown envelope from a pile by her desk and placed the note and the Axelman disc inside it. She addressed the envelope to him at Matty Rheiman's house in the Marina in San Francisco, at the address Decker had written on the back of his card. Finally she stuck a stamp on the envelope, checked that she wasn't being watched through the glass window of her office, and discreetly placed the envelope into the deep pocket of her white lab coat.

  She walked out of her office through the laboratory to the swinging doors that led to the corridor outside and made her way to the rest rooms. When she reached them, she doubled back and cut through the biology section to the reception area of the Medical Research Center. Here she smiled at the woman at the main desk, strolled as nonchalantly as possible toward the two large mailboxes attached to the wall, and as surreptitiously as she could palmed the envelope out of her pocket and into one of the slots as she passed. Now, regardless of what was going on, at least this piece of evidence was safe, even if she and all her computer files were searched.

  Back in her office she picked up her handbag and took out a well-thumbed road map of San Francisco. If she couldn't phone Luke, then after going home to pick up a couple of things, she would drive to his grandfather's place and wait for him there. She quickly pinpointed Matty Rheiman's street on the map and put it back in her bag. After taking off her lab coat, she picked up her laptop and handbag and left her office.

  Out in the parking lot she climbed into her old Volkswagen, started the car, and left the campus. Kathy began to feel better as she left Palo Alto. Turning into Mendoza Drive, she passed a gray Chrysler parked off the road near one of her neighbors and saw her house ahead. Its cheerful white stucco facade made her reconsider whether she was overreacting. After parking the car, Kathy picked up her cell phone and dialed Luke's number again. This time she left a message on his voice mail. Explaining her fears, she told him that she was going over to his grandfather's house now and that they urgently needed to talk. Just saying her concerns aloud helped put them into some kind of perspective. She jumped out of the car and ran across the green lawn to the ornate Mexican-style wooden door. Even as she put her keys in the lock of her home, she felt calmer.

  But as Kathy Kerr opened the door to her house, she would undoubtedly have felt less calm if she had seen the three men step out of the Chrysler parked two hundred yards back. Or seen the second identical Chrysler pull up beside it, a weasel-faced man at the wheel. The calmness left her altogether when she entered her house and confronted the dark face and fierce eyes staring at her. She almost stopped breathing.

  She froze on the spot as the man pointed his gun at her with one hand, while wielding a hypodermic in his other. Her own right hand was in her bag dropping the house keys. Trying to keep her voice calm, she asked, "What do you want?" Her fingers reached for the top left-hand button on the cell phone and pressed it.

  "Just to keep you safe and silent for a while," the man said in a deep, nasal voice.

  She couldn't believe this. Despite her fear, she felt anger. "Why?" she shouted. "This is something to do with Project Conscience, isn't it?"

  The man smiled at that. "All I've been told is that you're overstressed and are likely to say things you may regret." He moved closer. "We're going to take you somewhere you can calm down, somewhere you can have peace and quiet."

  "Keep that damn needle away from me, you bastard," she shouted, backing out the front door. But three men blocked her path. Two held her while the first man approached with the syringe. The fourth man covered her mouth with a cloth that smelled of stale water. Struggling as hard as she could, she felt a sharp prick as the needle entered her arm. All the time she kept her hand in the bag, her finger on the redial button of the cell phone, hoping it had called Decker's number, a silent cry for help to a man who wasn't there.

  Chapter 13.

  Smart Suite, ViroVector, Palo Alto. Thursday, October 30, 3:12 P.M.

  Returned from the meeting with Kathy Kerr, Dr. Alice Prince felt calmer viewing the data with Madeline Naylor on the presentation screens in ViroVector's Smart Suite. The large interface room was directly adjacent to TITANIA's carefully controlled chamber. It was populated with the usual equipment, such as monitors, printers, microphones, speakers, and keyboards, allowing TITANIA to communicate in every possible way with its human colleagues.

  There was also a long conference table and five workstations. At the back of the room were four small monitors, each showing quickly shifting views of the ViroVector complex as seen through the series of sixty closed-circuit security cameras TITANIA controlled around the campus. But these were peripheral to the two main display media.

  The first was the screen wall dividing the Smart Suite from TITANIA's Cold Room. The fifteen-by-ten-foot liquid crystal display was currently running through a series of projection charts on Project Conscience in anticipation of Governor Weiss's arrival.

  The second was the hologram floor pad at the head of the conference table. Using leading-edge laser hologram imaging technology from KREE8 Industries in San Jose, TITANIA could holo-project virtually anything over the pad, making the projected 3-D "object" appear at such high definition that to all intents and purposes it existed in the room. On display now was a rotating double helix of DNA showing the 5-HT1Da receptor gene on chromosome 1, which instructed for the production in the human brain of serotonin, the neurotransmitter
that controlled impulsive behavior.

  Two identical hard copy briefing packs lay on the table in the places set for Pamela Weiss and her campaign adviser, Todd Sullivan. The black-bound document was labeled "Project Conscience--Scientific Data and Crime Statistics."

  "Everything seems to be in order," said Madeline Naylor, checking her watch. "Pamela should be here any moment now."

  Alice thought she'd try it one last time. "Perhaps we should tell Pamela about the FDA findings, explain why the differences don't really matter? She'll understand."

  Madeline raised an eyebrow and flashed that look of hers, both bullying and protective. It was the same look she had used on an icy pond more than forty years ago, when as children they had witnessed an act that still bound them together in an invisible web of guilt and dependency.

  "Come on, Alice," Madeline said patiently. "We've agreed on this already. That's why it was so important to get Kathy Kerr organized. Pamela can't be told anything that might compromise her. She must believe that the original Conscience vector used in the criminal trials was exactly the same as the later FDA-approved version. And on no account must she know anything about Crime Zero. She can't be told about the San Quentin deaths and suicides. As far as she's concerned, they were normal executions to which she signed the papers. She wouldn't understand. Not as we do. Come on, Alice, we're doing this for Libby, and all the Libbys in the world."

  Alice Prince looked into Madeline's dark eyes and, despite her doubts, knew Madeline was right. She had always been the stronger one, always able to make the tough decisions.