A Desperate Place

by Jennifer Greer

  Judge Cordero sat next to his wife’s bed, looking lost and suddenly old. He had answered all her questions, and it appeared he had not known about his wife’s involvement in the clinical trials. He confided that he planned to drop out of the state representative race so he could focus on helping Celeste recover. If she survived.

  Riggs thought of all the lives destroyed by one man’s ruthless grab at … money. For the others, a fleeting second chance at youth? All of it shallow in the face of the broken, destroyed relationships and all the innocent deaths. Even poor Dr. Weldon, the medical examiner, had had his license suspended for his loose tongue. There were still a lot of unanswered questions. Like where did Wilhelm get the stem cells? How did he create the serum?

  The elevator doors opened and she stepped out across from the nurses’ station, suddenly feeling very tired. The smell of coffee guided her feet to the waiting room, where she poured a syrupy dark liquid that sort of resembled coffee into a short Styrofoam cup. It would have to do. It was after six thirty and she’d missed dinner. She glanced down the hall to her right and saw a uniformed police officer standing outside a door talking with Detective Tucker. That would be Wilhelm’s room. She sipped the bitter brew and waited a minute for it to hit her system, then closed the space toward Tucker. Panetta and Blackwell were still combing over evidence at Eden Retreat.

  Tucker nodded to her. “I still think that slick-talkin’ Heinemann is involved. I’d like to shake this perp awake and ask a few questions, but the doctor won’t let me. Imagine that?”

  The officer standing next to him laughed. “I’d let you, but there’s too many security cameras everywhere.”

  Riggs glanced into the room, but a curtain was drawn. “What has the doctor said about Wilhelm’s condition?”

  “A bullet sliced right through his jaw.” Tucker found this amusing. “They had to wire it shut. The other bullet ripped through his intestines. He had extensive internal bleeding. Now they gotta watch him for somethin’ called sepsis. They loaded him up on antibiotics and pain meds. He’s pretty much worthless right now.”

  “When will he be able to communicate?”

  “The doctor said he could wake at any time.” He glanced over the top of her head at the nurse’s station. “They pop in here every few minutes. I’m gonna go sit by his bed. That way, if he wakes up … I get first dibs on the scumbag.”

  “Well, I’m going to go down to the cafeteria and grab a bite to eat, then head over to the morgue with my two Jane Does.”

  “Try the meatball sandwich. It’s hearty. You could use some meat on your bones.”

  “Thanks, Tucker.”

  Riggs rode the elevator down to the basement and found some vegetable soup and a wheat role in the cafeteria. She ate at a table by herself, wondering if Blackwell caught up with Heinemann. It seemed likely he had partnered with Wilhelm in the stem cell trial, but Whit said Wilhelm never mentioned having a partner. The idea that Heinemann could be innocent didn’t sit well either. She had to ask herself whether she just wanted him to be guilty because she found him repugnant. However, she didn’t think Wilhelm had enough of a science background to devise the stem cell therapy. As yet, they didn’t have much information on him. Heinemann certainly had the medical background. Most likely, once Heinemann knew the game was over, he’d slipped away into some crack, letting Wilhelm take the fall. With the level of law enforcement in town, it was very unlikely that Heinemann would get away. One way or another, they would find out if Wilhelm worked alone.

  She could understand why the stem cell trial was so alluring. Finding a youth elixir that could extend life—more than that, create a younger, healthy life—now that would be worth all the money in the world. If such a thing existed, she could imagine all the ailing people out there healed by a simple injection. In theory, if it hadn’t created teratomas, the only reason not to do it might be the embryos that had to die to create the stem cell line. She wondered, if her cancer came back and she was terminal, would she have submitted to a trial like that? Regardless of the embryo? That was not a question she felt she could answer with any certainty. She had her faith now, but it was still all very confusing, and it was getting late. The sooner they got through the autopsies, the better.

  The soup helped replenish her flagging energy. She decided it was time to get the night started. She gave Panetta a call.

  “You ready to meet me at the morgue?”

  “Stop talking dirty to me. Your husband’s gonna get jealous.”

  “Richard doesn’t mind,” Riggs laughed. “You must be getting loopy.”

  “Jesus, Riggs. This is one crazy case. I was sleepless to start with, and now I’m not sure what I am. Heatstroke from today on the hill, maybe? Got some news. The FBI gave us a rundown on Wilhelm. He was not just a massage therapist; he had a doctorate in physical therapy and had worked for seven years at a clinic in New York. Like Heinemann, he’d lost his license for questionable practices.”

  “Wow. That would make them perfect partners in crime.” Riggs picked up her tray and carried it to the trash, dumping her plate and stacking the tray. She headed up the stairs to the first floor.

  “Exactly. Apparently, Wilhelm failed to refer his clients to doctors when their injuries required more than physical therapy. He preferred to treat them using his own methods of natural and herbal remedies. The penalties for this malpractice were fines and suspension. Even after he’d served his time regaining his license, he continued the same procedures until his license was finally revoked.”

  “So at Eden he was just practicing as a masseur? Aside from the illegal trial?”

  “That’s right. Any news on your end?”

  “Nothing yet. I’m going to stop back by Wilhelm’s room before I head to the morgue.”

  “All right. Let’s go burn the midnight oil. See you soon.”

  Riggs found Tucker pacing in front of Wilhelm’s room.

  “Is he talking yet?”

  “Nothin’ sensible. He’s high on morphine.” Tucker snickered. “This guy’s a real perv. Keeps talking about dickin’ some girl. All that time lathering oil over rich hard bodies. ‘Dick her. Kiss her.’ His mind is in the gutter. Gotta wonder what all goes on at that fancy retreat.”

  If she didn’t have the autopsies tonight, she’d try to question Wilhelm herself. Tucker’s version of life was different from the average bear’s. “Do what you can to get information out of him.”

  “Kinda hard when his jaw is wired. I kept after him to talk, but the nurse complained and the doctor ordered me from the room … like I’m the criminal.”

  “That explains why you’re out here. He probably won’t be coherent for several more hours. Try not to get yourself kicked out of the hospital. And keep a sharp eye out for Heinemann. If they were working together, he might decide Wilhelm needs to be silenced and find a way to get to him.”

  “Not on my watch, sister.”

  CHAPTER

  33

  “WHAT POSSESSED YOU to go off half-cocked?” Whit had been summoned to Stu’s office upon her arrival back to the Chronicle. He paced in front of her, pausing long enough to dig some Tums out of his corduroy pants pockets. He chomped a few, slurped them down with hot coffee, and resumed pacing, punctuating the beginning of each sentence with a quick jab of his hands. “What happened to the buddy system we talked about? Don’t you listen? I’m having a heart attack here. Is that what you want? You want to see me keel over and die?”

  Whit suppressed a smile behind the cold-pack she was holding to the right side of her cheek. He would certainly not appreciate it at the moment. “No, of course not.”

  “And you’re not off the hook on those media interviews from this morning. Mr. Arenburg called wanting to know who George Cook is, and where were you?”

  “I’m sorry. I just thought, since you assigned George to help me, it would be all right. He’s a broadcast major, you know, so it makes perfect sense.”

  Stu came to an abrupt halt, his
expression pained, his graying moustache bunched around thin lips. He pointed to the door. “Just get out of here and go write that story. And I want a personal account on the sidebar. You know: ‘My near-death experience at the hands of Dr. Frankenstein.’”

  “We’re still not sure what role, if any, Dr. Heinemann played in this story. Wilhelm never mentioned him, so I’m assuming he worked alone. He certainly had the trust of those people.”

  “He’s our guy. He admitted it. That’s good enough for me.” Stu waved her from the room. “I’m following my gut. Go write the story.”

  Escaping relatively unscathed, Whit hurried toward her desk. Just then, the stringers and interns who were helping her with the story, including George and even Breckenridge, stood up and clapped, cheering enthusiastically. She felt her face flush all the way up to her hairline. Unable to think of what to do, she performed a quick curtsy.

  As she passed Breckenridge’s desk, he held out his hand. She stopped to shake it and waited as he gathered his thoughts. His bespeckled gaze drifted to the bloodstain on her white blouse and back to her eyes. “We are delighted that you are safe, and that you successfully brought home another spectacular exclusive.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.” The hero’s welcome was unexpected and endearing. Somewhat embarrassed, she addressed the crew of five assigned to help her, six counting George. “Okay, back to business. Whatever information you have gathered over the past twenty-four hours, transfer it into one file each, titled ‘Frankenstein,’ and send it to me. George and I will read through each of the files and compile the story from everyone’s notes. Since this has been a collaborative effort, we will all share the byline. Let’s get to it!”

  Galvanized into action, the staff got busy with the task at hand. George rolled his chair next to hers. “After we put the story to bed, we all want to take you to Four Daughters Irish Pub. What do you say?”

  “That sounds great, George. Thanks.” It was nearly seven; they’d be lucky to get out of there before nine or ten. She needed caffeine. She grabbed some change and headed to the break room.

  After the ambulances arrived for Celeste and Wilhelm, the police had questioned her at length. On the way back to the Chronicle, she’d called Riggs to give her a firsthand account. Because of the remote location, Medford police weren’t aware of the shooting, and the great part about that was that neither were local media. A story like that wasn’t contained for long, so she needed to write fast and post it online.

  After guzzling a Diet Pepsi, Whit threw her energy into the details of the story, and she and George wrote what she thought was one of her best. All the while, Stu paced back and forth behind them, leering over her shoulder, making suggestions. Irene had heard about what happened through the employee grapevine and stopped by to see if Whit was all right. She promised to meet them later at Four Daughters.

  When Whit finally pushed the send button on her computer, Stu practically danced in the aisle and offered to buy their drinks at the pub if she agreed to be available for media interviews first thing in the morning. He, of course, stayed behind to make sure the copy people didn’t slash and trash his prized edition. Everyone else bailed.

  Four Daughters, located in the Historic District downtown only a few blocks from the newspaper, had a traditional Irish pub feel, with dark wood and deep leather couches around brick fireplaces, pool tables, and a continuous stream of lively music. It would have been a decent walk on a good night, but the storm had let loose, and warm rain poured down in horizontal streams with dangerous gusty winds. Everyone disbursed in a hurry, racing toward their cars. The parking lot behind the newspaper was fenced, gated, and well lit. She hurried to her car, jumped in, and sent a text to Jordan and Emma that she’d be home in a few hours.

  During the short drive to the restaurant, thoughts of a chilled glass of wine and a steak sandwich made her mouth water. She had sufficiently recovered from her ordeal. Her jaw was sore and her throat felt strained, but all things considered, not bad. After her television and radio interviews in the morning, she planned on taking the afternoon off to spend it lounging at her parents’ pool and enjoying the Labor Day barbecue with her family. As far as she was concerned, the lion’s share of the Dr. Frankenstein story had been written up by her and her team, and any tidbits that had to be wrapped up could be left for the media vultures to consume.

  Time to celebrate.

  All the parking along the street was taken, so she turned down the back alley and pulled into a small space behind a closed shoe store. When she turned off the engine, she thought the only thing missing from her victory party was John. The deep ache that came with that thought brought instant tears. Suddenly, celebrating lost some of its appeal. She longed for his touch, even the smell of him. Certainly tonight he would have held her in his arms, whispering words of love and encouragement. He would have nursed her bruises with soft kisses. Though he was a man of the world, hardened in some respects by his lifestyle on the front lines of the world’s most desperate struggles, he had a tender heart, often quiet and introspective. Twelve years her senior, he had initially been reluctant to venture into a romantic relationship with a junior reporter. But he had come to admire her work in Baghdad, and their love, despite the horror of that war, found lasting hope in each other.

  Damn it! She wasn’t ready to let him go, but it was time.

  She leaned her forehead on the steering wheel, willing herself to shake off the grief.

  The thrill of putting to bed one of the hottest stories on the globe was now marred by this unending ache. Perhaps that would be her life for a long while. Acceptance was the first step. For now, she couldn’t let the others down, not after they’d worked so hard to help put the story together. She wiped tears away. Like it or not, she faced the rest of her life without John. The empty void he’d left behind had been replaced with anxiety, anger, and fear that twisted through her like a destructive tornado, leaving behind broken bits of who she used to be.

  She understood now that getting better was going to take a lot of work. Her phobia of the woods was not going to go away on its own. She’d try desensitizing, as Riggs had suggested, with walks in the woods until she could be free of the horror associated with it. Maybe Jordan and Emma would walk with her. It was at least a place to start.

  That decided, she dug through her purse for a tissue, but found only an old McDonald’s napkin. She never had tissues when she needed them. She blew her nose on the napkin and gathered her umbrella from under the seat. A gust of wind caught her car door as she opened it and nearly slammed it into a black Mercedes rolling past. Rain pelted her in the face as she jerked the door back and awkwardly opened the umbrella. Head down, she hurried along the sidewalk, past the occasional homeless person huddled in the shadows of darkened storefronts. Lightning illuminated the clouds in quick successive flashes, making her wonder if her umbrella was a bad idea.

  Nothing like carrying a lightning rod.

  She quickened her pace and crossed an alley where a stray cat huddled beneath a stairwell. Amid the low rumble of thunder came blaring music, a lively tune from up ahead, accompanied by clapping and joyous howls.

  Rounding the corner, Whit spied George waiting outside Four Daughters under a canopied cover. He wore a pale-pink polo shirt and light-blue dress slacks with tan leather Sperry’s. So very Ralph Lauren. She smiled. Since she couldn’t go out wearing bloodstained clothes, he had kindly lent her one of his pastel-pink dress shirts, which happened to be a near perfect fit because he was so slender.

  As she dove under cover of the awning, he smiled. “Come on, twinsie.” He guided her through the throng at the door. “Irene, bless her well-connected heart, saved a table for us upstairs.”

  They paid their cover charge at the door and received a red stamp of a unicorn on the back of their hands. Music pumped, inebriated people sang an Irish ditty along with the band, dancers cavorted, and laughter filled the space as they weaved around the dance floor to the staircase
. Upstairs was just as crowded, but not as noisy. Their table sat next to a long bar and beside a lounge area where a group of twenty-somethings were celebrating someone’s birthday with laughter. Whit envied all that happiness for a moment, then reminded herself that she had two beautiful daughters, loving parents, and an adorable pug waiting at home for her. She was not alone. With a sigh, Whit sat down with the other reporters and smiled. Someone shoved a beer into her hand, so she raised her glass to Irene’s toast.

  “Here’s to gutsy reporters!”

  CHAPTER

  34

  “WILHELM BIT THE dust,” Tucker announced through her truck’s speakerphone.

  “What? I just talked to you ten minutes ago! What happened?” Riggs flipped the blinker on to turn right onto Barnett Avenue, headed in a procession to the morgue. The cadavers had been x-rayed at the hospital and were now in transit. No surprise that the x-rays showed signs of teratoma tumors. They wouldn’t know for sure until the autopsy, but probability was high. “I thought the surgery went well.”

  “The guy’s a bleeder. Who would think it? A big guy like that.”

  Tucker would associate a man’s size with health. “Didn’t they figure out he was a bleeder during the surgery?”

  “I don’t know. His gut filled up with blood and he croaked; that’s all I know.”

  She flipped the windshield wipers on high as rain beat on the truck. “Did he ever say anything else besides what you told me earlier?”

  “Naw. Just dickin’ some girl. Kept saying he wanted to kiss her. Horny bastard.”

  Another call came in; she glanced at the phone number but didn’t recognize it. “Gotta run, Tucker. Thanks for letting me know.” She answered the new call.

  “Hey, Detective Riggs. It’s Figoni from Human Resources. You interviewed me at the morgue.”