“Only my sister calls me Jimmy.”
“OK, OK . . . Jim.” Cronin raised his hands in mock protection. “Look, Internal Affairs is goin’ to clear you of the shootin’. He didn’t die. Why resign?”
“The media will just call it another cover-up.”
“You’re overreactin’,” Cronin said, running his hand through a thick shock of silky silver hair. “Jeez, the gangbanger reached for a weapon in his pocket. It was self-defense.”
“Except it wasn’t a weapon. It was his wallet with ID.”
“You know the law. If you reasonably thought it was a weapon, you’re home free.”
“Still . . . the kid was unable to hear or speak.” Murphy drew his hands over his face. “About Santiago’s age. I almost killed a human being who couldn’t hear or speak, who could have been Santiago.”
“Has my godson gone bonkers?” The commander’s face flushed. “You know as well as me he was sayin’ screw you in gang sign language.”
“I couldn’t sleep last night.”
“Get a grip.” The commander stood and paced behind his desk. “Jeez!” He ran his hand through his hair. “You come from a line of outstandin’ cops, your father and his father before him. That means making the hard calls and not lookin’ back.” He put his hands on his hips and lowered his voice. “Is it true your father’s got Alzheimer’s?” His hands slipped down to fall limp at his sides.
“Early stages.”
“Your old man and I were once patrol partners.”
“I know. Heard the stories enough.”
“Yes sir, thick as thieves we were when he asked me to be your godfather.” The commander slumped back in his chair. “Then for reasons unknown he wouldn’t talk to me again.”
Reasons unknown? Hardly. Cronin had helped the family through hard times by slipping money to Murphy’s mother on the condition of secrecy. When his father found out, the old man exploded and forced her to return what was left and repay what was spent. The commander had punctured his father’s male ego.
“Enough walking down memory lane. Why did you want to see me?”
“Will you reconsider resignin’?”
“Why should I? Even though I’m cleared of what happened in the alley, I’ll have the black mark of the assassination on my back. Top brass will let me rot in the career sinkhole . . . International Relations . . . where I’ll babysit foreign bigwigs visiting the city.”
“Buck up.” The commander came around the desk and placed his hand on Murphy’s shoulder. He squeezed. “I wanted to see you because I got some grand news.”
“I could use some.”
“The alderwoman of the twenty-seventh ward, and first cousin of His Honor, the mayor, feels she owes you. And that she does.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That was her daughter. The gangbanger tried to rape her daughter.” He gave Murphy a cuff on the shoulder. “The lady and myself put our heads together, we did, and made a few calls. And what do you know, lad, you have been assigned to the Thirteenth District as a detective where yours truly presides as the beloved commander.”
“Why didn’t you ask me first?”
“You’re welcome.”
“Thanks anyway.”
“No need for thankin’. You’d do the same for me.” Commander Cronin grew serious. “As you know, somethin’ strange is goin’ on in the streets. Hooligans disappearing . . . drug pushers gone. I know you’re curious and always liked puzzles . . . which is why you’ll make a dandy detective.” The commander sank back into his chair. “So . . . whaddaya say?” He extended his hand over the desk.
Cronin had always looked out for him growing up. He owed Cronin something.
“I’ll give it a try.” He shook the commander’s hand. “See how it goes . . . but no promises to stay?”
“No promises.”
Murphy’s cell buzzed. He answered. “Damn . . . I forgot with all that’s going on. I’m in the Thirteenth District now,” he said into the phone. “I’ll get right on it and call him to meet up somewhere and work out something for him to do.”
“What’s that about?”
“With everything going on, I forgot to call back that hotshot Italian detective who put down a coup. He’s the first in our professional exchange program.” Murphy got up to leave. “I left him stranded at O’Hare.”
“Murphy’s La—” The commander put his hand over his lips with a sheepish smirk. “What was the name of that eye-talian dick?” His hand slipped down to his chin, eyes looking at the ceiling. “Somethin’ like Marco . . . Marco Baloney . . . or Macaroni, is it?”
“Marco Leone . . . He’s police brass like you.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” He ran both hands through his silver hair. “I warned upstairs to keep him out. Someone’s threatening the death of him if he comes to Chicago.”
“He knew the danger before he came.”
“Hmmm. Police brass with balls.” Cronin smiled, stroking his chin. “I’m startin’ to like him already.”
Chapter Seven
“This isn’t working.” The voice coming over Dr. Angelo Mora’s cell whined with panic. “This isn’t the Ponce de León protein we want,” said Sebastian Senex. “Weren’t you supposed to be the hematology genius at the University of Padua?”
“My profound apologies, Mr. Senex.” Mora stroked his goatee. “I agree with you. The CDF11 protein is not the answer. But please be patient. I have already worked through ten thousand of the approximately forty thousand proteins found in plasma and am about to—”
“Enough lecturing. I demand the other option.”
“But I am so close to finding the Ponce de León protein . . . the fountain of youth.” He rubbed his right knee to lessen its ache.
“And I’m close to death.”
“Are you sure?” Mora wanted no misunderstanding. “Parabiosis is a crude shortcut with serious risks.”
“I’m aware of that,” Senex said. “I’ve made arrangements to try out your parabiosis procedure on guinea pigs, shall we say, before you use it on me. You will be provided two guinea pigs. We’ll see what happens to the older one.”
“Where will you get these . . . these guinea pigs?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“Forgive me.”
“Your only concern is medical. Understand?”
“I do.” He hesitated. “You will find the situation distasteful.”
“Distasteful?” The voice quivered. “More than death by Huntington’s disease? More than losing the ability to swallow, walk, or speak . . . or losing my mind?”
“I did not mean to—”
“Get started on the parabiosis protocol.” The voice regained its composure. “And don’t disappoint me again . . . unless you want to face a treason trial back in Italy. I can arrange that.”
“I’ll get started at once.”
After the call to Senex, Mora limped to the Phoenix Project laboratory under the Promethean Pharma campus. Senex and he had set up the lab for parabiosis research under the pretext of trying to create artificial blood. Already late for a meeting with his assistants, he poked an authentication code into the keypad. The biometric door lock allowed entry. Making a right turn inside the tunnel to the laboratory, he twisted his right knee. Waves of sharp pain pulsated through the joint. He reached under his white lab coat to rub it.
Senex’s threat to return him to the jaws of Italian justice aroused unpleasant memories that had never left. The so-called eminent surgeon at San Paolo Hospital in Milan had assured him the experimental knee replacement with a tantalum-and-zirconium metal implant was a medical breakthrough. The procedure combined the biocompatible qualities of tantalum with the wear-resistant qualities of zirconium.
Dr. Eminence had botched the surgery. Every day the pain in Mora’s right knee
recalled the malpractice. If Mora had not been forced to flee Italy, he would have settled scores with Dr. Eminence even though the surgeon was a fellow co-conspirator in Lucio Piso’s coup attempt. Mora had barely escaped with his life in a shoot-out under the Baths of Caracalla with Commissario Marco Leone’s special operations unit. The cost of the escape from the failed coup was shrapnel damage to his right knee. A friend of the dead Piso, Senex had extracted him from the reach of Italian law so he could help the ailing Promethean Pharma CEO cheat death.
Mora could never forgive Commissario Marco Leone for causing the knee injury and for crushing Italy’s far-right coup. Leone’s days were numbered as soon as the detective’s plane touched down in Chicago.
He emerged from the dark tunnel into the bright light of the lab.
“Uno and Due, I see you have ordered your favorite pizzas for lunch,” he remarked to his research assistants. The twin brothers fresh from Poland, Szczepan and Grzegorz Wojciechowski, squabbled about whether Pizzeria Uno or Pizzeria Due had the best pizza. Everything, including pizza, became grist for conflict between these two brilliant but moody blood researchers devoted body and soul to finding the fountain of youth.
The names of the twins also proved impossible tongue twisters for his Italian lips. During a night out on the town, he proposed christening them with the nicknames Uno and Due after the pizzerias in Chicago. What he proposed as a joke, the twins took to heart because of their love for the deep-dish pizza at these twin restaurants.
“Would you like some?” Due asked.
The sight of the deep-dish pizza piled high with crumbled sausage and cheese on a thick white-flour crust brought back heartburn memories of when they had welcomed Mora to Chicago with dinners on two successive nights at each of the restaurants.
“Heavens no,” he said.
The older one, Szczepan, he called Uno, because that twin claimed Pizzeria Uno had the better pizza, while the younger one with the cheek scar, Grzegorz, claimed Pizzeria Due did. If it were not for that scar, he could scarcely have kept the two straight based on their appearances alone.
“We have a change in our research protocol for the Phoenix Project,” he said. “We will explore the parabiosis option instead of looking for the Ponce de León protein.”
“That would be a mistake.” Uno stopped eating. “We should not give up on CDF11 as the Ponce de León protein.”
“Researchers have had conflicting results with CDF11,” Mora replied. “Subsequent research has questioned the preliminary findings of the Harvard researchers.”
“Why this sudden change of mind?” Uno shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Promethean Pharma,” Mora said, “will stop our funding unless we get results soon.”
“Parabiosis is impractical for humans.” Uno stashed the remainder of his dinner back in the refrigerator. “Even if you doubt CDF11, it points to the biological region where the Ponce de León protein probably resides.”
Mora could not tell them that CDF11 had failed to work on a human—Sebastian Senex himself. Even though the assistants knew the artificial-blood research unit was simply a subterfuge for the real Phoenix Project, Senex did not want them to know their boss had designed the project to save his own life.
“Hear me out,” Mora replied. Anticipating dissent, he had come armed with a review of the scientific literature, which he summarized for his assistants. “Back in the 1950s, when young and old mice were sutured together and their circulatory systems combined, the old mice showed remarkable signs of age reversal. No one knew why, because no one knew much about blood and nothing about the potency of stem cells. The procedure referred to as parabiosis, meaning ‘side-by-side life’ in Greek, was abandoned after the 1950s.”
“Abandoned for good reason,” Uno interrupted.
“Not so.” Mora stared Uno into submission before continuing. “Recently, scientists have replicated the parabiosis protocol with similar results. The old mice became rejuvenated. They had younger heart muscle, newer liver cells, and better healing.” He laid down his papers on the lab table. “Conversely, the younger mice aged. Draw your own conclusions.”
“Parabiosis is dangerous,” Uno said. “The possibility of an immunological reaction is—”
“Basically nonexistent.” Mora waved a sheaf of paper. “An experiment at UCLA in 2013 showed that parabiosis partners are free of harmful immune system reactions. Why do you think that is?”
Like a star pupil, Due leaped to his mentor’s defense. “Because the conjoined mice share a common blood pool, the antigens of each mouse are not treated as invading foreign elements to be attacked by the immune system of the other.”
“Excellent.” He liked Due, who always showed the deference to his opinion that Uno lacked. “The risk of a harmful immunological reaction is greater with transfusions between separate partners precisely because the antigens are not shared.” He held the lapel collars of his jacket.
“I also agree with Dr. Mora,” Due said, “because we don’t know whether there’s only one silver-bullet protein responsible for rejuvenating older mice. More likely, it’s some combination of proteins presently unknown in the blood, not necessarily one protein alone, that provides the rejuvenating effect of parabiosis.”
“Bravo,” Mora said. “Even if, hypothetically, there is only one protein that causes rejuvenation, parabiosis shortcuts our hunt by using thousands of proteins all at once instead of proceeding one by one.” Mora picked up a basic treatise on hematology and slammed it on the table. “This book confirms what every trauma or transfusion specialist knows. Younger blood is better in every way than older blood.”
“Why the hurry?” Uno asked. “The gruesomeness of parabiosis is not a practical solution for commercial use. Remember the decapitated rat experiments? Where two rats stitched together were not properly adjusted, one would chew off the other’s head.”
“Dramatic nonsense,” Due replied. “Those were early experiments. We would use parabiotic dialysis with a state-of-the-art pump similar to a kidney dialysis machine.”
“Exactly,” Mora said. He went to a whiteboard and sketched the machine that Promethean Pharma had already specially ordered for the Phoenix Project. “Except that this blood-exchange machine uses catheters to connect two humans into a unified circulatory system.”
“Nonetheless.” Uno folded his arms. “The FDA claims the science of parabiosis is unproven. It will never get approval.”
“I have it.” Mora touched the side of his head. “Due will work on a parabiosis protocol with me. You, Uno, will continue the hunt for the silver bullet.”
“I agree,” said Uno.
“Me too,” added Due.
“This is the only time you two ever agreed on anything.”
Chapter Eight
Back at Dugan’s on Halsted, Detective Jim Murphy took Commissario Marco Leone’s measure behind the joviality of beer-fueled small talk. Murphy clinked his bottle of Guinness against Leone’s bottle of Peroni beer and swallowed a gulp of the thick, dark liquid.
“Welcome.” He put down his bottle. “Any sign of COVID when you left Italy?”
“None.” Leone sipped his Peroni. “Let us hope the Chinese can contain this reported new strain of COVID. They say it has mutated.”
“Promethean Pharma says it’ll have a vaccine. America has nothing to worry about.”
“I think America does.”
“If you say so.”
A know-it all. As best he could figure out, the Italian commissario outranked his own detective status. That was reason enough for suspicion. Police brass were the same the world over. All talk and no longer streetwise. Those who lectured to those who did. He put down the Guinness. “I hear you commissarios rely on inspectors to do your work.”
“Do not regular police help American detectives?” Leone’s jawline tightened. “I work with my inve
stigator. I do not inhabit what you call the ivory tower.”
“No offense intended.” Murphy held his right palm out, not completely regretting his indiscretion. “Shake?” Leone gave his hand a stiff pump.
He would have to get along with Leone. Since she had failed to prepare for Leone’s arrival with a detailed plan, the head of Chicago PD’s International Relations Department readily accepted Commander Jack Cronin’s offer to make Leone a tagalong assistant to his godson, Jim Murphy, now assigned to the Thirteenth District.
The commander was happy, not because he was doing his godson a one-way favor, and they both knew it. The truth was that Jack Cronin was happy he had helped his godson and in the process banked a favor for a future favor in a city where account books of favors given and received had to be balanced to maintain the order of the political universe. The director of the International Relations Department was happy because the commander had taken the foreigner off her hands. Murphy was the only one not happy. He had a so-called “assistant” Italian detective with no police authority in the United States and likely to second-guess his every move on the streets.
Even so, he owed Leone civility. He had left the Italian stranded at O’Hare.
“Although I told you about the death threat against you, you still came.” Murphy pulled an English-Italian dictionary from his leather jacket. “It took”—he thumbed through the Cs—“coglioni . . . to come to Chicago despite the death threat.”
“Took balls?” Leone broke out laughing. “I understand. The idiom is the same in Italian.”
“Why did you still come?”
“I was burned up with my professional routine in Rome.”
“Burned up?” He stifled a laugh for fear of offending. “You mean burned-out, right?”
“Precisely.” Leone sighed. “I was burned-out. I needed a change. To see America.” Leone pushed aside the glass of Peroni beer. “This is not my first death threat. It goes with the position of commissario.”
American Conspiracy Page 3