“Pain anywhere? Do you feel nauseous?”
His stomach felt weak, but he knew it wasn’t any virus making him feel sick, and the paramedic wasn’t about to play shrink to help assuage Chris’s burgeoning guilt. He shook his head. “No. I’m fine.”
The paramedic walked back to his partner across the street. Chris sat on the stoop of his condo building and sank his head into one hand. Sweat and blood saturated his suit jacket. He loosened his tie and exhaled. One ambulance drove away with the injured paramedic. The remaining two left, and the police cordoned off the area around the enhancer. Another vehicle, black and sleek, rolled up behind the parked cop car. Two individuals stepped out and showed badges to the policemen working the scene. Detectives.
Chris wiped off the beading sweat. His hand came away stained with the enhancer’s drying blood. He rubbed it on his pant leg as one of the policemen pointed to him. A detective sauntered over and flipped him her badge.
“Christopher Morgan?” she said.
His eyes widened. He recognized the woman’s green eyes and focused yet almost sympathetic gaze. “Dellaporta?”
“You haven’t forgotten me, huh?” she said. “I thought you were staying out of trouble since that whole snafu this past winter.”
“I am. Trust me, I am.”
She rolled her eyes. “All right, so, you’re going to claim you had nothing to do with this, right?”
“I didn’t.” At least, he hoped to God he didn’t. Maybe it was his fault. Or maybe something else was wrong with the man. After all, many of his former customers were liable to purchase all manner of assorted genetic modifications from any available dealer. The man might’ve thought Chris’s enhancement had done him in, but he might also have been mistaken. Remorse washed over him even as he tried to shift the blame away from himself.
“Figured.” She tapped a couple notes into her comm card. “Last time we dealt with those genetic enhancement rings, you were very cooperative. I appreciated that. But it took you far too long to tell us everything we needed to know to act on it.”
He nodded but said nothing.
Dellaporta rubbed the back of her neck. “Look, it would’ve helped for us to know Lawrence Kaufman was pulling the strings that got you out of prison, and he was the one that landed you your job at Respondent. If you had told us that when your boss was murdered, we would’ve acted immediately.” She took a step forward and jabbed a finger into his chest. “You and Jordan almost died. Jordan’s friend—what was his name?”
“Greg.”
“Right,” she continued. “Greg did die. You lost Tracy, too.”
“I get it.” Chris clenched his jaw and withheld the anger and regret surging within him.
“Don’t be an idiot, Morgan. If you know something this time, tell me.” Dellaporta pointed to the enhancer. A couple of recently arrived crime scene investigators examined the body. “Did you kill him?”
“What?” He held his breath for a second and feared Dellaporta might not be far from the truth. And to figure out the truth, it wouldn’t do any good to be stuck in jail. “No!”
“Mr. Morgan—”
“Just call me Chris.”
“Okay. Chris.” The detective glanced at the blond woman who had joined Chris in an attempt to help the dying enhancer. “She claims the victim was calling your name, blaming you.”
“I really don’t know what’s going on.” He tried to portray a diffidence he didn’t feel. Just a couple years ago, he had been manufacturing and peddling genetic enhancements with Jordan’s help. If his products weren’t as good as he imagined them to be, his customers, in the best-case scenario, might have experienced no muscle improvements or changes in strength. But in the worst-case scenarios eating away at his conscience, those users had suffered from violent immune reactions, inflammation, and cancerous tumors. And one of those worst-case scenarios might’ve just strolled up to his home and died at his feet.
Interrupting his thoughts, Dellaporta said, “So, why was the enhancer calling your name, Morgan?”
He thought to insist she call him Chris again but dismissed the notion. “I have no idea.” Maybe he should tell her his fears. But Jordan had never reported an unhappy customer. But then again, who would complain about their illegally obtained and implanted gene mods? The Better Business Bureau certainly didn’t keep track of such things, and the FDA hadn’t devoted a division to black-market enhancements. “I wish I could tell you something. I wish I could help you.”
Dellaporta shaded her eyes with one hand as the sun beat down on her. “You can’t bullshit around. Don’t you think for a second the department is happy you walked free from everything last time.”
“I have no idea who he is,” Chris said, throwing his hands in the air. This time he told the truth. “Why the hell would I want an enhancer to show up and die on my doorstep? I’ve moved on. I haven’t touched street enhancements since before Fulton.” His brow furrowed. “Come on. You know that.”
Turning her head aside, Dellaporta chewed her bottom lip. She knelt, meeting Chris at eye level. “I do know. But here’s the deal: There have been a couple cases like this recently.”
Chris’s heart crept into his throat, and he forced a swallow as her words soaked in.
“Commissioner doesn’t like it when we have too many open cases without any good progress. And you’re an easy target. You and your buddy Jordan Thompson are the only publicly recognized faces of the whole black-market DNA trade. So you’re going to be the first hare the hounds chase when the commissioner wants to see those cases closed.”
“So you’re trying to save my ass?”
Dellaporta shrugged. “More or less.”
“Trust me. I wish I could help. I wish I knew who he was or what he wanted. I want to know how he knew me.” I want to know what I did wrong.
Holding her comm card out, she raised an eyebrow. “Fair enough, I guess. I’m going to give you my work contact.” She pointed at him. “Don’t hold back if you find anything out. If you remember something, if you so much as have a conjecture, I want to be the first to know.”
Chris held his comm card out to hers until it flashed green to signal a successful connection. “It’s a deal.”
“I’m serious,” she said. “Call me immediately. You’re not going to have any allies in our department when this report hits, and it’s in your best interest to work with me.”
“Thanks for the heads-up, but why the hell are you looking out for me?”
“Cracking the case on Lawrence Kaufman and taking down all those enhancement rings got me my badge. I’m a detective in the Bio Unit now. Couldn’t have done it without you spilling the beans.” She marched away. “I’ll be seeing you—and hopefully it won’t be in the back of a squad car.”
He forced a smile and waved.
The detective stepped into the crime scene protected by yellow wall holograms projecting Authorities Only and started talking with one of the investigators.
Just as Chris had constructed a new life for himself, this dead enhancer had dragged him back into a world he thought he had escaped. He cursed inwardly at his decision to refuse the witness protection program after the Kaufman incident. At the time, he’d thought he was noble by accepting the mistakes he made and dealing with the consequences. Now the whole concept of honor and responsibility seemed trite and ill conceived. He imagined himself in Seattle or San Francisco, maybe Honolulu. Far away from here. Far away from reality, away from the pain the enhancer blamed him for. For a moment, he considered that he might have lived blissfully unaware of the scene that had just unfolded. He might never have known the damage he might have caused in these enhancers.
But Chris brushed aside those thoughts. Just because he might not have discovered what his products had done did not mean he would’ve been any less responsible for his actions.
He trudged back upstairs to his condo and marched into his bathroom. He shed his stained clothes on the floor and turned on the shower. It hissed to life,
and he stepped in. Crimson-colored water swirled around the drain as the hot water washed the blood from his skin.
Could it be true? Did he inadvertently kill this man?
Nausea gripped his stomach once more. Who else might he have dragged into his messes? Who else suffered because of his mistakes?
Chapter 3
Chris massaged his temples and stared at the third missed call from Veronica. She seemed desperate to get ahold of him, but he couldn’t bear to talk to her. He shivered when he thought about the enhancer calling his name again.
Rifling through his closet, he figured he didn’t need to worry about a suit anymore. He’d already missed the meeting with the Caninex rep. In his mind’s eye, he still pictured the enhancer’s muscles and mottled skin. He guessed the discoloration had been caused by popped blood vessels bursting and leaking into the man. It might explain the internal bleeding and the hot crimson liquid spraying from the man’s body.
He shuddered. Whatever illness or affliction the man had suffered from frightened him. The paramedic had assured him the enhancer had no common blood-borne diseases.
But that was according to a cursory examination. Such assessments were carried out on microfluidic lab-on-a-chip devices barely larger than a thumbnail. They proved accurate more than ninety-five percent of the time—which meant the tests could be wrong. The paramedic had neglected to tell Chris this fact. Fortunately, he had befriended several microfluidic chip researchers while earning his doctorate degree at Northwestern University in biomedical engineering. He had gleaned enough from their talks during department seminars to have seared the fact into his mind.
He couldn’t take the chance the paramedic’s device might fall into the paltry five percent false-negative category. Maybe the enhancer was wrong and had suffered from something far more devastating than a faulty genetic medication. Though the device might’ve assessed for several variants of hepatitis and HIV, the enhancer might’ve been carrying something more rare and unreported in the medical community. Something that might be swimming through his blood now.
A shiver crept down Chris’s spine.
He cursed himself for worrying about his life. But he also knew himself well enough to realize his capacity to perform any significant research would be hindered by these incessant worries if he didn’t immediately quell those questions with a more robust medical examination. He’d be wracked by the selfish worry his own life might be in danger, and he’d be ineffective at finding out if he were responsible for an enhancement causing several violent deaths, according to Dellaporta. Besides, if he died like the enhancer, how could he ever fix whatever had caused these deaths?
Bounding down the stairs back to South Charles Street, Chris called a cab. The enhancer’s body was gone. Two investigators scoured the sidewalk and street gutter for any potential evidence, protected behind the holowalls cordoning off the crime scene.
The taxi pulled up, and he leapt into the back of the self-driving vehicle. He tagged his destination into the car’s holoscreen for the emergency room of the University of Maryland Medical Center.
A voice filled the driverless vehicle. “If you are suffering a medical emergency, it is advised you call emergency personnel.”
“Just take me to the hospital.”
No recorded voice responded as the vehicle pulled away from the curb. He took out his comm card and selected Jordan Thompson from his contacts.
“Chris? Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s a long story. I’m headed to the hospital.”
“Are you hurt?”
“I’m just going in for an examination.”
“Christ, my man. What the hell is going on? You tell me you can’t meet the client, then I hear this awful retching and screams, and now you tell me you’re headed to the hospital.”
“Trust me,” Chris said, drawing out the words. “I’m fine.” He wanted to direct their conversation toward the meeting with the Caninex representative. Delaying the truth wouldn’t change history, though. “I need to know something. Did you ever tell any of our customers my name?”
“Of course,” Jordan said. “You’re a co-owner, so I don’t have to—” The line went silent. “Oh, you’re not talking about our current customers, are you?”
“No.” Chris exhaled. “I’m talking about our previous venture. Before I went to prison.”
“Why do you need to know this now? And over a comm card?”
“Just answer me. I promise I’ll tell you everything when I get to the lab.”
“Fine, my man. You’re frightening me. But to your question: no. I always protected your identity.”
“Okay,” Chris said. But Jordan’s answer did nothing to quell the burgeoning anxiety. If Jordan was to be believed, there was no reason for any enhancer to know whether or not they had received an enhancement produced by him. Sure, he had been lambasted by the news streams when his involvement in the Kaufman brother conspiracy was revealed. Maybe this enhancer had misguidedly clung to the idea that Chris had supplied the man’s enhancements. Maybe the man was wrong, and it wasn’t Chris’s fault he’d died.
“One more question,” Chris said. “You once told me you knew of no one who died because of our products. Is that true?”
“Yes,” Jordan said. “As far as I know, that’s right. Of course, something could’ve happened to one of our customers, and we might never find out. We were careful, Chris. Besides, we adapted our muscle enhancements from FDA–approved clinical treatments for muscular dystrophy. You want to talk about safe, that’s about as safe as it gets.”
“I know, I know,” Chris said. “You don’t need to remind me about all the computational simulations and animal studies that were successful. None of that makes me feel any better right now.”
Jordan let out an exhale audible on Chris’s end of the line. “What’s going on?”
The cab slowed into the University of Maryland Medical Center’s Emergency Services bay.
“Sorry, I’ve got to go,” Chris said. “I’ll explain everything when I see you. I promise.”
As the door opened, he accepted the taxi’s request for payment on his comm card. He slid out of the vehicle and approached the intake nurse shielded by a window.
“I need an emergency blood-borne pathogen test.”
The woman eyed him up and down. “When were you in contact with an at-risk blood specimen?”
“About thirty minutes ago. I washed it off.”
“And you’re just coming in now?”
“Can I please see a physician?”
She rolled her eyes and gestured over a holodisplay. “Check in, and we’ll fit you in when we can.”
Chris stared around the waiting room. A mother with a young boy waited in one corner. In another seat, a man wearing ragged clothes leaned back, his legs sprawled in front of him. Otherwise, the emergency room seemed rather destitute for Baltimore. Maybe Monday mornings were not a popular time for the normal influx of trauma patients suffering stab wounds, gunshots, and other assorted injuries.
As he sat in one of the chairs covered in cracked plastic, he rubbed his temple. He pictured Veronica again. She had called five times now, and he’d ignored each one. Hell, she might actually be worried about him now. With rapid movements, he tapped out a short message to her on his comm card to apologize and let her know something had come up. He’d dial later.
He remembered what had happened last time he missed a call from her, though. Someone had broken into her apartment, and he’d arrived to find her on the brink of death.
His heart pounded as he picked up the card. He couldn’t risk letting that happen to her again. The card flashed green.
“Okay. We can talk later,” read the short message from Veronica.
He wondered when life would return to normal, when he might walk out his front door without an enhancer dying at his feet, without worrying Veronica had been assaulted again, without worrying he’d unwittingly killed ot
hers in his selfish pursuit to be a kingpin enhancement manufacturer. He was no better than the old-school meth dealers plaguing the rural communities neighboring his own hometown in Illinois.
“Christopher Morgan,” a voice called out from the holodisplay next to a set of glass doors. The hologram of a clean, well-kempt doctor, white coat and stethoscope in tow, appeared and motioned for him to follow. The holodoctor led Chris to an intake room and told him to have a seat on the examination table.
“When’s the real physician going to show up?”
The holodoctor vanished.
“Come on,” Chris said. He tapped his foot on the tiled floor.
After he’d waited ten minutes, the attending emergency room physician burst through the door. His shirt collar splayed unevenly, spread like the wings of a gull taking flight. The man’s hair, oily and shining, stuck up in patches, and a couple days’ worth of stubble traced his jaw.
“What’s going on?” he asked, washing his hands.
“I was exposed to an unknown person’s blood, and I want to be tested for any possible infections.”
The physician dried off his hands. “Okay. We can do that.” After slipping on a pair of examination gloves, he withdrew a butterfly needle from a drawer, examined the label, and stood by Chris. “Before I run the tests, I’ve got to ask you a couple questions.”
“Questions? Why? I don’t have a lot of time.” His face grew hot as impatience ate at him. A bunch of pointless questions weren’t going to help him fix any mess he might’ve caused. He wanted to keep this hospital visit short, ensure he’d be in good enough health to track down what could’ve gone wrong with his genetic wares that led to the devastating scene that morning. “Can’t you just do the test?”
“I can. But it’s for our benefit. This probably has nothing to do with you, and I don’t want to alarm you, but there have been a couple of incidents lately involving potential blood-borne illnesses. So it helps if we can keep track of this data. Pinpoint if these cases are exclusive or if they’re connected somehow.”
“Okay, shoot.”
The Black Market DNA Series: Books 1-3 Page 27