Genesis Code

by Jamie Metzl

  “Blue dress, boss?”

  “The Clinton sex scandal. I was in middle school when President Clinton denied he’d been with Monica Lewinsky until word got out about a stained blue dress. They never had to produce the dress. The idea of it forced Clinton to confess.”

  “And you think that’s what we have here?”

  “Maybe,” I say reflectively.

  “And if they call the bluff and ask for evidence?”

  “If they do that, Joseph, we’re, I’m pretty much screwed. I need you to find out what you can about Bright Horizons. Who owns them, how do they protect their records, what kinds of people can access them, do they have surveillance cameras in their parking lot, who can access the tapes? See what you can dig up about the general manager, Jessica Crandell. There’s got to be a crack in the wall somewhere.”

  “On it, boss.”

  My mind shifts back to Toni as the line drops. I’ve been fantasizing about her all afternoon but still haven’t heard from her.

  You OK? I dictate to text.

  Do you really want to know? Her reply comes immediately.

  Yes!

  Not OK.

  Talk? I write, navigating the strange strata of intimacy between text, voice, video, and real-life.

  I guess.

  Meet? I write. Loose Park tennis court in 15?

  Ugh, she replies, which I interpret as an angry yes.

  I’d expected to find her sitting on the park bench near the water fountain but am surprised to see her stewing in her car. I open the passenger door and get in.

  “I am really pissed at you,” she says in her coldest of tones.

  I don’t know how to respond without more information. I look at her apologetically. The silence hovers.

  “I am really, really pissed at you,” she repeats.

  I’m still not sure how to respond.

  “Talk,” she orders.

  “What happened?”

  “Let me see,” she says, “you send me prying around the pathology lab. How much did you care if I got caught? How much did it concern you that I could be fired?”

  “I’m so sorry.” I realize I keep apologizing to everyone around me and keep pushing them into harm’s way nonetheless. “Please tell me what happened,” I say softly.

  She takes a deep breath then pauses and looks at me angrily. “It was easy to find where the tissue was supposed to be on the hospital computer. We had an infant mortality in the NICU yesterday. At the end of my shift, I told the path people I wanted to see the body one last time before it was sent for burial. I said the case had gotten personal for me. They let me in and pulled out the container with the body. I told the attendant I wanted to be alone with the baby’s body for a few moments and asked if he’d excuse me.”

  Toni pauses to calm herself.

  “He said they didn’t normally allow that, but because I was on staff he guessed it was okay. When he left, I started to open the drawer with the tissue you wanted. I opened it.” Toni’s eyes begin to tear. “Then I heard the door flying open. I pushed the drawer closed as quickly as I could, but he saw me.”

  “He?”

  “The chief pathologist, Papadakis, he started screaming, asking me what the hell I was doing, saying he was going to have me fired. He grabbed my ID badge and pulled it off my neck then told me to get out.”

  “And?”

  “And I did. I left the hospital and drove home. And I didn’t hear from you and thought it was so typical of you to send me to do something so dangerous for me and to not even call to see how I was.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  Toni shakes her head in disbelief. “I even knew you would say that. You probably even mean it. You just weren’t there.”

  She’s right and I know it. Part of me wants to tell her that I’ve been fighting to find out what happened to an innocent murdered girl, that I’d fantasized about her in the IVFGS clinic when nothing else worked, that it means the world that she was there when I needed her and she is here now. But I know that any of these words will only dig my hole deeper, that all of them are about what she’s doing for me. No wonder I’m still alone.

  “Can I ask you . . . ?” I say in my softest voice.

  Her eyes shift between expectancy and anger.

  “What was in the drawer?”

  She puts both hands on the steering wheel and looks out the front window with the distant face that had always frightened me when we were together, always signified a chasm I wondered if I could ever overcome.

  “I caught a glimpse just as Papadakis was storming in.”

  “And?” I press on, knowing I’m angering her even more.

  She stares at me for a moment then shifts her gaze out the front window.

  “It was empty,” she says softly.

  30

  It would be one thing if tissue samples had never been retained, but they had. Papadakis had all but confirmed that in my brief encounter with him. And the samples were logged into the hospital computer system. How could they disappear? Where could they go? Why did Papadakis fly into such a rage when he found Toni in the lab?

  Somebody is working incredibly hard to cover up. They erased MaryLee’s u.Mail account, officially forced me off the story, took the case away from the KCPD, and now probably stole the remaining tissue that could have told how MaryLee Stock actually died.

  Toni looks at me disdainfully. She knows I’m not thinking of her.

  My eyes can only be described as sheepish.

  “I did what you asked,” she says. “Now I think you should go.”

  I look at her with pleading eyes as I try to formulate a response. “Toni, I’m—”

  “Don’t,” she cuts me off.

  I nod my head sadly then slowly get out of the car. I feel the wind on my face as I stand, lost in the small parking area as she pulls away.

  Then I feel the vibration on my wrist.

  “Azadian, I have no idea what your phone message is about, but it’s obvious you’re not doing what I told you to do,” I hear through my earpiece. “I’m calling to make myself completely clear.”

  “Not sure if it’s a good idea on the u.D,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “Because others might be listening.”

  “That’s the whole point,” she says sharply. “I want you and anyone else to hear what I’m about to tell you. Drop the story, Rich.”

  “You mean the flower show?”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass. I am telling you, drop the fucking story. Drop the story now. And if you don’t understand that, let me put it to you this way. We are suspending you from the paper.”

  “What?”

  “Suspending you. You are suspended. How much clearer can I make this?”

  “Martina, I don’t understand,” I stammer.

  “I am here with Wes and Terry. We just had another visit from Marshal Gillespie and his sidekick, who handed us our second NPA notice. Do you know what that means?”

  I hesitate.

  “Do you?” she asks in an even harsher voice.

  “Yes,” I say sharply, “that NPA funds will get cut off next.”

  “That’s right. It means that the Star will be shut down unless you stop and I, we, are ordering you to do it now. I can’t say this any more clearly. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes,” I say dejectedly, “I do.” My voice trails off.

  “Good. Human Resources will be in touch with you about your status, your lack of status.”

  The call drops.

  Whatever I think Martina’s personal views may be, this time it’s the paper talking.

  My mind feels like a sputtering engine randomly spewing sparks as I sink into my car seat and lift my heavy hand to the ignition. All of my passion, all of my drive, feels almost conquered by the darkness coming over me. This could be the story of a lifetime and also the story of a single life, and the Kansas City Star wants me to drop it jus
t like that? If I keep going, they will get shut down and I’ll go to jail. If I try to get this published somewhere else, I’ll still go to jail and that other news organization will face the same NPA pressures as the Star.

  I’m so lost in my thoughts, I almost miss the ring coming from the bat phone.

  “Rich,” the furtive voice declares, “it’s Henderson. Where are you?”

  “In my car, heading home,” I say.

  “Don’t.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t go home.”

  “Why?”

  “Trust me, Rich. I already shouldn’t be telling you this.” His voice drops to a near whisper. “They’re there now. Don’t go home. Got it? And meet me tomorrow morning at seven thirty. Same place. And Rich.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful,” Maurice whispers.

  The call drops.

  I feel a surge from inside me I can’t completely define. Perhaps it’s shock that I’ve just been suspended from my job, perhaps anger at strangers violating my home. I imagine them digging through my piles of crap, shaking my instruments, wiggling their fingers through my socks and underpants. Part of me is enraged, part is a bit frightened. But my secret database is in my head, and to find it they’ll need to pull it out from where it is lodged. Halfway, it feels right now, jammed up my ass. And my immediate priority is simply finding a place to go.

  My home is out of the question. I sense intuitively I have no other choice.

  I tap my u.D for speed dial 2.

  She picks up after the first ring.

  “It’s me,” I say softly.

  Toni doesn’t respond.

  31

  I must be emitting some kind of cosmic distress signal as I drive toward Toni’s place, because just when I think I can’t take any more confusion, my mother calls.

  “Dikranigus.”

  I cringe. “Hi, Mom,” I say, trying to mask my voice.

  My mother’s emotional Geiger counter can’t be so easily fooled. “Dikran, I hear it in your voice,” she says in a more serious tone, “are you okay?”

  “I think I am,” I say, then kick myself for not resisting.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m fine, Mother.”

  “Janeegus, talk to your mother.”

  “Mom,” I say, “please believe me, I can’t.”

  My mother surprises me by uncharacteristically backing off. “Just know I love you and that I’m here for you.”

  “I know that.”

  “Where are you now, Dikran?” she asks.

  “In my car.”

  “Going?”

  I know I shouldn’t answer honestly but don’t have the energy to make something up.

  “To someone’s house,” I say after a few seconds.

  “Well, I’m not saying anything, Dikranigus, but that’s a good direction for you.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I say without much inflection.

  She picks up my tone, or lack of it, immediately. “What did I say?”

  “Nothing, Mom. I love you.”

  “I love you, Dikran, if you want to talk, you know I am always here.”

  “I know, Ma.”

  “Bye, Dikran. Say hello to someone for me.”

  I tap off the call knowing she’s still waiting on the line.

  I arrive at Toni’s small house with a growing sense I’m losing control of my life. I’ve not been back to Glendale for two years, but my relationship with my mother remains unchanged. I’m separated from Toni but now feel myself drawn back to her. I’m wavering about dropping the story, but with the feds searching my place right now the story is being drawn to me. And I’m exhausted.

  I still have her key in my glove compartment but knock anyway. Toni opens the door and walks away without saying a word. I follow her into her kitchen.

  “So tell me,” she says in her all-business voice, her full defenses deployed.

  I explain to her that I’ve been suspended from the paper, that federal marshals are probably searching my place right now, that I may have to drop the story.

  “Are you going to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She thinks for a moment before speaking. “Do you want some tea?”

  Her question surprises me. “Thanks,” I say, conscious that our new distance forces us to articulate what, when we were together, had increasingly been communicated through gradations of silence.

  She fills a mug with water and sticks it in the microwave.

  “How can I let go of this when I saw the girl’s body on the floor and when I think that what really happened, whatever that is, is being covered up? But how can I keep going when doing so could so easily kill the paper and land me in jail? And I’ve already gotten you into so much trouble at work.”

  I read Toni’s face and beat her to the punch. “To be or not to be.”

  She only half smiles. How many times had she accused me of living my life and observing it from afar at the same time? “Do you have to decide now?”

  I think about her question for a moment. “Pretty much.”

  “Why don’t you sleep on it for the night? I hate to say it, but the girl is already dead.”

  I pause to consider her words.

  “Just take the guest room and think about it.”

  I still don’t move.

  “Go on up,” she orders. “I’ll bring you some dinner later or you can eat down here if you like. Either way.”

  “Thanks,” I say, marveling at how many different meanings we cram into these simple, imprecise words.

  I lumber up the stairs, passing the door to her bedroom that had taken so much initial effort to enter, then proceeding down the short hall to the guest room. The lavender walls and silver transom hardly match my mood. I throw myself on the bed.

  Breathing in deeply, I remember the two yoga classes Toni had dragged me to at her gym. Everybody else sat up at the end of the class with serene looks on their faces and together recited ‘Namaste.’ My mind had raced the whole time. I try to watch my breath going in and out. It doesn’t seem to help.

  Thoughts of William of Occam invade my head. Lay down the facts, weigh the options, find the simple truths on the far side of complexity.

  I picture a grid in my mind and place a key piece of the story in each box, then I separate the boxes into a series of free-floating squares, moving them around to see what can match with what, where Occam’s simple story emerges. Should I walk away? I wonder. Maybe some stories can’t or shouldn’t be told.

  Toni’s words come back to me. Do I really need to make this decision now? What if I just sleep on it? And my meeting with Henderson tomorrow morning in Swope Park? Can I just not show up and call it a day?

  Breathe in, breathe out. I watch my breath inside of me and can almost see it.

  The knock startles me.

  She opens the door slightly and peeks her head in through the crack. “I made some pasta. Want me to bring it up?”

  “I’ll come down,” I say. “Give me a sec.”

  “Yeah,” she says, closing to door.

  More silly little words carrying so heavy a load.

  The normality of our dinner—pasta, salad, and Perrier around her kitchen table—feels hauntingly familiar, a scene from a past life fast blurring into the present.

  We talk about MaryLee Stock, about the hospital, about the comings and goings of her mother and her sister, but the real conversation happens in the spaces between the words.

  My mind wanders to a conversation we’d had when we’d just started dating as I walk up the stairs after cleaning the kitchen.

  “What’s your favorite pet?” she’d asked me as we strolled through the Plaza.

  My don’t-answer-honestly meter had started beeping in my head. As always, I didn’t listen.

  “Probably a dolphin,” I’d said.

  “A dolphin?”

  “Yeah, I’d live on the beach and go swimming in the mornings. The dolphin could
come swim with me when it wanted then we’d do our own thing until we met the next time.”

  She’d dropped my hand. It didn’t take a mind reader to guess what she’d been thinking.

  So much for honesty, I’d thought at the time.

  Now I think I’m an asshole.

  I get ready for bed and crawl under the covers. I toss and turn, trying unsuccessfully to watch my breath coming in and going out. If I can’t make a decision that impacts one other person, how can I make a decision that impacts all 674 employees of the Kansas City Star?

  32

  My u.D alarm only half wakes me because I can’t be more than half asleep. I tap off the message from my u.D, annoyed that it keeps reminding me my sleep quality is, don’t I know it, poor.

  An hour before I’m scheduled to meet Maurice I twist out of bed and make my way to the guest bathroom. A bag with socks, underpants, and a couple of shirts hangs from the knob outside my door.

  I thought these things had been thrown away when we split. Being here, eating at the kitchen table, having these clothes, makes me feel, confusingly, like I’ve never left.

  Toni is up and reading the news on her counter screen when I come down the stairs. The sight of her sitting erect in her barstool behind the counter, her head tilted slightly to the right as she focuses intensely on the words, her bobbed black hair dangling and exposing the full length of her slender neck, the way her T-shirt rolls over her body make me gasp. I pause and try to hide it, feeling like an actor entering a scene from the wrong part of the stage or from a different play altogether.

  “Good morning,” she says.

  “Thanks for the clothes,” I say.

  She smiles slightly but doesn’t answer.

  “I need to ask you for a favor,” I say.

  She tilts her head and looks at me with wide eyes. Well?

  “If they’re searching my house, it may be best for me to not be driving my car,” I say guiltily. It’s obvious to both of us that I have already dragged her into this mess far more than I should have, that I’ve already put her job in danger, and that the federal agents snooping around my house might well be on their way here.

  “And so you want to switch?”

  “Kind of. I don’t like the idea of you driving my car either. What if we switch for today but then maybe you can get a friend to rent a car and we can switch again at the end of the day? I’ll take the rental car and you take your car back.”