Human Remains

by Melissa Yi

  "Last night. Before my run." Ryan hesitated.

  I knew him too well. I could see my own wide, frightened eyes in the mirror, but it didn't stop me. My voice echoed off the bathroom walls. "What are you not telling me?"

  "I solicited the hits. You told me Chris had gotten spam, so I sent it directly to everyone from both labs, plus a few other places to make it less obvious that I was zeroing in on one place. Lab e-mails are on the university contact page, so it was easy."

  My heart thudded. Ducky was dead. Lawrence was dead. Both of them were people of colour. Could Ryan's web page have tipped the balance for Ducky, or was it a coincidence? "Who was it?"

  "The one from the virology lab was hidden. I'm not sure how they managed it, but I'll work on it when I have a chance. Someone from your lab clicked on my site, read all the pages, and posted repeatedly on 14-88. com. I'm pretty sure I know who it is. I set up an HTTP referrer header, a web bug, and super cookies, and I've got his browser fingerprint—"

  I could barely understand what he was saying. I sort of know what computer cookies are, at least enough to try and block them. I seized on the one piece that made sense to me. "It's a guy?"

  "Do you want to know who it is?"

  "Of course." My mind shot toward Chris, who'd gotten the first spam. Why did he send me that homicide link? Was he bragging?

  "The one from your lab was Mitchell Lubian."

  "What, Mitch? That seems wrong." Pothead Mitch, who had a yen for half-white Summer—he was a white supremacist?

  My gut said no. Evidence said yes.

  We're taught to use evidence-based medicine. Don't counsel patients because "we've used this for a thousand years, so it must be okay." Use the best studies at your disposal to guide your practice. Evidence pointed to Mitch. I breeeeeeathed and said, "This is crazy."

  "Yes. I can show you what I've got—"

  "I wouldn't have any idea what it meant. I'd be better off looking at Roxy." I missed that big dog. She was part of my life now.

  "I know you like the guy, but it was either him or someone using his account."

  I relaxed a little. My teeth shone in the mirror, reflecting the intermittent light. "Well, he's the most likely to leave his computer lying around unlocked. He let me use his phone this morning. But the other possibility is that he's the racist one. Maybe he even sent that spam to Chris, although why? None of this makes any sense. And I'm not convinced Ducky killed herself."

  He sighed. "That poor woman. What happened to her?"

  "I don't know. They think she committed suicide, but I don't have any details. Just her last e-mail, which I'm sending to you." I forwarded it to him and bcc'd Tucker, who was now text-bombing me. Tucker would have to wait. Snooze and lose, my friend. We talked a bit about Ducky, and then I said, "I've got to go."

  "I don't like this, Hope."

  "Me neither. Listen. I've got this app." I explained the whole Finding Friends thing. "You'll know where I am, and I'll know where you are."

  "Where your phone is."

  "I'll keep it on me. I promise. I've got to get some work done." I paused. "Thank you for doing this. It must be even worse for you, because you want to believe the best of everyone, as a Christian."

  "Christianity doesn't mean you ignore sin. It means that you confront it. At least, that's the way I used to think about it, when I was a Christian."

  "Wh-what? Are you not a Christian any more?" I almost dropped my phone. "I mean, obviously I knew you were more, um, open to recreational activities, but—"

  I could hear the smile in his voice. "I don't know what I am any more."

  Seriously, forme, Ryan's biggest flaw hasalways beenhis religiousness. I know it's a big up for some people. My grandmother has been in love with him for aeons. But I don't like the church or anyone else dictating the way I should think and behave. I want to make my own moral and immoral choices.

  I knew I'd changed, especially since 14/11. I hadn't considered how Ryan was evolving in front of my eyes. He'd never had a dog, but now I could hardly see him without Roxy. He'd always put work first, until he started trapping racists for me. He'd been surrounded by loving, sane, stable friends and family until he hooked up with me and faced both death and birth head on, when the average guy couldn't handle a tampon commercial.

  The one unshakeable core of Ryan had always been his Christianity— until now.

  "I don't trust anyone you're working with." He paused. "I know this is a strange question, but are there any other non-white people in your lab?"

  "Summer is half. I think Dr. Wen is Chinese, and Samir looks Middle Eastern."

  I could almost hear him shaking his head. "I don't want to make a big deal about my website. It could be nothing."

  "Could be," I agreed, but now that we knew people I worked with were actively clicking on WN websites, it seemed like something.

  I had to talk to Mitch.

  But first, I needed to figure out what happened to Dahiyyah.

  Chapter 38

  As soon as I re-entered the lab, Summer engulfed me in a wet hug. "Isn't it awful? You should take the day off."

  I could feel her tears on my neck. I patted her dark hair awkwardly. My Zisa and pregnancy tests had both come back negative last night, but I still felt contaminated. It might take me a while to seroconvert, so I'd rather avoid all close contact, except with Ryan and Tucker. I withdrew as graciously as I could. "What happened to Ducky?"

  "We don't know." She touched a tissue to her red eyes. "Mitch said she might've taken some poison."

  He could have been quoting me. "Oh, yeah? Where is Mitch?" I asked, as casually as I could. Chris and Dr. Wen were back at their benches, and I'd passed Samir on his computer in the office, but Mitch was AWOL.

  "He said he was going to talk to Harold." Summer blew her nose, which was puffy. "This is awful. I don't know if I can keep working like this. I can't even think."

  I'd been fantasizing about busting my way back into the security booth. I came back to my body with a jerk. Summer was right in front of me, sobbing and smelling like strawberry shampoo, and I was contemplating murder and revenge. In books, people usually throw up when they find a dead body. I'd taken a shower and shagged one of my boyfriends after finding Lawrence. Another sign that I'd checked out of the human race.

  Then again, I remembered Ryan's warm hands and the tears I'd shed after we left Joan and her babies, and I thought, Maybe I'm checking back in.

  I took Summer's hands in mine. Hers were cool, and her fingers were finer than Ryan's or Tucker's. "It's going to be okay." My voice was so low and reassuring, I almost believed myself.

  Summer threw herself back on me. "I hope so, Hope!"

  And then we both laughed, because of my name, which seemed more ironic than ever.

  "Do we know anything about Dahiyyah? What happened to her, who found her?"

  Summer shook her head. "Just her e-mail. The one she sent it to everybody. Did you get a copy?"

  "Do you mind sending it to me?" I was curious if hers was the same as Mitch's. I assumed so, but you never knew.

  She nodded and bent over her phone to forward it, but started crying over the note. "This is so terrible! I can't believe it! She was a research assistant like me, and now … "

  "Horrible," I agreed. Instead of touching Summer, I murmured soothing things.

  She said, "That poor thing. I wish I'd talked to her more. We should've made her come to Petra's. Oh, one of us should call her family. Her parents. I think she had sisters and a brother, too. Oh, my God. What's going to happen next? It's so scary!"

  "Yeah." I wasn't going to get any more information out of Summer. I know it sounds callous, but I call it CNN Syndrome. It's like watching the news after a tsunami. You want to know more, so you turn on the TV, but it's a bunch of people saying the same thing over and over again. I'd have to wait until the police or the rumour mill came up with more information to piece together what happened to Dahiyyah. "That's a good idea. Oh, thanks, I
got the message."

  I opened the e-mail on my phone. The text and the time were the same, but this time, I noticed an attachment, which I downloaded. It contained a vaguely familiar picture of a molecule with a surface covered in what looked like miniature suction cups.

  Summer was still talking, but I showed her the phone. "I opened the attachment. What is that?"

  She barely glanced at it. "The Rift Valley virus."

  My mind tessered to Stephen Weaver's poster, leapfrogging over the dead cow fetus photo to zoom in on the virus itself. She was right. Holy kahuna. "Maybe that's a clue!"

  Summer raised her eyebrows. "That's her sig file. It has been ever since she started helping Stephen Weaver on his project. When she started helping Lawrence, she added the Zisa virus. I'm kind of surprised she deleted that one, but maybe it was too upsetting a reminder after he died."

  "Maybe." I thought it was strange that Dahiyyah had included Rift Valley disease in her signature file, when she couldn't bear to talk to the guy. But I searched for Rift Valley disease online, and the virus looked exactly like the sig picture.

  I forwarded the message to Ryan. Maybe he could work his computer mojo on it.

  Summer shook her head. "You're not supposed to forward lab e-mails. Well, I guess you can, but it's not the best idea on your first week."

  My stomach plummeted. I glanced at my phone, but it had already whooshed. "Crap. You guys already sent it to the police, though, right?"

  "I think Mitch did."

  "That's what he told me, too. Well, I'll let the police know I've got it. If they ask for it, I'll forward it to them. If they've already got it, they won't care."

  Summer sniffed, clearly leaving me to my risky e-mail habits.

  I sat down at my desk and pulled out the police officers' business cards from my wallet. Cops are surprisingly analog. They have notebooks and real business cards. I messaged the woman and the man separately. They'd probably call me a kook, but that was nothing new.

  Then I booted up the lab safety modules. Most people got them done in two days, so I was running late. Meanwhile, I scanned Tucker's old texts, which made me smile.

  It's 8 degrees Celsius here. Not that I'm trying to make you jealous or anything. But it's a short plane ride to LA.

  [After the twins]

  WTF. You're kidding me.

  [After I told him some details] You're not kidding me. Holy shit.

  [After Ducky]

  This is Crazytown. As soon as I've got my colon back together, I'll protect you, Batwoman. In the meantime, I'll check out the WN.

  That one, I had to respond to: No. Your job is to convalesce.

  No way, Hope. This is something I can do from Cali. I'm doing it.

  Me: No. I don't want you endangering yourself.

  You think someone's going to fly down to LA to take me out? ;)

  Me: They're in LA already. They probably have Meetups.

  Maybe an earthquake will take 'em out. But in the meantime, I can check on WN. I'll read up on Lawrence and Dahiyyah. I already found this.

  He sent me a bunch of PubMed article links from Dr. Hay's lab. I glanced through them while watching a video on the proper way to use the Lentihood, the fume hood for lentiviruses at the back of Tom's lab. Tip: use Virox before and after, to kill all the viruses. Since HIV is a lentivirus, Virox would be my best friend. They also suggested manipulating lentiviruses only during regular working hours. Yay, an excuse to work like a normal person.

  By lunchtime, I celebrated the end of my second-last safety module by checking Lawrence's laptop files, which I'd copied from my USB to a netbook I'd borrowed from my dad. He'd insisted I take it because the Internet was too slow off my phone, and the lab used Windows computers.

  Lawrence had used Word, so it was pretty straightforward to read his files. His scientific notes were so dense with jargon, I skimmed whatever I couldn't understand.

  After a few minutes, I forgot all about lab safety and read in earnest.

  A functioning Zisa vaccine was the current Holy Grail. We're talking billions of dollars, dozens of corporations, nations, and government agencies throwing their hat into the ring. At least 30 different groups were working on it, making it one of the most pursued vaccines in human history.

  Zisa is a flavivirus, which means it's in the same family as yellow fever, dengue, West Nile virus, and all that other fun stuff.

  Like Zisa, West Nile is transmitted by mosquitoes, and 80 percent of infectees don't have any symptoms. The media got a mini erection about West Nile virus, and so did researchers, who developed a vaccine for it in case it became the next big bad. But it turned out that less than 1 percent of people have any serious consequences from West Nile (meningitis or encephalitis), so the vaccine never went anywhere.

  However, you can use West Nile research as the backbone for a good vaccine against Zisa.

  Lawrence believed we could use plasmids to make the vaccine. Here's my simplified take on it: a bacterium carries most of its DNA in an uncoiled mass, except for some backup or complimentary DNA it carries separately in things called plasmids. It's like having most of your money in the bank, except you carry a gold nugget in one purse and a Bitcoin in another. At least one purse has a separate pocket for bear spray, because some plasmids carry genes for antibiotic resistance.

  Bacteria can pass plasmids back and forth to each other, even across species. It's like lending the gold to your family or your cat. (I know, I know. What would your cat do with gold? Ask the cat millionaires.)

  It's a pretty nifty system for bacteria—and for us, once a human thought of exploiting plasmids to replicate the DNA we want.

  Like Zisa DNA. Not all the DNA, because you don't want to cause the epidemic you're trying to avoid. Just enough of the chromosome for the body to recognize Zisa DNA, make antibodies against it, and slaughter it whenever the real thing comes around.

  This may come in two stages. First, the vaccine so that northern travellers can get a sun tan on the beach in January without worrying about their future progeny. The vaccine for endemic areas comes afterward. Right now, the money is in protecting the rich travellers.

  I texted the info to Tucker.

  He wrote back right away. Yeah, I can see how plasmids would work, but it looks like NIAID is already working on it.

  I clicked on his link. Sure enough, the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases had already started human clinical trials in August. I have to say, that stunned me. I never heard of a vaccine developing that fast.

  Which meant that one man, isolated in a lab in Ottawa, had almost no chance of beating the big guys with the money. No matter how brilliant or determined he was, he couldn't win against 30 different teams with billions of dollars.

  On the other hand, Lawrence was the kind of guy who wouldn't give up.

  I texted back, Thanks. If you really wanted to go rogue and develop a vaccine on your own, how would you do it?

  I endured a few minutes of silence and of " … " percolating while he thought about it. I would try to develop some sort of process and patent it so that whatever they did, they'd have to pay me to access it.

  I shook my head and typed back. That's if you want money. But it would slow down the process, and what if your wife had Zisa?

  He shot back, If you had Zisa, and you were pregnant, I would do anything.

  My heart halted for two beats. Tucker was thinking about marrying me. Even in passing, that was a seismic moment.

  Then he texted, If you weren't pregnant, I would trust your immune system to get over it, and then I'd work with whoever had the best chance of developing a vaccine.

  I could breathe again. Relieved and disappointed, I tried to concentrate on the medical part. Lawrence didn't join a team. He came to Ottawa, probably because of his wife. I'm trying to figure out what he was doing, and so far, I'm pretty sure he was gunning for plasmids. He didn't have any funding, though, and it would take him months to secure that, let alone do the
molecular bio, the animal studies, and then jump through the hoops for human trials. He didn't have a team except one research assistant split between up to 3 people. He was probably soliciting volunteers on Craigslist, but that's illegal.

  Tucker: So he should pull a Barry Marshall.

  A what?

  You know, the H. pylori guy. He did his own gastroscopy and biopsy, infected himself with H. pylori, and then scoped and biopsied himself again before treating himself with tinidazole, to prove that HP causes ulcers.

  I said out loud, "My God. What if Lawrence tested a vaccine on himself ?"

  Chapter 39

  What if self-vaccination had gone wrong?

  What if that had made Lawrence sick on Sunday (Ducky: He said he was feeling sick and wanted to go home. I told him to just go, I'd finish up here!), so he hadn't been able to work, had stumbled out of the lab, and … ended up suffocated in a ditch?

  No, it still didn't hang together.

  But I could test my theory, if I had evidence.

  First of all, had he been working on the Zisa virus in his lab? I'd need to search their fridges and freezers. If he'd labeled everything ZISA, that was a no-brainer. However, if he'd mislabeled the samples or hidden them because he didn't have permission, I'd have to be a real detective to track them down.

  Next, to check for self-experimentation, I'd need samples of Lawrence's blood or urine. I'd have to ask someone in lab medicine exactly what tests to run. The bigger problem was getting a hold of his bodily fluids when he was already deceased.

  Lawrence's funeral was on Sunday. They might have cremated him. I hadn't asked, and I didn't know if that was culturally acceptable, but obviously, if they'd burnt his remains, it was game over.

  Somehow, it seemed more likely that they'd opt for a viewing, even though that was more expensive.

  I started Googling. If they'd drained Lawrence's blood and replaced it with formalin, could I access it for testing? Probably not. I bet they dumped all blood into a central repository. No chain of evidence. Even if the lab was willing to test it and found Zisa antibodies, I couldn't prove which body the blood had come from.