Genesis Code

by Jamie Metzl

  Jerry sinks into his chair. “Shit, shit, shit, shit,” he repeats.

  “Jerry,” Maurice says in his calm and reassuring voice. “How many women in the Bright Horizons database are in the same age, height, and marital categories as the nine deceased?”

  Jerry wiggles his fingers in the air and a new screen pops up. “One hundred and twenty-seven,” he says after a long silence.

  “Print out both lists, Jerry,” I say. “We’ve got to reach out to those women.”

  “And say what?” Maurice asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say breathlessly, “maybe just to be careful.”

  “We can, but we still need to find out what we’re looking for if we’re going to help anyone.”

  “Jerry, keep probing the database and see what you can come up with,” I say hurriedly. “Maurice, you and I can go talk with Joseph—”

  My words are cut short by the ring of Jerry’s office intercom.

  Jerry’s eyes bulge with bewilderment as he waves his hands in our direction. His signals are unclear. Our situation is not. “Federal marshals just came into the building,” he shrieks. “They’re on their way down.” He’s shaking.

  Maurice steps in. “That gives us about two minutes,” he says coolly. “All three of us can’t get pulled in at the same time. Jerry, is there another way out of here?”

  “Um,” Jerry stutters, “there’s a maintenance tunnel that links all the buildings. It ends at the law school.”

  “Where’s the door?”

  “Um. Um, left out the door, right at the first corner, first door on the left.”

  “Good,” Maurice says. “Give Rich your ID badge.”

  Jerry fumbles to detach it from his belt and hands it to me. “Take this, too,” he says, opening the glass case and handing me what looks like a brick.

  “What’s this?”

  “A cell phone from the nineteen nineties, part of my antique collection,” Jerry stutters, “still works. Battlestar Galactica.”

  “Rich, see what you can figure out about the names. Go. Jerry, come with me to face these bastards.”

  Maurice has taken such complete control of the situation it takes me a few moments to compute all of this on my own. On my own, I now realize, is the operative phrase.

  “Go, dammit.” The force of Maurice’s words pushes me out of my paralysis. I grab the printout of names and the prehistoric cell phone and rush down the hall. I lurch right at the corner and left through the maintenance door.

  I walk like I know what I’m doing through the basement of the law school, up the steps, and out the door. My heart is pounding so hard I worry I’m going to drop the phone. The downtown Oak Street bus drives by. I run to catch it at the next stop.

  Jumping on, my heart racing, thoughts of the nine dead women swirl through my brain. The key to their deaths, and to any other women unknowingly in line to become the next statistics on the police database, is the wrinkled sheet of paper burning a hole in my jacket pocket.

  56

  If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs, Kipling wrote, then you are a man. Heading downtown on the Main Street Express, I am freaking out. What does that make me?

  I’d underestimated Gillespie’s ability to track my every move. How could I have been so stupid, I wonder. How much did he know of Jerry’s visit to my place this morning? How did he know that Maurice and I were at UMKC? The thought that Maurice had trained our crew in basic surveillance now seems laughable. We thought we were the ones following Gillespie, but how many of our moves had been tracked by him?

  And if I’ve been giving away everyone I’ve been working with, who is there left whom I can count on now? Joseph, Jerry, Maurice, Toni, all seem to have been tapped in some cosmic game of freeze tag. My mind provides the answer even before I’ve fully formulated the question. Who else would have the resources to analyze the list? Who else would I trust? Who is the only bigger pain in the ass than I am?

  I jump off the bus at Union Station and dial the switchboard. Music begins to play as the call is transferred.

  I try to mask my voice so Justina Morris doesn’t recognize me. “I’m calling from the gas company. We’re investigating a leak in Ms. Hernandez’s home address, and this is the number we have on file. Is Ms. Hernandez available?”

  “Just one moment,” Justina says, concerned.

  Martina picks up after a short pause. “This is Martina Hernandez,” she says in her steel-cutting voice.

  “It’s Rich,” I say, “I need to meet you now. I’m at Union Station. The Rings of Saturn IMAX film is playing here at eleven o’clock. I’ll be in the third row from the back on the right side. Don’t say anything to anyone. Meet me there. This is bigger than the Star. It could be life or death.”

  “Dammit, Azadian,” she fires. “Are you fucking sure about this?”

  “Martina, I need you. I need you now.”

  I hear her breath through the earpiece.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I wander around the science museum to calm my jittery nerves while I wait. A display on the miracles of genetics catches my eye.

  The digital wall text tells of Watson and Crick deciphering the double helix, the human genome project, the decoding of the full Neanderthal genome, the advances in biomedicine, the almost daily breakthroughs being made in genetic science around the world. At this breathtaking pace of discovery, it is tempting to believe that human beings are now unlocking the secret codes of life that have been held sacred for millennia. But for all that we know about human genetics, our knowledge constitutes only the tiniest fraction of this vast and massively complex system. As human beings surge forward into this new frontier, we can only hope we will do so with levels of humility commensurate with our relative ignorance.

  Humility. What a concept. It seems like a virtue, but what was Icarus’s fault? That he learned to fly or ventured too close to the sun?

  I buy my ticket and carry my augmented reality eye patches to my seat. Martina comes in already wearing hers just as the doors close. Anger defines her face.

  “This better be fucking good,” she whispers, her face pointing toward the screen as she sits down.

  I sink down in my chair, leaning my head slightly in her direction. “Thank you for coming,” I whisper.

  Martina doesn’t respond. She won’t give an inch until I justify myself.

  “We got access to the national police database and ran a search for single women between twenty and thirty who died or were killed over the past year. We cross-referenced that to the database from the fertility clinic where MaryLee Stock was impregnated. Nine women from Bright Horizons were on the police list.”

  “I see.” Martina’s shoulders stiffen.

  “All nine died in the last month, including MaryLee Stock and Megan Fogerty, a young pregnant woman who died in Olathe three weeks ago.”

  Martina stares at me, her eyes widening.

  “There are 127 other women in the Bright Horizons database from five different cities who match the same age and height characteristics of the five women who died. We pulled together this list of them an hour ago just as federal marshals showed up at UMKC looking for Maurice Henderson and me.”

  “So now you’re on the run?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you thought you’d drag me in?”

  “Yes.”

  I take off my enhanced reality eye patches and look directly at Martina.

  “Fuck you,” she says, giving me the sense she’s on board. “And you think I should risk the entire future of the Star on this?”

  I don’t respond. The answer is clear.

  She stares at the screen, purposefully not looking at me. “Tell me,” she says after a pause.

  “Gillespie, the federal marshal, seems to be tracking every move I make.”

  “Did he track you here?”

  “I have no idea, but I’ve been careful. I took the bus.”

  “You took the bus
? Makes me feel a whole lot safer.”

  “Martina,” I whisper intensely, “nine women are dead. If there are any others, we need to find them fast or they’re dead, too. If whoever killed them finds me or the others who’ve helped me . . .”

  She turns away. “Talk,” she says with a sigh I sense is only for show.

  “I’ve got two lists of names from the databases. One is of the 127 women from Bright Horizons who fit our preliminary criteria. Someone needs to call these women to tell them to be careful.”

  “And what?” Martina whispers, perplexed. “Just be careful? Go to the police? Tell them what?”

  “I don’t know, but I do know we need to figure out more of what the nine women who’ve died in the last month have in common. They were all single, young, smart, and tall, but we don’t know much more than that.”

  “And your theory is that if you find out what these nine women have in common you can see which of the 127 living ones share those characteristics?”

  “Yes, but I can’t do the research because everyone I’ve been working with seems to have been compromised.”

  “And you think I can?” Martina says.

  I don’t answer.

  “And you think I should drag the Star into this against the fucking law, the wishes of the publisher, and the wishes of the editor?”

  “Maybe not the whole Star,” I say.

  “You are really impossible, Azadian,” Martina says, a hint of admiration almost detectable in her voice. “What criteria would we look for?”

  “Who’s we?” I ask with a nervous smile.

  “Leave that to me.”

  “Anything. Histories, schools, scores, connections to churches. I’m hoping that we can find patterns that can point us in the right direction.”

  “And if we find it, then what? What happens to the Star?”

  “Listen, Martina,” I plead, “this can’t be about the Star anymore.”

  Martina shakes her head slightly, as if agreeing in spite of herself. We both know that this story, if we can prove it, is almost big enough to blast its way through the NPA.

  “When do we need this?” Martina says.

  “Whoever killed these nine women obviously knows things could get messy. They probably know we’re poking around. If there are more target women out there, my guess is the danger is growing every minute.”

  57

  Waiting is torture.

  Momentum surging through my veins, the knowledge that nine women have been killed in the last month and more could be in danger and all I can do is sit in this dark cinema watching space movies makes me crazy. The brick phone on my lap taunts me as I wait for it to ring.

  My urge to do something, anything, almost overwhelms me, but I know that acting irrationally, even acting at all before I have more information, can’t do much to help and is far more likely to cause harm.

  Halfway through my second movie the ridiculously loud, absurdly anachronistic ring fills the theater. The place is two thirds empty, but the few people look at me annoyed.

  “Mmm,” I mumble into the handset, trying to be quiet.

  “It’s Maurice. You okay?”

  “Mmm hmm,” I mumble.

  “Do you think anyone knows where you are?”

  “No,” I whisper.

  “Good. Don’t tell me. Just listen.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Looks like Gillespie and his goon have been tracking us pretty well. Most of our u.Ds are tapped and our cars have been tagged.”

  “Thought so,” I whisper.

  “He went to Chief Roberts with evidence I’ve been working this case without authorization. I’ve been suspended.”

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s trying to make a point. Roberts told me I’ll be fired if I keep at it.”

  “And?”

  “I prefer not to be.”

  “Mmm,” I mumble inconclusively.

  “But it doesn’t matter what I’m doing, the key is those lists of names. Are you working on that?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, “hoping to have the analysis back very soon. And Becker?”

  “Haven’t heard from him yet. Gillespie’s visit to UMKC could well have been Becker calling our bluff.”

  “How do I contact you?” I ask.

  “I’m calling you from a pay phone. Let me give you my neighbor’s u.D number. I’ll borrow his for the next few days.”

  “What about Jerry?”

  “They’re holding him for questioning. Told him he was interfering with a federal investigation and was subject to criminal penalties. It’s your game now.”

  “Mmm,” I mumble again, hardly relishing the thought.

  “The rest of us have been so compromised we may be more harm than good. The key to everything is those lists. You’ve got to figure out where they point. If other women are in danger, you’ve got to get to them. Don’t trust anybody.”

  “Anybody?”

  “The federal government is trying to kill a murder investigation. A major police force is playing along. It’s hard to imagine you’re going to be able to get law enforcement to do what you want as quickly as we need with everything so tangled. Trust me on this Rich, act like you’re alone. If there are any women still on the hit list, that’s what’s going to save them. It’s up to you. Let me know what you need.”

  The call drops and I am alone.

  Come on, Martina. Where are you?

  The phone rings halfway through the closing credits.

  “There’s one more woman who matches the dead ones.” Her tone says it all.

  My stomach knots, my whole body is on the verge of convulsion. “Shit.”

  “Maya Armstrong in Oklahoma City. I pulled together a team of three of the old-timers. Made them swear secrecy. We started making lists of everything we could find about the nine dead women.”

  “And?”

  “You were right. They seem to be targeting smart women. All of the dead women on the Bright Horizons list were Brin scholars.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “They all scored an average of 650 and above on their SATs. There’s no chance this can be random. That’s the essential category. Of the 127 women on your Bright Horizons client list, only Maya Armstrong was a Brin scholar. She matches the dead women in every other way.”

  “Except maybe one,” I say darkly. “Did you try to contact her?”

  “I did but it didn’t go well.”

  “At least she’s alive. Why not?”

  “She had no idea what I was talking about and hung up. Do we call the cops?” Martina asks.

  “I just spoke with Henderson about that. The federal marshals and the KCPD are in on this. Henderson has been suspended and my computer guy is in jail. Henderson says we can’t trust the police. We need to do it on our own.”

  “And we don’t know how much time we have?”

  “Which is why we need to approach her in person. The address was on the Bright Horizons spreadsheet, right?”

  “Yes. We double-checked,” Martina says. “It’s correct.”

  “I think I’m the one to go,” I say.

  “You’re going to need help. I spoke with Maya. She’s a tough girl.”

  I’m not sure if Martina wants to come along or not, but she’s hardly the type of person I’m going to need to get Maya Armstrong to listen. I need someone far more nurturing. The decision takes no thought.

  “I need a car.”

  “How’s mine?” Martina offers.

  “Better to have a degree of separation. Can you get someone else’s?”

  “My brother-in-law’s.”

  “Good.”

  “Can you do it now?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I need my ex-girlfriend, Antonia Hewitt, to come with me.”

  “Your ex-girlfriend?”

  “Just do it.”

  Martina sighs. “Where do I find her?”

  “Her shift at Truman Medic
al ends at six. Call the main switchboard from somebody else’s phone and ask for her. Tell her that janum asked you to pick her up.”

  “Janum,” Martina says, “that sounds ridiculous.”

  “It’s Armenian. She’ll know I’ve asked you to do this. Then meet me at the Quik Trip on Forty-Fourth and Main at six fifteen. Let Toni drive. You come in to the store and go into the bathroom when she’s filling up. I’ll walk out and get into the car on the passenger side. Have someone come pick you up afterwards. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, sir,” Martina says half sarcastically. It’s not that our roles have reversed, just that we’re suddenly so deeply on the same side.

  I’m bursting at the seams as I begin movie number three. At five thirty I go outside under the muddy twilight sky to catch the Main Street Express uptown. I arrive at Quik Trip a little before six and walk around the block to kill time. At six eighteen Toni pulls up. I can see the worried creases on her face as she gets out to plug in and fill the reserve tank. Martina walks past me toward the bathroom. What the fuck, Azadian? her look says. It somehow comforts me. I get into the car and Toni starts to drive.

  I am able to read the facial expression she flashes me with far more precision than Martina’s. You have sex with me then don’t call for two days then have your boss kidnap me?

  Maybe I’m off by a word or two.

  She collects herself. “Would you mind telling me where we are going?”

  “Didn’t Martina tell you?”

  No. I’m waiting, Toni says with her eyes.

  “Oklahoma City. Turn right at Southwest Trafficway. We’ve got to get there fast.”

  58

  “So let me get this straight,” Toni says after I fill her in on everything I’ve learned the past two days, “we bang on this poor young woman’s door in the middle of the night unannounced and tell her she’s probably carrying a genetically enhanced baby, that she should trust us instead of some unknown person who may or may not be stalking her, that she shouldn’t go to the police, and that she should drop everything and let us hide her?”

  Now driving, I keep my eyes on the road as we speed toward Oklahoma City.

  “I’m not sure how I would react if I were in her shoes,” Toni continues.