Panetta interjected, “There’s that thirty-minute call Francis made to Human Resources in Livermore, California, as well. Another thought: we have to assume, if three people were willing to participate, then there may be others. We also have to assume, if there were others, they’re being hunted down and eliminated to prevent any of them from exposing whomever is responsible for the experiment.”
“Catch the bastard.” Blackwell pulled the cigar from his mouth, spitting tobacco into a nearby trash can. “Panetta, you and Riggs head out to Livermore. I want to know what Human Resources has to do with Niki Francis. I want to know every detail of that thirty-minute phone call she had with them. Tucker, head out to Eden Retreat. Chat with Dr. Heinemann. Burns, go with him. A little intimidation never hurts.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost five o’clock. It’s been twenty-four hours since we found the Francis body. Let’s move out. Keep in mind, the media is out there on a feedin’ frenzy, so make no mistakes. They’d just as soon eat us alive.”
CHAPTER
20
“POOR RAVAGED SOUL.” George rolled a chair up next to Whit and set her recorder in front of her. “I listened all the way through.”
She polished off the last of her second Diet Pepsi and tossed the can into the recycle bin. Turning toward George, she was suddenly assaulted by his breath, which reeked of garlic. Blinking rapidly, she waved a hand in the air. “What have you been eating?”
He grinned. “I ate a sandwich from a deli down the street while you were gone. It was magnificent. Let’s see … it had tomato, onion, basil, fresh mozzarella, and arugula with a lemon-garlic vinaigrette. Oh, on a French baguette. Delish!”
“Well, it smells like something crawled up in your mouth and died.” Yanking her desk drawer open, Whit pulled out a pack of spearmint gum and offered him a piece.
“No thanks. I have my mints.” He patted his pocket, reminding her of the French tin. “Oh no. I must have left it in my car.”
Whit stared at him until he took the gum. “Good boy. Now I’ll fill you in on my interview with Mrs. Delano.” Whit shared what she’d learned, watching George’s eyes grow round.
“So, by some fantastical event, Delano and Francis have this monster tumor?”
“That’s what I think. Now, let’s see what the hell this teratoma really is.”
“Definitely beyond strange and too bizarre to be a coincidence.”
“Well, if there is a link, I will find it.”
Whit ran a search on the internet for teratomas and started jotting down notes.
“Wikipedia?” George asked. “We need peer-reviewed medical journals.”
“Yes. I know. I’m just making a list of technical words that are associated with teratomas so we can look them up.” She tapped into one of the newspaper’s many databases looking for peer-reviewed science articles. She typed in teratoma and read with disappointment. “Oh. This article says they’re usually present at birth. It says teratomas are most common in the tailbone, ovaries, and testicles. I guess that’s possible. It just doesn’t seem likely for our victims, given the circumstances.” She blew up the image of a teratoma on her computer monitor. The thing had an eyeball and part of a leg with hair.
“My God!” George pulled back, looking pale.
Whit grinned over her shoulder at him. “This is some gruesome stuff! What great copy it would make. I’ve just got to find the link, damn it.”
Growing frustrated, she typed in germ cells. Again … nothing. Pluripotent cells and teratomas. She read with growing excitement.
George moved back to his desk and sat waiting with a look of dread. Sifting through peer-reviewed articles was slow reading. Trying to decipher medical terms was above her pay grade. After an hour of searching, she was able to find enough to at least make a decent guess.
“Here we go, George. I cut and pasted these articles to my file, but so far, this is what I’ve got.” She motioned him over. “Slide your chair back. This one is talking about mice used in an experiment back in 2011. It says that injections with pluripotent cells caused brain tumors in five mice. Whatever pluripotent is. That’s old data anyway. This one here is from June of 2010: a story about a boy in Russia injected with embryonic stem cells that caused a brain tumor. Here’s another article from 2019, but it’s more scientifically technical. I’d need an expert to decipher it. Still, if I understand this correctly, we may have our answer.”
“What is it? What causes that ghastly thing? Please tell me it’s not contagious.”
“Embryonic stem cell injections, George. They cause teratomas.”
“Who in their right mind would chance that? And for what?”
Whit shrugged, stumped for an answer. “Niki Francis and Bo Delano were both in good health. Exceptional health, in fact. It really doesn’t make any sense.”
“Certainly not. Not if that’s a possible outcome. I think I’m traumatized for life!”
She ignored him, trying to think. “Just because we don’t understand it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. People can do some pretty stupid things. That 2010 article said the treatment was for a brain tumor. I find it hard to believe that both of our victims had brain tumors before the injections, but I guess it’s possible. Whatever Delano was into, health nut that he was—anyone who would spend a bloody fortune for water two thousand feet below the ocean’s surface is willing to go to any length, I’d say. Like try some kind of fringe treatment for even better health.”
“Like superhero health.”
“Yes, something like that. Only the teratomas were not supposed to be part of the treatment plan. My guess is whoever botched it didn’t want to be exposed.”
“So, what now?”
Whit shook her head. “I don’t know. I need to think. At the very least, this is some kind of medical malpractice, or worse, a madman is using an illegal medical trial on unwitting participants, like lab rats.”
“That’s hard to imagine.”
“Yes, it is, George, but it’s the only viable answer to our questions.”
Whit glanced over her shoulder at Stu’s office. He was still conferencing with Breckenridge. She half-suspected Stu was tossing the veteran reporter her Delano story. She needed to get in there and convince Stu that Francis and Delano were connected; hence, they belonged to her. It was nearly seven on a Saturday night. Tracking down decent sources would be tough. Unfortunately, Stu would never believe her without more proof. Luckily the majority of the newspaper staff were still laboring over last-minute stories, as the next day was Sunday, their biggest publication day and most profitable ad day, which would buy her more time.
“George, can you do me a favor? Get into the system and bring up all the photos you can of Niki Francis that were taken in or around Medford. Especially if you find any pictures with Niki and Mr. Delano. We need to lay out a case for Stu that those two knew each other. Knew each other well enough to be involved in something off the books together. And I want to know everyone else Francis was friends with. Make a list.”
“I’m no slacker.” George looked offended. “I mastered that plan this morning.”
“Oh. I was so busy with those stupid media interviews, I haven’t had time to dig through the notes. Where are they?” Her desk was a nightmare of sticky notes and copies from various interns delivered over the past twenty-four hours.
“I sent it to you in an email.”
Her inbox was swamped with emails. Hundreds of them, mostly from other media; wading through that would be a nightmare. Glancing at George’s computer screen, she asked, “Can you just pull it up on your screen?”
“That’s definitely an easier challenge.”
She watched as he flicked through an array of photos of Niki Francis at various events around town. A tennis club. Fund raisers. The park. The Britt Festival. Then a photo of Isabel Rodriguez popped up. “Stop there. That’s Isabel with Niki. I know her; she’s one of my contacts. I didn’t know they knew each other.”
“It�
��s a small town.” George chomped his gum, popping it every little while. “The socialites have few pickin’s.”
Whit shook her head. “Eighty thousand people live here.”
George sat straighter, adjusting the collar of his crisp blue shirt. “The cream is always at the top. That elite group is a small one. Trust me, they know each other.”
“All right, smarty-pants. Who’s the other woman they’re with?”
“That’s easy. She’s in half a dozen of these pictures. Her name is Celeste Cordero. She’s a hotshot realtor. She owns Cordero Realty.” He flipped through a few more photos of her. “Here she is with Bo Delano and Isabel Rodriguez. See? Small world.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of Cordero Realty. Her signs are everywhere.” She reached over to still George’s hand, her heart starting to race. “Can you make that picture larger?”
George frowned. “I think so.” He clicked on it and transferred it into their photo program. In seconds it filled the computer screen.
“Look.” She pointed. “Where have we seen that porch?”
“Eden Retreat!”
Whit stood up and stretched. “Well, it’s clear that Delano and Francis knew each other and were possibly close friends.”
She glanced across the aisle to the health writer’s desk, but Yolanda Diaz wasn’t there. The woman was territorial about her sources and confrontational, but if Whit needed a medical or science source, Yolanda was her best bet. There wasn’t a health care enterprise in a single nook or cranny of the Southern Oregon valley that she didn’t know about.
George rolled his chair back to his desk. “I’m going to put together a file of all the pictures with Niki Francis and friends.”
“Works for me. Print that out and a list of names too. We can follow up tomorrow. Set up some interviews, if they’ll speak to us. Now, at my own peril, I’m going to go hunt down Yolanda to see if she can provide a source to decipher some of that medical data. I saw her earlier, so hopefully she’s still here and in a decent mood.”
Whit hurried through the maze of desks and down the corridor to the lunchroom, where a couple of copy guys were picking off yesterday’s birthday cake. No, they hadn’t seen Yolanda. She pivoted back down the hall and entered the ladies’ bathroom. There, at the mirrored counter, stood Ms. Diaz, liberally applying makeup. A slender woman with dark windswept hair that fell just below her shoulders, Yolanda stood about five foot five and wore a silver sequined tank and a short black skirt accompanied by four-inch heels. To accent her ensemble, she wore large silver hoop earrings and several silver bracelets.
“You look nice.” Whit paused next to her. “Got a hot date?”
Yolanda slanted a quick glance her way but continued applying a dark liner to her upper eyelid. “Maybe.”
Whit cringed inwardly. Not exactly friendly banter. You never knew with Yolanda; sometimes she was animated and gregarious, while at other times she was sullen and withdrawn. Not for the first time, Whit wondered if she was bipolar. Since Whit was not particularly patient or fond of tiptoeing around people, she suppressed the urge to ditch her and go find her own sources. She was up against a hard deadline, and this was not a good day to test her negotiating skills. Groveling went against her moral code. Walking a fine line, she tried again, using a more direct route.
“Since you’re busy, I’ll make this quick. I need a source that might know something about embryonic stem cell research.”
Again the slanted glance.
Whit waited impatiently, then asked, “Can you help me?”
“I’m thinking!” Yolanda leaned back from the mirror and faced Whit. “Does this have anything to do with the Niki Francis story?”
“Yes. And Delano, the fire victim. With the right source, I think I can link the two deaths.”
Yolanda put her hand on her hip. “A double murder?”
Her big, brown eyes blinked at Whit, one eye still wearing the daytime version of her makeup. It was a stare-down. Clearly, no information was going to be forthcoming without Whit divulging her hypothesis. Talking quickly, Whit outlined her theory about an illegal stem cell experiment.
“No shit?” Yolanda nodded, eyes narrowed. “That would make great copy. Sure, I’ll help. Just let me finish here. Meet you at your desk in five.”
Relieved, Whit blew out a breath. “Thanks, Yolanda. I appreciate it!”
Racing back down the hall, Whit noticed that Breckenridge was still in Stu’s office. She grit her teeth and changed course. If he brought in Breckenridge to cover the Delano story, it would be problematic to wrestle it back, even if she found the right sources to prove her theory. She approached Stu’s office, determined to do battle, and perhaps knocked too sharply, making both men jump.
“Sorry to interrupt, but are you guys talking about the Delano story?”
They stared at her blankly for a moment, which confused her. She expected guilt for taking the story from her. And something else was wrong. They looked stricken. Not much shocked seasoned journalists. By the time you’d covered ten to fifteen years of humanity’s triumphs and tragedies, you’d seen it all two or three times, and both of these men had been in the business for several decades. Little alarm bells sounded in her head. “Is … is something wrong? Has something happened I should know about?”
Stu motioned her in with quick little hand movements, which was also telling. She quizzically glanced at Breckenridge. Nearing sixty, he was thick all over, and mostly bald, with wire-rimmed glasses. A history and government buff, he generally covered municipalities, city hall and so on, and any other in-depth story they tossed his way. He was a fixture at the paper, having started his career with them back in the early seventies. He was also mild-mannered, slow to speak and a thinking man. When she watched him walk around the office, he reminded her of a turtle, head down, slow-moving, methodical and determined, but he was anything but slow intellectually. His mind worked like a computer; whatever went in there stuck. Everyone assumed his slow response time was because he had a lot of stored files to process. If staffers couldn’t find something on the internet, they just asked Breckenridge.
At the moment, he simply raised his hand, like the Pope, to usher her into the room.
Stu snapped, “Come in, come in. We don’t have all day.” His hands started jabbing the air like a little marionette. “Tomorrow’s Sunday. This is going to be a big spread. I just called in a couple more stringers. When it rains, it pours.”
“What is going on?” Whit asked, stepping into the room and taking the second chair across from Stu’s desk, next to Breckenridge.
“I’ll tell you what,” Stu answered. “Another high-profile death. The implication is homicide.”
She asked, “Who is it?”
“A lawyer named Isabel Rodriguez.”
“I know Isabel.” Whit felt her heart quicken at the shock. “What happened to her?”
“Breckenridge, you tell her.”
He nodded slowly and pursed his lips as he gathered his thoughts. They waited in silence until he finally explained, “Late this afternoon, a contact at the district attorney’s office called me. He told me Isabel Rodriguez was found dead in her pool this morning. Not many people know this, but she was the lover of Edward Littrell, the DA. I have known this for some time. Apparently the DA did not want any doubt cast on him. Especially when there are swarms of media in town already covering the Niki Francis murder. His goal was to prove that there had been no lover’s quarrel that resulted in her death. An autopsy was ordered stat. Littrell expected the autopsy report to come back as death by drowning, which would exonerate him, of course, at least technically. I’m sure some people would still have their doubts. However, that’s not what happened.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Whit saw, through the glass window, Yolanda standing by her desk with her arms crossed, looking pissed. Whit waved, caught her eye, and held up one finger, pleading to have just a minute. Yolanda heaved a sigh but remained still. Turning to Breckenridge, Whit
asked, “What did the report say?”
He shook his head. “No one knows. It’s under wraps. Even the DA has been shut out, which is causing quite a stir, but the police won’t budge. That’s why this contact called me. The DA is sitting on pins and needles because he is fully aware that enough people know about the affair to point a finger at him if someone wanted to. ‘Someone’ being a person he has slighted in the past and might want to wield this bit of info into significant leverage, if you know what I mean. Basically, blackmail. Since Littrell is known for his heavy hand and smart mouth, I can imagine there may be a few who would be too happy to use negative press against him, including his opponents running for office. So, this contact wanted to know if any of my contacts might be able to sniff out any autopsy information, but it’s shut down tighter than a drum.”
Whit’s immediate suspicion was that Isabel’s death was linked to Francis and Delano. She and George had just seen a half dozen pictures of Isabel with the other two. The association was too freakishly coincidental. Same age, same pocketbook. But, before she could approach Stu with her theory, she needed more than just a hunch.
“I may have more to add to this story, but first I need to speak with Yolanda; she’s waiting for me at my desk. I’ll be back later.”
Yolanda was in fact scowling. “I don’t have all night. I’m doing you a favor, and you keep me waiting?”
She quickly changed her tune when Whit filled her in on the latest developments. She looked horrified.
“Isabel was a shining light for all Hispanic women—a role model. Only the devil would do something like that.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“So now we have three murders?” Yolanda held up three fingers. “Three?”
“Maybe. We have to continue the investigation.”
“Holy shit, it’s gonna be a busy night!” Yolanda exclaimed. “Oh, and I got something.” Yolanda opened her clutch purse and pulled out her phone. “It came to me when I was busting out the eyeliner. A couple of months ago we ran a story about researchers at Oregon State University. Some of the scientists there are working on stem cells. I got a name and number in my phone.”
A Desperate Place Page 17