by Jance, J. A.
“The operation saved your son’s life?”
“Yes, it did. He’s still on antirejection drugs, but he’s fine.”
“What does any of this have to do with me?” Marcella asked.
Alex paused for a moment before continuing. What was coming next would be tough to hear, and she wasn’t sure how Marcella would react. “We’ve recently discovered a collection of several half siblings located in and around the Phoenix metropolitan area. One of the mothers involved has indicated that your husband, the late Dr. Kenneth Brennan, was the physician who performed her IUI.”
“I see,” Marcella said. Then, a moment later, she asked, “How many half siblings are we talking about?”
Alex took a breath. “Six,” she answered quietly, “six so far. It could be that your husband simply used the same donor for all of them, or—”
“Or,” Marcella interrupted, “my late husband could be solely responsible for this ‘cluster,’ as you call it.”
Alex, surprised by Marcella’s matter-of-fact tone, was stunned to momentary silence. “That’s a possibility,” she admitted finally, “but without DNA evidence there’s no way to ascertain that.”
“My husband has been dead for many years,” Marcella said. “Are you calling because one or more of the six individuals you mentioned are looking for some kind of financial restitution?”
“No,” Alex murmured quickly, “not at all. We were concerned that one or more of them might decide to go public with this recently discovered information and mention your late husband’s name. We thought you should have some advance warning.”
“What happens to the donors?” Marcella asked. “Do you release their names?”
“Some of the donors have come forward and voluntarily identified themselves. Others prefer to remain anonymous, and we respect that. We collect their medical information and pass that along but leave their names out of it.”
Again there was dead silence on the phone. Alex checked the screen to see if the call had failed. It hadn’t.
“What a son of a bitch!” Marcella breathed at last.
“Excuse me?”
“I said that dead husband of mine was a son of a bitch, and I meant every word of it. And if you talk to some of the birth mothers involved, you might discover that the so-called scientific procedures he used were far more hands-on than scientific. As far as I’m concerned, if Kenneth Brennan turns out to be your repeat sperm donor, he lost his right to anonymity long ago. Give me a bullhorn and I’ll shout his name from the highest rooftop.”
The ferocity in Marcella’s voice was nothing short of astonishing.
“One of his ‘hands-on’ patients blew the whistle on him to me years ago,” Marcella continued. “I was beyond furious and was getting my ducks in a row to divorce the man when he had the good sense to die on me. As far as I was concerned, that car accident was a win-win. But knowing what he’d been up to, I figured it wouldn’t be long before some of his former patients came calling, ready to file malpractice suits.
“That was the real reason I cleared out his office. I was afraid there might be some real damning information hidden in those files, and I didn’t want anyone else having access to them. Years passed, and I knew there was no longer any danger of malpractice suits, but by then it was too much trouble and too expensive for me to hire someone to haul the records away. I’m on one of those reverse-mortgage things, you see. Once I’m gone and the house goes back to the bank, I figured I’d leave it up to them to foot the bill for moving the files out and getting rid of them. But for right now what do you want from me?”
Alex took a breath. “If you believe that your husband may be responsible for this cluster of half-sibling births, would there be any possibility of having a sample of his DNA? That would be helpful, as would having access to his family’s medical history.”
“If Kenny turns out to be their biological father, they’d be well advised to stay away from alcohol,” Marcella suggested. “He was a drinker, you see—driving drunk when he died. Other than that, he was healthy as a horse. As for his DNA? He had a collection of Montblanc pens that he kept in a locked glass display case in his office. They’re still there, and as far as I know, he’s the only person who ever touched them. Those pens are all collector’s items, and they’ve grown quite valuable over time. I’ve been saving them for a rainy day. So yes, if there’s any of Kenny’s DNA still around, it would be on one of those pens, or maybe on some of the paperwork down in the basement.”
“Tell me about that paperwork,” Alex said. “Does it include your husband’s patient files?”
“It certainly does,” Marcella answered, “and the donor profiles as well, insofar as the miserable jerk might have used other donors. It’s all there, filed away in stacks of clearly labeled banker’s boxes. I don’t know if I should give them to you, though. Even after all these years, I’m pretty sure that handing them over to a third party would constitute a violation of patient privacy. However, if some of my husband’s former patients came forward asking for their records, or if their offspring did, I’d have no problem turning the files over to them. In order to do that, I’d need to have proper identification, of course, but releasing those old patient files to the people directly involved seems like a no-brainer to me. You’d best tell those folks to get a move on, though,” Marcella added after a moment. “After all, I’m getting on in years, and I won’t be around forever.”
13
Sedona, Arizona, January 2008
By 2008 Ali Reynolds had been out of the news business and back in Sedona for years, but just because she was no longer involved in the news, that didn’t mean the news was out of her blood. With the help of her newly found ally, a man named Leland Brooks, Ali had recently purchased and was in the process of rehabbing a midcentury modern that, without her intervention, would have been a prime candidate for the wrecking ball. She had worked for the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Office for a while, but that gig had ended due to budgetary considerations. Once more a lady of unintended leisure, Ali spent more time than was good for her watching the news, both local and national.
One morning during a telephone conversation with her architect, she had muted the sound on the TV set. When she looked back at the screen, she was amazed to see a familiar face from her old news-anchor days back in L.A. Ali remembered Alex Munsey, of course, along with the whole drama surrounding her son’s urgently needed kidney transplant. The two of them had been more casual acquaintances than close friends, and after leaving California, Ali had lost track of the woman entirely.
Ali turned the sound off mute just in time to catch the last minute or so of a three-person interview. An older woman named Marcella Brennan was involved somehow, but Ali had tuned in too late to hear what she’d had to say. Instead she heard Alex talking about something called the Progeny Project. When the show went to a commercial break, Ali reached for her cell phone. She’d replaced her phone twice since coming home, once because she had broken the screen and once because she’d been offered a free upgrade. Both times Christopher had obligingly transferred her contacts list.
Checking it now, she discovered that Alex’s name was still there, along with two phone numbers—one listed as a home number and the other a cell. Since Alex and her husband were in the process of divorcing the last Ali had heard, she didn’t bother with the home number. Instead she dialed the cell. Evidently Ali was still in Alex’s contacts list as well, because when she answered the phone, she knew who was calling.
“Why, Ali,” Alex said pleasantly, “how good to hear from you! What are you up to these days? I heard that your ex passed away under some pretty challenging circumstances. I should have been in touch back when that happened. I’m sorry I wasn’t.”
Paul Grayson had been found murdered the night before their divorce would have been finalized. The person responsible for his death was finally caught but not until after Ali herself had come under suspicion.
“Calling it challenging do
esn’t quite cover it, but it takes two to tango,” Ali replied. “You’ll notice I haven’t reached out either. I left California with my tail tucked between my legs and didn’t stay in touch with anyone, but I just now saw the final seconds of this morning’s interview. How long are you in town for? Sedona’s just a couple of hours north of Phoenix. It would be great if we could get together for a meal and bring one another up to date.”
“Marcella and I are booked with interviews for most of today and early tomorrow, but I don’t fly home until tomorrow evening, so lunch tomorrow would work.”
“Where are you staying?” Ali asked.
“At a Travelodge near the airport,” she was told. “There’s an IHOP just up the street, but not much else.”
Because Ali and Paul were still married at the time of his death, Ali’s financial situation had taken a big upswing afterward. Ali suspected, however, that the same wasn’t true for Alex and that she was most likely living in considerably reduced circumstances.
“If I remember correctly, you always loved Mexican food,” Ali ventured. “How about the Macayo’s on Central around eleven thirty?”
“Sounds good,” Alex replied. “See you then.”
“One more thing,” Ali said. “What’s the organization you mentioned in the interview?”
“The Progeny Project,” Alex answered. “That’s my baby now—mine and Evan’s. It’s a forum for people whose lives have been affected by artificial insemination.”
“Speaking of which,” Ali said, “how is Evan?”
“He’s great. He has a new girlfriend. I think he’s working up his courage to pop the question, and that’s all thanks to you, Ali. If you hadn’t helped us find Rory and that matching kidney, chances are Evan wouldn’t have lived long enough to fall in love, let alone get married or maybe even have kids of his own. So thank you for that.”
“You’re welcome,” Ali said quietly.
Once off the phone, Ali went online, searched out the Progeny Project, and found more than she expected. In the early 2000s, law enforcement had embarked on the collection of DNA samples for crime-fighting purposes, but the DNA database dreamed up by Alexandra Munsey, Jolene Browder, and Cassie Davis back then was considered to be one of the first private-sector DNA databases ever established.
A quick search of Marcella Brennan’s name revealed that she was the widow of a physician, a sole practitioner running a fertility clinic. Ali wondered if the guy was a carbon copy of the one who’d victimized Alex Munsey’s and a number of other families years earlier and whose abuses had come to light only in the aftermath of Alex’s determined search for a suitable donor for her son’s much-needed kidney transplant. Try as she might, Ali couldn’t remember the name of that offending doctor, and she wondered what had become of him.
Before long she needed to dress and head off on a series of interviews with contractors interested in tackling her construction project, but by the time Ali met up with Alex in downtown Phoenix late the next morning, she knew far more than she had previously.
The first thing Ali noticed about Alex when she entered the restaurant and walked up to the table, holding out her arms in greeting, was that the woman appeared to be years younger than she’d looked back when they first met. Alex was tanned and fit, as though she spent a good deal of time in the outdoors. The biggest change was in her face, and not because of some plastic surgeon’s artistry either. The careworn expression that had etched her features when her son had been so gravely ill had seemingly been erased. There were laugh lines around her mouth now, and the worry lines in her forehead had disappeared.
“It’s so good to see you again!” Ali exclaimed. “You look terrific!”
“Thank you,” Alex responded. “You look pretty good yourself.”
“And I’m sorry we lost touch.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Alex said with a genuine smile. “That’s what today is all about—we both get a do-over.”
They spent a few minutes examining menus and deciding on what to order. “So where are you living these days?” Ali asked once their glasses of iced tea had been delivered.
“Up in the family cabin in the San Bernardino Mountains near Lake Arrowhead,” Alex replied. “We used to go there mostly in the summers, but when Jake and I divorced, I ended up with the cabin, and now I live there year-round. I have an all-wheel-drive Subaru for getting in and out in bad weather, but I also keep plenty of food and firewood on hand. I have a generator, but if push comes to shove and the power is out too long, I also have backup kerosene lamps and battery-powered lanterns.”
“I remember when you found out he wanted a divorce.”
“I do, too,” Alex said ruefully, “in the recovery room right after Evan’s transplant. Talk about poor timing! I could hardly believe it. Now I know it’s par for the course. When families end up spending years dealing with an ailing child, eventually the illness is the only glue holding some of those marriages together. Once the crisis passes—because the child either recovers or dies—the relationships aren’t able to survive. That’s exactly what happened to Jake and me. I had spent years focused on Evan and his needs. By the time I finally came up for air because it looked like Evan was going to be okay, Jake was ready to call it quits. He and I had grown apart. We’d become virtual strangers, and he didn’t want to be married anymore.”
“A girlfriend?” Ali asked.
Alex nodded. “Her name is Nancy, and they married eventually. She’s not a bad person, by the way, and she’s been good to Evan. I sometimes spend major holidays with them at our old house, because weather can make getting back and forth to my place for Thanksgiving and Christmas dicey at times. So we’re fine now, all of us.”
“Don’t you get lonely living out in the wilderness all by yourself?”
Alex sipped her tea and shook her head. “I did at first,” she answered thoughtfully. “For one thing, I was really angry with Jake and blamed him for kicking me out of the house and sending me off into exile. But I wasn’t there all that much, because I was on the road with the Progeny Project.”
“After I saw you on TV yesterday, I looked up Progeny Project,” Ali offered. “It seems to have come a long way from some very humble beginnings.”
Alex nodded. “To begin with it was just Cassie Davis, Jolene Browder, and I.”
“How are they?”
“Jolene passed away a couple of years ago from congestive heart failure.”
“I’m sorry. What about Cassie? Where’s she these days?”
“She’s living here now . . . well, in Mesa. She had a pretty serious horseback-riding accident and ended up having to get out of the horse-training business. She’s retired now, and she and Emma are back together. I had hoped to see her this time around, but they’re out of town this week.”
“From what I saw online, it sounds like Evan and Rory are still involved with each other.”
“They are,” Alex said with a smile. “The two of them have become great friends. Now most of our outreach takes place over social media, so I’ve been able to take a step back from all that—the situation with Marcella here being an exception to that rule. Rory is living in L.A. again, so he helps out some of the time.”
“And Evan?” Ali asked. “What’s he doing?”
“He’s doing great. He graduated from UCLA with a degree in microbiology. He had intended to go on and get an advanced degree, but PP, as we like to call the Progeny Project, sidelined him into the world of DNA profiling. After he caught that bug, he got even more sidelined when he ended up designing our DNA database. With Evan at the helm, PP was one of the first kids on the block to establish a private-sector DNA database. Things have changed over time. Now there’s a lot more interest in establishing non-law-enforcement DNA databases. One of them—an outfit in Utah—is trying to woo him away from us by making him an offer he may not be able to refuse.”
“And what about you?” Ali asked. “What have you been doing?”
“When we fir
st launched the Progeny Project, I put myself in charge of PR. I did a lot of traveling and speaking, doing TV and radio interviews much like the ones Marcella and I were doing yesterday and this morning—just raising awareness of the long-term complications that can arise for people whose births resulted from artificial insemination.”
“And that’s what brought you to Phoenix,” Ali concluded.
Alex nodded. “Marcella Brennan’s late husband, Kenneth, ran a fertility clinic here. As far as I can tell, he was a carbon copy of Dr. Edward Gilchrist.”
That was the name Ali had forgotten. “The guy up in Santa Clarita?”
Alex nodded. “That’s the one. So far PP has turned up eighteen donor siblings in what we refer to as the Gilchrist cluster. Kenneth Brennan was evidently doing the same thing here in Phoenix. One of the mothers in this new cluster mentioned him by name. By the time I contacted Marcella, we had located six people in the Phoenix cluster. After yesterday’s media blitz, several additional people have contacted us and will be sending in their cheek swabs. I wouldn’t be surprised if more turn up once word gets around.
“And that’s the only reason I came—to help get the word out. I’ve done countless interviews on the subject. Marcella hadn’t done any, and I was glad to be able to help out. But I’ll be equally glad to go back home. When I’m not on the road, I’m afraid I become something of a hermit.”
“What do hermits do to keep busy?” Ali asked.
“This hermit sits in her favorite chair next to a wood-burning stove with a laptop on her lap, writing.”
“You’re a writer now?”
“Trying to be,” Alex said with a laugh. “I’m one of those thousands of yet-to-be-published authors, but that’s how I see myself—as a writer. My first manuscript, A Mother’s Tale, is about my nightmare experience with Dr. Gilchrist. It starts with Jake and me trying to get pregnant and ends with the kidney transplant.”
