The Killing: Uncommon Denominator

by Karen Dionne

  Goddard whistled.

  “How long would it take to develop a genetic-based treatment for a specific disease?” Sarah asked. If both brothers had the disease, but if they or someone were actively looking for a cure, knowing the timeframe would help. How much would it cost? was the other question. Investing $400,000 toward a treatment that would ultimately be worth billions wasn’t a bad return. Especially if the new treatment also saved your life.

  “It’s not quick, if that’s what you’re thinking. The process takes years—even decades to develop. There are clinical trials to be conducted, approval from the Food and Drug Administration to be obtained before the treatment can be brought to market. At GenMod, we’re not looking for immediate results. We have to think far into the future.”

  “Would additional funding speed things up?” Sarah asked.

  “Well, naturally that would help.”

  “So let’s say—hypothetically—that someone discovers a genetic mutation that has the potential to cure a major disease. How much money are we talking to develop a treatment? Ballpark estimate, of course.”

  “Many hundreds of thousands, certainly. Millions, most probably. But given the current state of the economy, your hypothetical person would have a hard time finding funding at all, no matter how attractive their project. Everything after the 2008 economic downturn is struggling. Before that, genetics research was moving so quickly, it was like a race. Now it’s almost impossible to find a venture capital company willing to risk funds on experimental research. Even GenMod has had to withdraw funding from a number of worthy projects. It’s quite tragic. While the development of a cure is on hold for lack of funding, people are dying. There’s also the issue that there’s less call for research into the rarer disorders. Fewer cases means fewer sales down the line, even if a cure is found. But that’s an issue for economists and politicians. Does that help?”

  “Immensely,” Sarah said as Goddard’s phone buzzed again. “We appreciate your time.”

  Dr. Preston took out a business card and handed it across her desk. “If you have any other questions, please don’t hesitate to call. I’m happy to do whatever I can to help your investigation. Poor Dr. Marsee. Such a nice man.”

  * * *

  As they waited for the elevator to take them back to the lobby, Goddard took out his cellphone. He checked the display, and returned the phone to his pocket.

  “Is everything all right?” Sarah asked.

  “Fine. I’m expecting a call, is all.”

  “So what did you think of our visit?”

  “I definitely think we’re moving in the right direction.” He ticked the points off on his fingers. “One or both Marsees had or might have had a genetic disease that was likely to kill them by the time they reached their mid-forties. GenMod may or may not have been working on a cure for their particular disease. Either way, the process of finding a cure would go a lot faster with more money.”

  “Money Preston says would be extremely difficult to obtain. But did you catch what she said about the financial potential? Perhaps the Marsee brothers weren’t hoping just to develop a cure to save themselves. Maybe they were also hoping for a significant financial return. We’ve really got to get a look at their test results. If they were looking for investors, or going to put their own money in the project, then they must have felt they were onto something.”

  “I’ll get on that as soon as we get back.”

  “And I want to talk to Tiffany again. See what Lance might have told her about his parents; find out if he was worried about getting sick.”

  “You know, this whole terminal genetic disease issue could explain why Guy and Lance never married or had children. I’d sure think long and hard about bringing a kid into the world if I knew the chances were high the kid would inherit a disease from me that was going to kill him. To say nothing of the fact that I wouldn’t be around to see him grow up.”

  Sarah nodded. She couldn’t imagine her life without Jack. Or what his life would be like if anything happened to her.

  The elevator chimed and the doors opened, revealing a tall man with a shock of white hair.

  “Dr. Rutz,” Goddard said. “Good to see you again.”

  Rutz acknowledged Goddard with a nod and stepped to the side. Sarah expected Goddard to push the conversation as chatty people tended to do, but they rode the rest of the way to the lobby in silence.

  As the elevator doors closed behind them, Goddard snagged Rutz’s arm and pressed his business card into his hand. “I’m glad I ran into you again. I believe you left this behind yesterday. Please, if you think of anything that might help our investigation, give me a call.”

  The man slid the card into the notebook he was carrying without comment and hurried off.

  “Was he that talkative during the interview, too?” Sarah couldn’t resist asking as they crossed the lobby and stopped at the receptionist’s desk to turn in their visitors’ passes.

  Goddard shrugged.

  “I saw you talking to poor Dr. Rutz,” the receptionist said as she noted the time on her sign-out list. “It’s so sad.”

  “What’s sad?” Sarah asked.

  “Just that Dr. Rutz and Dr. Marsee were so close, and now Dr. Marsee is gone. I’m sure he’s taking Dr. Marsee’s death harder than he’s letting on.”

  Goddard’s head snapped back toward the elevators. Sarah’s did the same.

  Rutz was gone.

  “Are you sure they were friends?” Goddard asked, his voice controlled. “Not just acquaintances? No one else I talked to yesterday mentioned it.”

  “Well, maybe ‘friendship’ is too strong a word,” the young woman said. “But I’ve seen Dr. Rutz and Dr. Marsee meet up in the lobby, and then walk across the street together when they go for coffee. And once when Dr. Marsee’s car was in the shop, Dr. Rutz gave him a ride to work for almost a week. They might not act like friends in the usual sense—probably because they’re both very private people. But there was definitely something between them.” She gave Goddard a smug smile. “People think all a receptionist does is answer the phones. But I see everyone’s comings and goings. I know who’s going to lunch with whom, who’s late getting back… who’s having an affair with a coworker… Believe me, I could write a book.”

  “Maybe you should,” Sarah said. “For now, let’s test that all-knowing superpower of yours. Do you know where Dr. Rutz was going?” Pointing to the corridor down which the man had disappeared.

  The receptionist smiled. “Sure. That’s easy. It’s ten o’clock. Dr. Rutz always goes to the smoking room for a cigarette.”

  25

  “I can’t believe GenMod has a smoking room,” Sarah said as they started down the hallway. In the era of the Big C, cigarette smokers were pariahs. A company that was actively pursuing a cure for cancer that also provided an indoor space for their workers who hadn’t yet kicked the habit spoke volumes to the regard they had for their employees.

  “And I can’t believe I bought Rutz’s B.S.,” Goddard said through gritted teeth. His face was redder than Sarah had ever seen it. He looked like he was going to have a heart attack—or punch his fist through a wall. “Everything that came out of that man’s mouth yesterday was a lie. ‘I only sat down with him when we happened to run into each other at Starbucks.’ ‘I don’t know where he lives.’ ‘I’ve never been to his apartment.’ That boy’s got some serious explaining to do.”

  Sarah didn’t answer. So Rutz had lied during yesterday’s interview. So what? People lied all the time. You couldn’t let your emotions get away from you. People screamed at you, lied to you, sometimes they even assaulted or shot at you. No reason to get bent out of shape about something that was just part of the job.

  “Let me take the lead this time,” she said. “Rutz doesn’t know me. We don’t have a history, so I can ask him things you can’t. Better yet, let me talk to him alone. You go back and talk to the receptionist. Find out what else she knows. She likes you.” What Sarah
didn’t add was that she would get far more out of Rutz if the conversation wasn’t confrontational.

  “You sure?”

  “I got this. That receptionist knows more than she’s letting on. I’m sure you can charm it out of her.”

  “Okay. But remember, Rutz is smart. He has a photographic memory. He’s going to use that against you.”

  “I got this.”

  “Okay, then good luck.” Goddard took a deep, calming breath and pulled out his cellphone. He checked his messages, and then started back toward the lobby. Sarah pursed her lips as she watched him go. It wasn’t like Goddard to let his emotions get the better of him to such an extent. She wondered if his overreaction had something to do with the way he kept checking his cellphone. Problems on the home front, most likely. In which case, he needed to be careful.

  She followed the receptionist’s directions down the hallway and opened the third door on the right. To her surprise, instead of the dingy, windowless cubicle she had been expecting, the door opened to a large atrium attractively decorated and overflowing with lush vegetation. Carcinogen-absorbing vegetation, she presumed. A dozen workers were scattered around the room sitting at café tables, most in pairs; a few, including Rutz, sat alone. The room barely smelled of smoke; no doubt because the smarter-than-your-average-corporation had invested in a top-of-the-line air exchange system.

  She pulled out her detective shield and made a beeline for Rutz, showing him the badge and sitting down at his table without waiting for an invitation.

  “Dr. Rutz, I’m Detective Sarah Linden, SPD Homicide. I’d like to ask you a few questions about Guy Marsee.”

  Rutz took a long drag from his cigarette and exhaled slowly in her direction. The gesture seemed so deliberate, it was almost as if he assumed she was a non-smoker and was trying to annoy her. She reached inside her jacket for her cigarettes and lit one of her own.

  He arched his eyebrows. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be rude, but I honestly can’t see what’s to be gained by more questions. I already told your partner everything I know.”

  “Actually, Dr. Rutz, you and I both know that isn’t true. Yesterday, you told my partner you barely knew Guy Marsee. Today, we found out that not only were you friends, you even carpooled to work.”

  Laying her cards face up on the table. Betting on the fact that if Rutz was as smart as Goddard seemed to think he was, he’d respond better to a direct approach than if Sarah came at the subject sideways. A good interviewer needed to be able to size up the interviewee in a matter of seconds and adjust accordingly. Sarah was good.

  Rutz clucked his tongue. “It’s that nosy secretary, isn’t it? The one who runs the front desk. Marsee and I didn’t ‘carpool,’ no matter what she might think. I gave him a lift to work once is all, when his car was in the shop. As I told your partner yesterday, you couldn’t be friends with Guy, even if you wanted to. He had the social skills of a flea.”

  He’d actually said “amoeba” according to Goddard’s interview notes, but Sarah let it go. “So you’ve been to his home.”

  “Of course I’ve been to his home. How else was I supposed to pick him up?”

  Rutz shook his head in obvious disgust as if her question marked her as too stupid to live. Or at least as too stupid to remain in his exalted company. She didn’t let it bother her. She knew her own abilities, and it didn’t matter what this pompous snob thought. Better that he underestimate her.

  “Did he ever invite you up to his apartment?”

  “Never.”

  “What about his friends or family? Can you fill in anything about them? You must have talked about something as you drove to and from work.”

  “You’d be surprised how little we said.” He arched his eyebrows. “Not everyone feels compelled to fill dead air with mindless chatter, you know. As I told your partner, I simply didn’t know the man.”

  “Only you did.”

  Sarah started as Goddard came up behind her. He grabbed a chair from the table next to theirs, sat down, and handed Sarah his cellphone. She read the display, then rephrased her question.

  “Dr. Rutz. Are you sure there’s nothing about your relationship with Guy Marsee you’re not telling us?” Giving him one last chance to come clean.

  Emphatically, he shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “In that case, Dr. Rutz, you might want to look at this.” She held out her hand and showed him the article Goddard had pulled up on his cellphone. “To refresh your memory,” she couldn’t help adding. The corner of her mouth turned up on a small smile. Rutz wasn’t nearly as smart as he wanted them to believe. Too bad for him that his photographic memory had been set to selective recall.

  Rutz took the phone and read the display. His shoulders sagged. Wordlessly, he laid it on the table.

  Sarah took out her handcuffs. “Dr. Rutz, I need you to stand up and put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest for obstruction of justice. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and may be used against you. You have the right to have an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.”

  The murmur of background conversation stopped. Heads swiveled as the workers grasped the import of the words they’d overheard. Mouths gaped in disbelief as Sarah and Goddard marched the handcuffed Rutz out of the room.

  26

  Goddard was a genius. Never mind that the man sitting on the other side of the interview table probably had an I.Q. that was three times his and Linden’s put together. Right here, right now, Goddard was the true genius in the room. Dare he say it? The only genius. Because with a simple Google search done from his smart phone while he was cooling his heels in GenMod’s lobby waiting for Linden to finish Rutz’s interview, Goddard had discovered what was quite possibly the only piece of information in existence that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Rutz was lying.

  And it was so ridiculously easy. A quick internet search of “Marsee + Rutz” and up popped an article from a university alumni magazine. An article revealing a link between Rutz and the Marsees’ parents. A link Rutz couldn’t deny. It was too early to claim he’d broken the case—a lot would depend on what Rutz had to tell them next—but Goddard couldn’t help feeling as though they were about to.

  “Help us understand,” he began per the unspoken agreement between him and Linden that his initiative had earned him the right to take the lead in the interview. “Why didn’t you tell us you were the Marsee brothers’ godfather? Don’t you want to help us find out who killed them? Don’t you want closure?”

  “Closure.” Rutz spat the word back at him as if Goddard had fed him a mouthful of dirt. With his unruly white Einstein hair, he looked every bit the famous scientist’s twin, although twice the size. A very angry twin. “There’s no such thing as closure. Closure is nothing but a rhetorical concept, a made-up term. A myth. What people are really looking for when they talk about finding closure is a release from the pain. But no amount of knowing or not-knowing can change how someone feels when they’ve lost a loved one. Closure isn’t something we need. God knows it’s not something that’s going to make us feel better. Closure is merely a concept that funeral home directors and forensic pathologists and wrongful death attorneys and psychics use to exploit people’s grief. There’s a reason we grieve. We grieve because we miss the person who died. Sometimes we even miss the things about them we didn’t like. Expecting someone to move on after a death minimizes the validity of their emotions. I know what killed the boys’ parents. That knowledge does not make me feel better. Why should it be different for them?”

  “Then tell us about their parents,” Goddard said smoothly. He didn’t have a problem with Rutz’s oratory; much of Rutz’s impromptu speech rang true for him. His own mother’s murder was the reason he’d quit his internship at the Art Institute of Chicago after he graduated from art school to become a cop. Not a day had gone by in the years since that he didn’t think about her at least once.

  Rutz
sat back with his lips pressed together and crossed his arms over his chest. Classic body language indicating his speech was finished.

  “You were their godfather,” Goddard continued. “No one knows the Marsee brothers like you did. Help us close our investigation. If not for yourself, then for us. So we can move on.”

  Rutz didn’t answer. For a moment, it looked like the interview was going to be over before it had hardly begun. Then Rutz sighed deeply and closed his eyes. Goddard waited. After long moments, Rutz opened his eyes and began to speak. His voice was barely more than a whisper. Goddard and Linden had to lean over the table in order to hear.

  “Bob and Janet Marsee and I were friends long before the boys were born,” Rutz began. “Before Bob and Janet were married, in fact. Both Bob and I fell for Janet. She really was quite wonderful.”

  He stopped, savored the memories of the woman whom Goddard presumed was Rutz’s first love, then went on.

  “It wasn’t long, however, before it was clear that Bob was going to come out the winner. By the time they married, I had accepted the situation and our friendship continued. I was Bob’s best man at their wedding. Naturally, when the boys were born, their parents asked me to be their godfather. Unfortunately, as it turned out, it was the boys’ great misfortune that Robert Marsee was their father instead of me.”

  “How is that?”

  “Because both Bob and Janet carried the gene for polycystic kidney disease. I’m sure you must know enough about genetics to realize that when both parents are carriers of a genetic-based disease or condition, the odds that their offspring will contract the disease as well become astronomical. Of course, back in the early years, we had no idea of what was coming. Bob was adopted, and knew nothing about his birth parents, and Janet’s died when she was a child. Until they started showing symptoms, it was a pretty idyllic family setup. Both parents university professors; Janet an anthropologist, Bob a nuclear physicist. The boys were already showing signs of their abilities, and were included in the weekly faculty dinner parties, where they could listen to some of the country’s most brilliant minds debate everything from chaos theory to the body politic. They were also encouraged to participate when they got older. Loving parents. Doting godfather. The boys had it all.”