A Desperate Place

by Jennifer Greer

Whit pulled into the driveway and parked. She stepped up on the wide porch and rang the doorbell. As she waited, she thought about her conversation with Stu. He’d called her as she was on the way over to Mrs. Delano’s house, asking why she’d left George at the office. Not a happy camper, he didn’t give a rip about Mrs. Delano’s sensitivities, and he demanded to get a “visual” on her Niki Francis follow-up by nine o’clock.

  She convinced him that George was researching vital information and she’d be back in the office in an hour, which was basically the truth.

  Her little sojourn down whiskey lane had left her heavy limbed. She’d downed a Diet Pepsi at the Chronicle, but as yet it hadn’t helped. What she needed was a good night’s sleep.

  Mrs. Delano opened the door wearing tailored, pale-blue slacks and a cream tank top. Her face was drawn and tired. “Do come in. We’ll be on the back patio, because I still have a number of boxes to unpack. As you can imagine, I’ve been busy making funeral arrangements. We have relatives flying in from across the state. They’re complaining that the hotels are all booked with journalists because of the Niki Francis murder.”

  Whit followed her through a living room still stacked with boxes to a screened-in patio. A clear pitcher of lemonade with two iced glasses sat on a dining table alongside a stack of papers. Pots of colorful yellow, red, and purple impatiens lined the windowsill. They sat beneath a fan clicking rhythmically overhead, stirring the sultry air.

  Mrs. Delano motioned toward a stack of papers on the table. “I compiled most of the information you wanted, just in case. But now that I’ve spoken to Dr. Weldon, I’m not sure we need it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Here. I wrote it down so I would remember properly.” She handed Whit a piece of yellow monogrammed stationery with the initials GD.

  “‘Teratoma,’” Whit read aloud. “What is that?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not certain. Some kind of brain tumor. Dr. Weldon was quite hesitant to share information. So, I specifically asked if he had discovered anything that could explain Bo’s odd behavior. I explained how important it was for me and my sons to understand what had happened to Bo.”

  “A brain tumor?”

  “Dr. Weldon said it was in an area of the brain that would have caused personality changes. Aggression and mood swings, even delusional behavior. Just as I described to you.” She smiled sadly. “Let me tell you. It was a great relief to hear him say that. At least my boys will know their father had a medical problem, not a moral one.”

  The last thing she’d expected was a brain tumor. What kind of tumor had Niki Francis been diagnosed with? She’d check her notes. She’d been half crocked at the time. Very odd that they’d both had tumors. “Will the medical examiner confirm this?”

  “I’m not sure. He said to keep it to myself, so I don’t think so.”

  Why would Dr. Weldon ask Mrs. Delano to keep quiet?

  Whit absent-mindedly gathered the paperwork Mrs. Delano had put together. Glancing through the list, she said, “I see your husband was a patient of Dr. Heinemann.”

  “Yes. It was part of his health kick. Once a week he went to Eden Retreat for massages and mental therapy. Why?”

  “You’d think the doctor would have noticed dramatic changes in his personality.”

  “I should have insisted he see his physician. He certainly couldn’t make sound decisions for himself. Aside from his behavior, his headaches should have been a clue.”

  Whit nodded absently. “Headaches can sometimes be caused by tumors …” She sucked in her breath. “That’s it! Headaches are the clue. Niki Francis and your husband complained of headaches. And they both had brain tumors.”

  “What?”

  “I interviewed Niki’s son this afternoon at Eden Retreat.”

  Mrs. Delano shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

  Whit stood up and paced the confines of the screened porch. Was she grasping at straws? Mrs. Delano had just found some semblance of peace. Was she justified in shattering that?

  “I’m sorry,” Whit apologized. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Let’s see what type of tumor your husband had.” She picked up her phone and googled teratoma. She began to read the description aloud, with growing revulsion. “Not a pretty picture.”

  “It’s detestable.” Mrs. Delano grimaced.

  “Yes,” Whit tried to suppress her excitement as she continued reading. “Teratoma is Greek for ‘monster tumor.’” She grabbed her leather bag and dug through it. “Just a minute.” Upon finding the recorder, she listened for a few minutes until she found what she wanted to hear, then played the tape for Mrs. Delano at the spot where Mark said his mother was sick.

  “You see,” Whit said. “Dr. Weldon told Mark that his mother had a tumor. A monster tumor.”

  Mrs. Delano’s lips thinned in irritation. “I still don’t understand what this is about.”

  “When Mark said monster tumor, I thought he was talking about the size. A large tumor. But he was actually describing the name of it. Do you see now? They both had these … teratomas! They both died within days of each other. Mark was confused about his mother’s illness because she was such a health nut, just like your husband.”

  Very slowly, Mrs. Delano leaned back in her chair, her face pale.

  “This cannot be a coincidence. It’s too rare. Bo was murdered?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I need to do some more research. Do you mind if I go ahead and take the information you gathered for me? There may be something useful in it.” Mrs. Delano nodded absently.

  Whit reached across the table and gathered the papers, spotting Dr. Heinemann’s name again. Both victims had been his patients. Could he be the killer? Psychiatrists had medical training. He also possessed a nice little handbag of psychological tricks. He would know all their weaknesses and precisely how to manipulate them. She felt like she was about to dive into murky water with something evil lurking beneath the surface.

  CHAPTER

  18

  RIGGS AND PANETTA practically sprinted through the long, green corridor at the pathologists’. The Diagnostics Clinic, located near Rogue Community Hospital, was housed in a newer two-story brick building. They were required to sign in, and given plastic clearance tags. Their escort, a thin woman with a harried expression, buzzed them through an electronic door. On a mission of her own, probably because she was working late on a Saturday night, she cut a quick path to Dr. Kessler.

  “Detective Riggs.” Kessler pushed away from his desk, shaking hands with them. He had a direct, no-nonsense manner that she appreciated. He often acted as an expert witness in court cases. Of medium build, early sixties, bald with piercing blue eyes, he wore a white lab coat over black slacks.

  She introduced Panetta. “He’s one of the detectives working the Niki Francis case.”

  Panetta shook hands, then gazed over Kessler’s shoulder.

  Taking notice, Kessler said, “My specimen collection.”

  A shelf on the divider that separated the lab rooms held glass specimen jars containing blobs of various shapes floating in cloudy, yellowish liquid. The “trophy” shelf ran the length of the room.

  “This is a display of the tumors we’ve dissected over the years. Just a few,” Kessler explained. “We keep these as a reminder of just how fragile our existence really is.”

  Panetta frowned. “How do you mean?”

  “For instance, there are two hundred twenty cell types in the human body, any of which could go haywire while they divide into the approximately hundred trillion cells that make up our bodies. Only, maybe, one in ten of those cells is actually human. The rest are from bacteria, viruses, and other microorganisms.”

  “Fascinating.”

  Pressed for time, Riggs interrupted, “Dr. Kessler, what can you tell us specifically about teratomas?”

  “Usually they’re congenital or present at birth. Infants are sometimes born with large teratomas in the testicles.”

&
nbsp; From the corner of her eye, Riggs saw Panetta flinch. She teased, “What’s the matter, Panetta?”

  “Just got a visual that literally hurt.” He reached up and adjusted his tie.

  “Yes, I couldn’t agree more.” Kessler grimaced, but his blue eyes were alight with amusement. “This tumor, the teratoma, is made up of all three germ cell layers. It can present itself with hair, teeth, and bone. Rarely, it can form eyes, a torso, hands, feet, and tissue from the lungs, brain, and liver. A really exciting bit of tissue. I have a few on the end over there. That last one weighs two point three pounds and has a jaw with actual teeth.”

  Panetta walked over to inspect it.

  Riggs retrieved a plastic container from her shoulder bag. “This is the third teratoma that Dr. Weldon told you about. Do you have time to look at it now?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll freeze it in dextrin solution so we can get a clean slice for the microscope.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kessler went through a side door and returned in less than a minute, waving them over. “Let’s take a look.”

  They followed him to the back of the lab, where he placed the slide into a microscope and peered through the lens. “Yes. I can see all three germ layers clearly. This is a mature teratoma.” He stepped back. “You can see for yourself.”

  Eagerly, Riggs stepped forward. Fascinated by the purple paisley design, she stared at it a long while, but could make no sense of it. She backed away so Panetta could view it. “So you’re saying that this is the same type of tumor as the others?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Then, in theory, say they weren’t born with them. What could have caused them?”

  “The most obvious explanation would be stem cells.”

  Panetta pulled out a notepad. “Stem cells?”

  “Yes. Stem cells have a history of creating teratomas. That’s pretty common knowledge.”

  Riggs and Panetta made eye contact.

  “Not common for us,” Riggs said.

  “No. I suppose not.” Kessler explained, “Under restricted circumstances, the FDA has approved embryonic stem cell therapy for spinal cord injuries. It’s the first of its kind.”

  “Embryonic?” Panetta asked. “You mean from fetal tissue?”

  “Yes. Americans have become tourists of the stem cell trade.”

  “What do you mean, tourists?”

  “In order to get stem cell injections, Americans travel overseas or to Mexico. Usually planning a vacation at the same time. Thus the name tourists.”

  “Why hasn’t the FDA approved the procedures here?” Riggs asked.

  Kessler shrugged. “The vast majority of these procedures have not been approved by the FDA. And some of them are quite controversial.”

  “Why is it controversial?”

  “Because the embryo is destroyed during the process of creating the stem cell line.”

  “I see.” Riggs wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but it wasn’t something she could contemplate right now. She and Richard had conceived twice and miscarried both times. They were so busy with their careers, they just let it go. Then her cancer hit and any thoughts of children were abandoned for the sake of survival.

  Panetta asked, “So you think stem cell injections caused these tumors. Where would they have gone for treatment?”

  Kessler rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Europe. The Ukraine. Mexico has a few clinics and they’re just over the California border, so that’s always been a popular choice. These clinics have elaborate websites that promise all sorts of cures. Anything from cancer to rebuilding your heart after a heart attack, curing Parkinson’s … you name it. Even beauty treatments.” He shook his head sadly. “People can be so gullible if they’re ill. You can’t blame them. But these clinics offer therapies that have not been tested for safety. They can cause adverse side effects, such as tumors. They lure people in with false promises, then charge a pretty penny. Only wealthy Americans can afford these types of treatments. They range from thirty thousand to sixty thousand dollars or more. It’s quite a racket.”

  “That fits our three,” Panetta said. “But aren’t labs here in America producing the same stem cell lines?”

  “Yes, of course. But not for human trials. No, I’d take a close look at any travel plans the victims made during the past six months or so.”

  They thanked Dr. Kessler and hurried back through the winding corridors.

  Panetta’s phone buzzed. He read the text and grinned. “Game on.”

  “What?”

  “Crime analysis researched a thirty-minute call Niki Francis made just hours before her death. The call was to a company called Human Resources, Inc., near San Francisco. Guess what they do?”

  Riggs stopped abruptly, her hand on Panetta’s arm, pulling him back. “Stem cell research?”

  “You got it.”

  CHAPTER

  19

  THE MAUDI TEAM sat in stunned silence, Riggs and Panetta having shared the information learned from Dr. Kessler. Discovering they had a third vic who had suffered from a teratoma placed a momentary pall over the team. They were meeting in a room on the second level of the sheriff’s department building on Highway 62 near White City. The five-person team was joined by chief of police Tom Holbrooks and lead FBI investigator Robert Rasmussen. The agent stood alone in the back of the room by the coffee pot, sipping from a Styrofoam cup. He was of average height and broad shouldered, with a droopy-eyed expression that seemed set in stone.

  Blackwell massaged his moustache thoughtfully. He moved to the front of the board, where a picture of Niki Francis stared back at them in all her glory. Probably a promo shot from one of her movies, Riggs thought. He pointed to the picture. “She has to be our primary focus. The media will hang us out to dry if we so much as trip on the Francis case. They’re circling around out there like vultures, but let’s not let up on the others either. Tucker, you had time to get any info on Isabel Rodriguez?”

  Chomping the last bit of an egg-salad sandwich retrieved from the vending machine downstairs, red-eyed and obviously sleepless, Tucker swallowed. “I paid a visit to the TV station. The producer said she’d been nervous last night. Complained of a headache. He also said that during her three years at the DA’s office, Rodriguez developed a personal relationship with Edward Littrell. You get it? Personal?”

  Blackwell scowled.

  Tucker continued, “They kept it private. According to the producer, Littrell repeatedly promised to divorce his wife and marry Isabel, but he never followed through. Dirtbag. She got fed up and opened up her own practice. Then started her TV show. Somewhere in there, they had regular sex. So good old Littrell was banging the vic the whole time.”

  Blackwell appeared ready to chew the cigar whole. “That’s an intriguing story. Full of angst and all that. What’s the flippin’ point? That our DA is an ass? We already know that.”

  “The point … they were doing the deed usually at Eden Retreat. The staff arranged for complete privacy.”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “So … got it right here in my notes. Same damn thing with Delano. Burns and I spent the night at the offices of Olsen and Delano. Seems Delano represented Niki Francis’s son, Mark Sorenson, in a DUI a few years ago. So they knew each other. The day before Delano bit the dust, he asked his secretary to make four phone calls. One of them was to Niki and one was for a counseling appointment with a Dr. Heinemann at Eden Retreat. According to the secretary, he was a regular out there.”

  “Hot damn!” Blackwell turned and wrote the name on the board. “Panetta, you said Niki Francis was a happy visitor at Eden Retreat. Sounds like they all liked to hobnob there. And maybe the good psychiatrist can enlighten us on his relationship with the vics.”

  The mood in the room became charged. Riggs felt it too. They had their second real break in the case.

  Special Agent Rasmussen spoke from the back of the room. “We’ll run Heinemann through the system. See if anything co
mes up.”

  Blackwell nodded. “Fair enough.” He turned to the newest member of the team. “Burns, any luck on the truck lead?”

  “Still working it,” Burns answered in a calm, simple demeanor. “Nothing with a Ducks sticker on the back yet. There’s a lab tech at Providence Hospital. He’s the only medical person so far, and has no priors. He gave permission for the crime lab to test the back of his truck for residue from a sticker he might have removed. I don’t think he’s our guy, though. At last count we still have seventeen trucks to run through.”

  “Focus on Dr. Heinemann. See if he owns a truck.” He pointed at Riggs. “Got anything else?”

  Leaning forward, elbows on the table, Riggs said, “It seems apparent that these vics were involved in an experimental treatment. Our conversation with Dr. Kessler pretty much confirms this.”

  Tucker asked, “What nutjob would do that? Volunteer to be a freakin’ guinea pig?”

  “No. Not volunteer. I think they paid for it. And Tucker, people will do just about anything if they think they’re dying.” Her gaze bored into his bloodshot eyes, daring him to make one of his wisecracks. She’d have thought he would be more sensitive, knowing she was a cancer survivor. At that moment she was glad Panetta had punched him for making comments about his wife’s drinking problem.

  “Yeah.” He slowly nodded, with a swift darting glance around the room. “Delano’s wife went on record saying he snatched fifty grand from their savings account. Swiped it right out from under her. She busted him later, but he wouldn’t break. Never told her what he did with it. She thought he was banging that Czech chick with it.”

  “When was that?” Blackwell asked. “We need to start a timeline.”

  “About eight weeks ago.”

  Riggs added, “We checked their travel history even further back than that, as Dr. Kessler suggested. Unless they used cash and drove, possibly to Mexico, nothing links their travels. So that puts them all within the U.S. and probably somewhat local. Which also indicates, according to Dr. Kessler, that the experiment would have to be illegal, since embryonic stem cell research has not been approved in the U.S.”