Riggs pulse quickened as she comprehended the ultimate power of a single stem cell. This science was far more advanced than she’d thought. Now it was time to get the information they’d come for. “I think we understand the basic process. Can you tell us what this has to do with the call from Niki Francis?”
Lillian nodded, her expression oddly teasing. “What do you think is the ultimate scientific quest for humans?”
Panetta responded, “Good health.”
“Yes, but think deeper.”
Riggs asked, “A long life?”
“You’re both right, but it’s more than that. Plastic surgeons are the highest-paid group of physicians in America. And Americans pour millions and millions of dollars into plastic surgery. Why? Our aging baby boomers want to recapture their youth with facelifts, tummy tucks, and liposuction. Who can blame them?”
Panetta asked, “What do facelifts have to do with stem cells?”
“Why, eternal youth, Detective Panetta. Niki Francis was not seeking treatment because she was sick. She wanted eternal youth. She wanted to look and feel young again.”
Riggs shifted forward in her chair, her back stiff from long hours of sitting in the plane, car, and now at Human Resources. “Stem cells can do that?”
“Not exactly. Not yet. But clinics overseas are promising to take twenty years off your life with embryonic stem cell injections. You see, once injected into the human body, these cells travel to any area that is weakened or not working properly and begin to rejuvenate the organs. The younger cells multiply, replacing the exhausted older ones. Over several weeks, in theory, the body literally rebuilds itself into a fresher, younger, more energetic you!”
“Twenty years?” Riggs blinked hard at that. If Niki was sixty years old, the process could basically rebuild her into a forty-year-old woman. She recalled Dr. Weldon thinking Rodriguez was the wrong cadaver because she looked so young.
“Yes. It’s being hailed as the fountain of youth; time travel, if you will. It’s called rejuvenative embryonic stem cell treatment, otherwise known as REST.”
Something tweaked Riggs’s memory, but it was fleeting. Then she remembered taking a picture of the items in Niki Francis’s bedside drawer. The actress had written REST at the top of the brochure from Eden Retreat.
“So,” Panetta said, “this is all in theory?”
“More than theory. It’s been around for ten, some places twenty years overseas for wealthy people who incorporate a vacation with a clinic visit. It’s called medical tourism. Very popular. And here in the U.S., bioartificial organs grown from the patient’s own cells in a petri dish are already being cultivated. Cells from the patient’s own organs don’t cause tumors. The body has no reason to see it as a foreign object and reject it. But sadly, those types of cells don’t work on things like cancer or rejuvenative medicine, which is why we need the embryonic cells.”
Riggs thought of her mother and wondered if these injections might have saved her life. How different her childhood would have been. That sense of security that was stolen from her. The fear of knowing her mother would die and the anguish of not being able to do anything to stop it. And afterward, the terrible loneliness that gripped her in the dark, night after night. All of that need never have happened. But would her mother have consented to the procedure, wondering if she had taken a life to save her own? She thought of her own battle with cancer a year ago. Would she have taken the treatment?
Panetta was saying, “So the FDA has not approved this youth procedure, REST, here in America?”
“That’s right. Unfortunately, there are complications that the FDA is aware of. The embryonic stem cell injections can cause tumors; specifically, teratomas, or monster tumors. Until that complication is rectified, no studies can be done on humans in the United States. That’s why we have such hope in cloned stem cells.”
Riggs caught Panetta’s eye. “That explains our killer.”
Lillian nodded. “I can see how a doctor might end up going down that path. The restrictions we have in the U.S. are very frustrating to scientists. America is falling behind the rest of the world in the application of science because of it.”
“One more thing,” Panetta said. “Does Human Resources have satellite offices anywhere else?”
“No. This is our only location.”
“Do you ship any stem cells to Medford?”
“No.”
“What about any staff who might own or operate an office in Medford? Do you know of anyone who travels there regularly?”
“Our doctors all work here. I seriously doubt that anyone on our staff is involved with this. Our researchers are highly credentialed.”
“That may be true, but we’ll need a list of employees. Doctors especially. Ask around and find out if anyone on that list spends time in Oregon. We can subpoena the information, but it would be easier if you’d cooperate.”
“Well … that might take some time, but I can look into it.”
Riggs stood to leave. “We’ll need that list right away. Can you fax it to us in the morning? We don’t have any time to waste.” She added, “Our killer is still out there. He may have more victims.”
“I understand the urgency. I’ll do my best.”
When Lillian walked them to the elevator, a tall, gangly, shaggy-headed guy raced passed them.
“What’s up?” He waved to Lillian, then disappeared into the second elevator, headed down to the first floor.
Riggs asked, “Who was that?” thinking he might be the driver of the van. “Does he work for you?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, he is one of the few people that travels to Medford regularly, but he’s not a doctor. His name is Peter Figoni.”
“What does he do?”
She hesitated. “Well. He’s a harvester.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s difficult to explain. Like most research institutions, we work with human body parts. He harvests body parts for us from hospitals. He travels to five or six cities a week. But he’s not a biologist or even a stem cell technician.”
Panetta asked, “You mean he cuts out body parts and delivers them to Human Resources? From cadavers?”
“Yes. We use some of them and sell the rest to universities and other research centers.”
Riggs glanced after Figoni, wondering if it was too late to question him. She turned and stepped over to a window overlooking the parking lot. She watched as the floppy-haired guy climbed into the van and, with just as much speed as before, spun the van toward the guard post, headlights beaming a clear getaway path.
Panetta said, “Where does he live? We’ll need to speak to him before we return to Medford.”
Lillian stiffened. “I really should check with personnel before I give out that information.”
Determined now, Riggs raised her voice. “We’ll just be back in an hour with a subpoena. Save us all some trouble.”
Lillian contemplated the best course of action. “Actually, I know his schedule. He’s headed over to the hospital in Walnut Creek to collect samples. You can interview him there. In the morgue.”
CHAPTER
23
“SHOOT. LET’S HEAR it. I’m not gettin’ any younger.”
Whit wanted to say, That’s for sure. The past twenty-four hours had ravaged Stu’s appearance. He sat on the side of his desk holding a mug of steaming coffee, one foot skimming the floor. He appeared shrunken, thin wisps of hair separated by hours of stress-sweat clinging to the top of his head in a comb-over. She thought he should go home and get some rest but refrained from suggesting it.
Concerned, she asked, “Are you feeling all right?”
“Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Just wondered.”
“I’m stellar.” He slurped coffee and swung his foot rapidly. “I’ve been keepin’ an eye on the competition. So far no one is even close. Even TV news is sputtering out of fuel. That windbag Geraldo Rivera is in town. Heard he’s working the
police hard. Can’t let that blowhard get a leg up. So what do ya have?”
Whit sat and recounted the visit to Eden, including her sense that they were being stalked the entire time, and the threat she felt from Heinemann. She handed over the two signed statements from Mrs. Delano and Niki’s son. She flipped through her notepad. “I also have a statement from the Oregon National Primate Research Center. They just faxed over some information on the subject.”
“Primate?”
Whit held up her hand. “Just listen. I’ll read it to you. Dr. Bredevo Stenosky explained how embryonic stem cells cause teratoma tumors. Here. Listen. ‘The body’s natural reaction to anything foreign is to reject it. When we used embryonic stem cells, the subjects grew teratoma tumors among other problems. This is why the FDA has not approved many of the stem cell experiments being performed in other countries.’” She beamed what she hoped was a winning smile. “You see, this explains how these teratomas were formed. It’s the quote we needed to support our theory.” She glanced down, semi-reading from her notes. “I thought George could write a sidebar on stem cells. Dr. Stenosky said now they use cloned cells that don’t cause transplant rejection. They take DNA from the individual and transplant it into an egg that’s been stripped of genetic material. It’s called a … somatic cell nuclear transfer.”
“I like it. What about Isabel Rodriguez? Anything?”
“On the drive back, George hunted down her parents’ phone number. According to her father, she didn’t have any health problems. But George and I stopped off at the TV station where she did her show, and two of the staff said she’d complained of headaches. They saw her taking aspirin a couple of times. And the weather guy saw her stumble and nearly fall down in the hallway the last night she worked. He called out to her, but she hurried into her dressing room. The producer said she complained of a headache during the show on Friday night. It sure fits the pattern.”
Stu hopped down from the desk and paced, taking sharp turns every three feet, like a caged animal. He stopped in front of her. “You’ve got a lot of bases covered, but I want an official police source.”
She blanched at that. “Are you kidding? You know they’re not talking. Even Breckenridge couldn’t get his sources to open up.”
“Yeah, but you managed to get your source to spill details on Niki Francis.”
“I had a great trade. Since then I’ve been trailing the police. They already know about the teratomas. That’s why they hushed up Isabel Rodriguez’s death.”
He shook his head stubbornly, pacing again, stabbing his little hands in the air. “Nope. Gotta have it. What if Rodriguez has nothing to do with this case? What if these teratomas just happen to be a coincidence? We’re not even sure Delano is a homicide yet. You’re jumping to a lot of conclusions. Here’s what we’ve got so far. One buried body, most certainly a homicide. Two dead attorneys, cause unknown, and neither has been declared a homicide by police. Two people we think have teratomas. No official documents to support it. And a lot of science about stem cells that may or may not have anything to do with our teratoma theory. Basically, nothing. Until we get a solid source to confirm, I’m killin’ it.”
Whit blushed to the roots of her red hair, then felt the color drain away. It was like getting the wind knocked out of her. She’d worked so hard to pull the pieces together. She’d spit nails before she’d let that pack of out-of-town news junkies steal her story, especially after the way she’d been treated at the news conference. “Stu, be reasonable. All of that coincidence in the space of two days?”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” He paused at his desk and slurped some more coffee. “That’s just it. We don’t know. Go turn all of those assumptions into hard facts.”
“But you said if I got the documents from Delano and Sorenson and my quote from the science people, you’d run with it.”
“Well, I rethought it. The whole world is watching our little enterprise. Because of that, Arenburg is not printing it with anything less than a police source. Now go get my source.”
It was not the first time an editor had gone back on his word. She tried to think of a way around it and came up with nothing. Finally, she pressed for one tiny advantage. “Okay. You printed my first Niki Francis story from my police source, off the record. If I get her to confirm, off the record, will you take it?”
He pursed his little moustached mouth. “Same solid source?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. You got a deal.”
Deflated but still determined, Whit stood and meandered down the hallway toward the break room, trying to think of any tidbit of information worth a trade with Katie. Possibly the Heinemann theory, but they were probably already onto that too. After all, most of the police force and half the country were working the case.
Everyone had cleared out of the break room, so she was alone with the buzzing hum of candy and soda machines. She opened a drawer by the sink, looking for the money bowl. People threw extra change into it for anyone that might not have funds for a soda. She dug out a dollar and a quarter and pumped the money into the machine. She needed caffeine. After what sounded like a pinball machine, the Pepsi can clanged to the bottom. She grabbed it and popped the lid. Leaning back on the counter, she guzzled half the soda and belched softy.
Just then, Irene Bradshaw, the business writer, popped into the room carrying half a tray of croissant sandwiches, apparently back from some business event. She was wearing a royal-blue polyester dress with a bright floral jacket, and several imitation sapphires in her ears and around her neck. She set the tray on the lunch table. “Hey, Whit. Are you hungry? Just came from the grand opening of O’Mar’s Art Supply store in Ashland. They had several leftover trays of food.”
“Sure.” Whit picked a turkey–and–Swiss cheese sandwich and bit into it. “So how did it go? Get any good quotes?”
Irene laughed and tossed her dark curls over her shoulder. “Dollface, you are talkin’ to a quote-collectin’ fool here. Anybody who is anybody was at this shindig.” She started dropping names, and that’s when Whit tuned her out and focused on the sandwich. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. She ate fast, drank some more Pepsi, and reached for another sandwich, wondering if she might be able to chase down Isabel’s alleged lover, Edward Littrell. Fat chance the DA would talk to her, though. Maybe she and George could locate Isabel’s law partners. They’d know more about her actions last week than anyone else. “… caused quite a commotion. But you know how head wounds bleed.”
“What’s that?” Whit asked, taking a bite from a roast beef and cheese. Her brain was starting to fire back to life.
“Come along.” Irene stuffed the sandwich tray in the refrigerator and flounced out of the room, heading down the hall. “I’ll fill you in on the rest of it at my desk. I’ve gotta write this little piece in the next thirty minutes.”
Whit followed her, thinking about snagging a few pieces of red licorice for dessert. She decided Isabel’s law partners were the best bet. If she could get a hold of them in the next ten minutes by phone, she might still get the story written in time for the Sunday edition. The big if remained: would they be able to support her story with concrete evidence? She needed a nice solid quote, like, “Yes, the medical examiner told us she had a teratoma.” The odds of that were slim to none. Even then it wasn’t exactly a law enforcement source.
They arrived at Irene’s desk, and Whit pointed to the licorice. Irene nodded agreeably, holding the lid while she selected two pieces. “As I was sayin’,” Irene continued. “She looked peaked and kept rubbing the back of her neck. I asked if she was okay. She said, yes, just a little headache. Then … boom! She keeled over and hit her head on the edge of a table. Sliced it right open. Blood everywhere!”
Whit bit off a chunk of licorice and stopped midchew, the word headache jolting her back to the conversation. “Who is this?”
“I told you.” Irene grabbed a handful of licorice for herself and replaced the lid. “The real estate ty
coon. Celeste Cordero.”
“Oh … my … God.” Cordero had been in several photos with Niki Francis. She was one of the “cream” that George had preened about.
“What?”
Whit shook her head, heart pounding. “What happened to Cordero?”
“Well, she bled like a stuck pig, but came to right away. She said she was fine except for a headache, but her husband—you may know him. Judge Cordero?” She sat down, kicking her shoes off and slipping her feet into a pair of leopard-print slippers she kept under her desk. “He’s running for state representative. Anyway, Judge Cordero whisked her off to the emergency room to get stitches. I hope she’ll be okay. She sure scared everyone spitless.”
The synapses in Whit’s brain started firing all at once. Pure adrenaline surged through her, and she grabbed Irene and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! You have no idea how grateful I am!”
With a laugh, Bradshaw shrugged. “Don’t mention it, dollface.”
Whit raced back through the maze of cubicles and found George half asleep at his desk, still researching his sidebar science story.
Covering a yawn, he said, “You were gone long enough. What did Stu say?”
“He killed the story,” Whit said, plopping down in her chair. “But you’re about to witness a resurrection. A true miracle, George. Get me everything you can find on Celeste Cordero. Fund raisers, friends, business associates.”
“The real estate woman?”
“Yes. I’ll do some digging too. I’d like to know what her financial situation is like.” What, she wondered, was Cordero Realty worth?
Within a few minutes she was scrolling though property taxes. The Cordero holdings were impressive. It seemed Cordero owned twenty-three homes in the area and some prime residential property, as yet undeveloped, worth millions, and some commercial property under development that was worth even more. Researching her business licenses, Whit discovered that Cordero was listed on a number of non–real estate business ventures, probably as an investor or silent partner. Too bad it was a weekend. If city hall had been open, Whit was pretty sure she could have interviewed her source there and gotten a behind-the-scenes story.
A Desperate Place Page 20