A little light-headed now, Whit pressed to keep him talking. “But how did you get the stem cells?”
“Oh. Yes. I used to work in government-sanctioned facilities at multiple universities, the last of which was NYU. We conducted biological experiments using stem cells. I’d been searching for the Holy Grail, the serum that would extend life indefinitely. Government restrictions forced me to go underground with my work. My off-the-books experiments were discovered, and I was called before the ethics board and stripped of my license. After my exile from academia, I tried to find employment in the private sector. And although I had a long list of prestigious accomplishments, I was forced to open my own business. Alas, now I have this lab.”
“So you got the cells from a university?”
“No. While I was at NYU, I happened to know a student there. His name was Figoni. He tragically had to leave school about the same time as I got fired. Since I work closely with the Rogue Community Hospital across the street from my lab, I happened to come upon Figoni one night working in the morgue. Pure chance, really. I discovered his mother was still in nursing care. So I made him a proposal. If he could provide embryonic stem cells from Human Resources, I could offer his mother a cure.”
“But how can you work if you don’t have a license?”
“I employ two licensed pathologists. No one knows about my basement experiments. When I was searching for a location, I found this building directly across from the hospital with a finished basement and a private entrance from the office upstairs, and a well-placed exit door to the parking lot. I could hardly ask for more. For all intents and purposes, I’m merely a businessman. I still call myself a pathologist, and no one around here is the wiser. The hospitals are woefully understaffed and their pathology takes too long, so I started a twenty-four-hour service, and before long I picked up more work than I could handle. Ironically, I process most of the law enforcement pathology.”
Ignoring his attempt to be clever, she asked, “Do you really think it’s possible to live indefinitely?”
“Yes, and I’m not the only scientist working on it. I have, in fact, succeeded with mice. Some of my furry subjects over there have been around for four years. That’s twice to three times their normal life expectancy, and they show no signs of aging. Here, I’ll give you a demonstration.”
He walked out of the glassed-in room and crossed to the plastic containers of mice. He paused and pulled on rubber gloves. While his back was to her, she strained against the tie wraps, but only succeeded in cutting the flesh on the palms of her hands. The cuts on her wrists stung, but the pain kept her alert.
A moment later he returned with a white mouse. “This one is from the container of four-year-old mice. Doesn’t look old, does he? Muscles are still strong, no signs of aging.” Without warning, he retrieved his scalpel and split the belly of the mouse wide open. Whit cringed in horror as its little legs kicked. Unfazed, he squeezed and spilled out the bleeding insides. “You’ll notice how pink and perfect the organs are. Not a trace of deterioration.” He smiled, enjoying her shock, then pivoted around and tossed the mouse into a hazardous-waste bin, peeled off the gloves and threw those in too.
This man would have no remorse at all for killing her. Her situation was hopeless. No one knew where she was. Even if her daughters reported her missing, the police probably wouldn’t search for her until morning. By then it would be too late. She had to keep him engaged in conversation as long as possible.
After inhaling a deep, steadying breath, she asked, “What went wrong in the human experiments?”
He sat down and crossed his legs. “Alas, the human body has all kinds of check systems in place. I mixed stem cells with steroids and growth hormones, and a glucocorticoid—that’s an immunosuppressive drug. It suppresses the immune system so the body won’t combat the stem cells as a foreign object. Organ transplant recipients are required to take immunosuppressive drugs so their body doesn’t reject the new organ. My experiments worked beautifully on the mice, but humans have a more advanced immune system. The longevity trials I’ve conducted on humans inevitably result in teratomas.”
The puddles of blood alongside Whit’s bed on the pale-green linoleum floor were alarming, yet the bleeding had slowed. That would buy her some time.
“How did you convince those wealthy people to participate in your trial?” She licked dry lips. “I mean, they were intelligent, accomplished people, taking such a risk.”
“Oh, it wasn’t difficult. Wilhelm is a … was a great schmoozer. His job at Eden Retreat allowed him to massage his way into vulnerable people’s confidence. He found their Achilles’ heel. Vanity. It was surprisingly easy in the end. Everyone wants to be young again, no one more so than the very, very vain.”
“So he appealed to their biggest weakness?”
“Yes, and Wilhelm convinced them that these trials were already being conducted overseas with great success. They had only to go on the internet and read the hype publicized on various websites to believe him.”
“Sad that these people were so blinded by their vanity.”
“Yes. It didn’t hurt that Dr. Heinemann is a psychiatrist who recommends massage therapy. Needy people with lots of money. Wilhelm had only to tap into that ready-made delivery system.” His face suddenly flushed. Those striking blue eyes bore into her. “I was so close! All I had to do was increase the immunosuppressant.”
His sudden surge of fury spun her heart into a frightened gallop. Redirecting him, she asked, “Why are you so intent on this mission?”
His eyes narrowed. He leaned back, lips pursed in thought. “My grandmother raised me until I was eight years old, when she died of a heart attack. After that I became an unwanted burden, shuffled from home to home. The last home I was transferred to was the worst. Without going into details, let me just say I learned despair and ultimately fury. I killed the foster parents and ran. I changed my name and learned how to take care of myself.”
“No one ever found you?”
“No. I lived hand to mouth. Soup kitchens, handouts, and whatever I could steal. A few years later I took the identity of another runaway after I killed him.” Something of the revulsion she felt must have been reflected in her face. “Don’t look so shocked. He had it coming.”
“So that’s what you do? Kill anyone you think might get in the way of your plans?”
He shrugged and nodded. “Only when necessary. I’m not a monster.”
“I’m a human being, just like you. I have hopes and dreams too.” Maybe if she could force him to visualize her as something other than a target, he might have doubts.
“Are you all out of questions so soon?”
Her breathing felt shallow; she didn’t know how much longer she could stay lucid. “You … you still haven’t told me your motive for wanting to find the perfect elixir.”
He sighed. “During the years that I was on the run, I kept thinking, ‘If only Grandma hadn’t died. If only … if only!’ It was an incessant reel that played over and over in my head. I used to dream about it. About Grandma living forever. An obsession, really.”
Whit found it difficult to relate him with a loving caregiver, like a grandmother. He had apparently loved her. Those early years had not prevented him from growing into an evil man. Whether it was genetic or environmental, she didn’t know, but either way, he was clearly insane.
Kessler rambled on. “While in college, I studied the myths of Thoth and Hermes Trismegistus, both of whom drank a mythical potion—a ‘liquid gold’ that gave them immortality. It’s also referenced in the Nag Hammadi texts: twelve leather-bound papyrus codices found in a sealed jar in 1945 in the Egyptian town of Nag Hammadi. The texts were perhaps written in 367 AD. I’m telling you this to give you context to the quest for immortality or, more importantly, eternal youth. Many alchemists in various cultures and through the ages sought this elixir. Ironically, numerous Chinese emperors are suspected of dying from drinking elixirs contrived with precious met
als, even mercury. So you see, I’m certainly not the first to acquire casualties in the pursuit of immortality. You’ll be among a very long and prestigious list of subjects.”
Chilled now, trembling, close to tears, Whit felt her voice growing weaker. “You know a lot about it.”
“I read everything I could find on the subject. So naturally it became my passion as a scientist.” He stood, glaring down at her. “I believe I was only mere weeks away from achieving what mankind has sought for centuries. I’ve decided to take my research to the Ukraine, where they have none of these moral obstacles. I’ve already made arrangements. I’ll just hire a business manager for the lab. No one will be the wiser.”
She had to prolong his conversation, praying that by some miracle she’d be found. “How did you go from a runaway to becoming a doctor?”
“I took my GED, passed, and applied for college. During my placement testing I scored high in math and science. I’d always been a good student, even in the abysmal places I lived. With government funding, I succeeded.”
The room dipped and swayed sickeningly. She shook her head to stay focused. “That’s quite a story.”
“Yes. One you’ll never write.”
CHAPTER
36
THE AUTOPSY FOR Elaine Boccioni concluded, Riggs stripped off her gloves and washed her hands. The teratoma had been found on the fifth vertebra, leaving little doubt that these vics were also members of Wilhelm’s experiment.
Dr. Brennan, the Josephine County medical examiner, paused on his way out. “Nice working with you folks. Can’t say I’ve ever worked on such a high-profile case before.” Short and lean, he had a hawkish profile and a thatch of thick brown hair. He was in his late thirties but seemed even younger. “Shame about Dr. Weldon, though.”
Riggs nodded. “Once this is all over, I think he’ll be allowed back.”
“Well.” Brennan headed toward the door. “We have an early morning, and I never sleep well when I’m staying away from home. I’ll see ya’ll tomorrow.”
Panetta joined her at the sink. “Blackwell just called. Figoni was not in his room. They found his body behind the hotel in a ditch. Shot in the head.”
“Damn it!” Riggs tossed the towel she was using to dry her hands into the sink. “When are we going to get a break?”
Panetta said, “Hey, you tried. We were just minutes too late.”
“I guess so. I’m really just exhausted.” She pulled off her paper booties and tossed them in the trash. “Now … of course we have to answer the question of who shot Figoni. We know it has to be Heinemann, unless there’s something we don’t know.”
“I think you need to call it a night and get some rest. You can deliver that teratoma to Dr. Kessler in the morning.”
“True. I’ll wait until morning, after we finish the other autopsy. But I’ll leave a message for Kessler so he has a heads-up.” She yawned loudly.
Panetta suddenly grinned. “He’ll probably be thrilled. After this case is over, he’ll be able to add several more teratomas to his collection.”
“His collection?”
“Yeah. That grotesque row lined up on the shelf in his lab.”
Warmth spread through her stomach, and she reached out and grabbed Panetta’s arm.
“What?” He frowned.
“Oh my God!” Her mind raced back to Tucker’s voice. “He said, ‘Dick her. Kiss her.’”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Tucker. He said, ‘Dick her, kiss her.’ Doctor Kessler! Dr. Kessler has a collection of teratomas. When Wilhelm was dying, his jaw wired, he kept telling Tucker, ‘Dick her, kiss her.’ He meant Dr. Kessler! Figoni said Dr. Frankenstein has a collection of teratomas. Who else do you know with a collection of those things? Come with me.” She yanked his arm and grabbed her truck keys. “While I drive, you call Blackwell; get some patrol cars to Kessler’s home. You and I will stop by his lab; it’s on the way.”
Racing behind her into the rainy parking lot, Panetta said, “Dr. Kessler is Dr. Frankenstein? Weirdly, that makes perfect sense.”
“Yes. Looks like we were wrong about Dr. Heinemann after all. And Kessler was right under our noses all this time.” She unlocked the doors and started the truck, peeling out on wet pavement as Panetta buckled up. “He must have been laughing at us. Even teaching the community about teratomas at the gym.”
Panetta called Blackwell, who belted out obscenities perverse and loud enough to make her blush.
Over the years she’d worked with Dr. Kessler, she’d always thought he was odd, but he was a lab geek, so she’d written it off as normal. But now, she realized he had an aloofness that was sometimes disconcerting. And those intense blue eyes that seemed to stare right through her …
Traffic was light, as it was nearly midnight. She drove through several red lights.
She shook her head, frustrated with herself. “I let Tucker’s crude mind affect my own judgment. I mean, Wilhelm’s jaw was wired. Of course he couldn’t articulate clearly. And he was high on morphine besides. Damn it! Tucker relates everything to muscle power and sex. I should have known better.”
“I wouldn’t have picked up on it either. Besides, this is day three with almost no sleep. It’s taken its toll on all of us.”
“Yeah, but when Figoni called, I still didn’t think of Kessler. Who else collects tumors?”
“True, but you told me he’s worked with the department for five years or so. That’s a long time to trust someone.”
“And didn’t he play on that?”
They were nearing the intersection of Barnett and Black Oak, half a block from Kessler’s lab.
Panetta said, “Circle through the parking lot first.”
Riggs turned onto the main road and entered the parking lot from the rear of the building, then jammed the brake while her stomach did a sick flip. She stared at the white SUV.
Panetta asked, “Whose car is that?”
“That’s Whit McKenna’s car.”
“Park. I’m calling for backup.”
They bolted into the rain and tried the back door. Locked. Staying close to the building, guns drawn, they proceeded to the front door. Also locked. Riggs shot the glass and watched it shatter. Panetta reached through and opened the door, immediately setting off an alarm that sent the ceiling lights flashing.
Moving forward in single file, staying close to the wall, the lights strobing, Panetta led the way to Kessler’s main lab door; Riggs raced past him and jerked the door open. A few lab techs were huddled in the far corner. A heavyset woman with jet-black hair was on the phone, presumably talking to police because of the alarm.
Panetta showed the woman on the phone his badge.
“We’re police,” Riggs said. “Have you seen Dr. Kessler tonight?”
They all shook their heads no.
Panetta approached the group. “What about a reporter named Whitney McKenna?”
Again, no.
Stumped, Riggs glanced up and saw the glass jars of teratoma tumors so proudly displayed on Kessler’s shelf. With a shiver, she wondered if some of those had been from previous victims. Turning, she spotted a door near the back of the room that read PRIVATE. Panetta had seen it too. He tried the knob, but it was locked.
Pointing, she asked, “Where does that door lead?”
The woman who’d been on the phone responded, “That’s Dr. Kessler’s office, but he’s not in there.”
“Can you open the door?”
“No. I’m Dr. Hartwick, the night pathologist, and even I don’t have access. He’s the only one with a key.”
Panetta wasted no time and sent two rounds into the door, splintering the wood. He nodded for Riggs to be ready and shoved his shoulder into it, cracking open the frame, the door burst open.
The room was empty. It was a typical office with a large oak desk, filing cabinets, and bookshelves.
“Damn!” Riggs marched out into the hall and spotted two patrolmen. “Guys, take t
he second floor.” She and Panetta searched two back closets attached to the office but found no one, just shelves of supplies and outdated or broken lab equipment.
They returned to Kessler’s office. Riggs searched his desk and was flipping through his papers when Panetta said, “Hey, there’s another door.”
They’d overlooked it because it was behind a decorative divider, and with the flashing lights it had blended into the wall. He stepped forward and slipped behind the divider, kicking it in. “We have stairs to the basement. Come on!”
Riggs followed, racing down the concrete stairs with Panetta, and found a large laboratory. Turning to her right, she bit back a cry. In the strobing lights was a macabre scene from a horror movie that instantly chilled her to the bone. Even from where she stood, she could smell the unmistakable, metallic scent of blood.
Whit lay bleeding, her red hair spilling over the side of the bed, the floor beneath her flooded with an alarming amount of blood. Her forearms had been slit wide, and blood pumped in small arcs. Trails of red streaked across the walls and dripped in streams to the floor.
No sign of Kessler.
Panetta grabbed her arm. “Go to her. I’ll find Kessler.”
He raced to an exit door on the other side of the room and scrambled up the stairs. Riggs rushed forward, slipping on the bloody floor, down on one knee, and caught herself on the side of the bed.
So much blood …
She grabbed both arms and applied pressure, but had to let go and unclip her phone to call 911 for an ambulance. At least they were right across from the hospital. After giving the operator the vital information, she yelled, “Hurry up!”
Even in the few seconds she’d used the phone, blood had pumped out of the exposed wounds. She clamped her hands around the cuts, pressing down with all her weight on both arms.
“Whit? Can you hear me? It’s Riggs.”
Whit opened heavy-lidded sunken eyes, her face pasty white. She whispered, “He wanted to watch me bleed to death … When the alarm went off, he … cut deeper.”
A Desperate Place Page 28