The Endorphin Conspiracy

by Fredric Stern

  “Geoff, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Sarah has an ovarian tumor. It’s pretty large and must have been there for quite a while.” The words came tumbling down, buried him like an avalanche.

  “It can’t be.”

  “We double-checked Geoff. It’s cancer.”

  Cancer.

  Months of radiation treatments and chemotherapy followed and the residual tumor at first appeared to shrink. They were hopeful until the next body scan was done. The tumor had seeded like dandelions scattered by the wind and was growing relentlessly throughout her pelvis. They tried to contain it with chemotherapy, what seemed like endless rounds of intravenous poison that slowly devoured both her body and her spirit, her thick, blonde hair falling out little by little.

  Over the next few months, the vicious synergy of the advancing tumor and the chemical poisons insidiously zapped her vitality, despite her strong constitution and will. Jaundiced, gaunt, and in constant pain from the galloping cancer, Sarah began pleading with her nurses for her pain cocktails hours before her next dose was due. At first they gave her relief for a couple of hours, but after a while, the medication no longer worked. The cancer had spread too quickly.

  The doctors suggested a trial of an experimental chemotherapy protocol from the National Cancer Institute, and Geoff tried to convince her to go ahead with it. Sarah refused. She knew the end was near, and she was ready to move on. She pleaded with Geoff to help her end her waning, pain-filled life. Geoff resisted at first. He thought she was delirious from her treatments.

  One day, after a particularly rough round of chemo, he stared into her still beautiful, green eyes and saw what he had tried to deny for months. Her spark was gone, the flame doused; he could see the depths of her agony. She pleaded for him to end her pain and give her peace.

  Geoff thought of his father, his agonizing battle with lung cancer a few years earlier. The proud and brilliant surgeon had wasted away, become a frail ghost of what he once was in a matter of months. Geoff had felt helpless watching him suffer, knew he couldn’t stand by now and allow Sarah to suffer that way.

  “It’s time for you to keep your promise, Geoff,” she said.

  Geoff knew what he had to do as tears streamed down both their cheeks. Later that night he returned to her bedside and with a final kiss delivered the fatal injection of morphine he had spirited from the pharmacy by forging the medication log. He sat by her side and watched as she drifted away peacefully.

  Sarah was gone.

  His best friend, his lifeline to humanity had been taken away and a piece of him had died with her. Her death sent him into a deep depression. Distraught and distracted after Sarah’s funeral, Dr. Pederson suggested Geoff take a leave of absence from the neurosurgery program for a year and do research in Dr. Balassi’s lab, away from clinical responsibilities.

  He kept busy in the lab during the day, but alone each night, the guilt of Sarah’s death weighted heavily on his soul. His loneliness created a void in his heart he could not fill. Even his brother, Stefan could not break through. At least he wasn’t a drinker—alcohol or drugs were never things he had turned to in his life.

  Geoff’s despair reached its nadir one rainy April night.

  He sat down on the side of the bed and opened a small wooden chest he hadn’t looked at in years. After removing a stack of commendations, ribbons and medals he had earned in the navy, he retrieved a few photos from a much earlier, happier time in his life. He flipped through them, one by one. Geoff and his navy buddies after graduating from the academy. Geoff and Sarah when they first met, so young, fresh and in love, sitting on the beach in Maui on their first trip together. A bittersweet smile came to Geoff’s face, but only for a moment.

  Geoff reached deeper into the bottom of the chest for his service weapon, an M11 recoil-operated, semi-automatic pistol. Taking the pistol in hand he retrieved the clip, snapped it in place with a loud click. Never in a million years did he think he would contemplate suicide. It just wasn’t in his DNA, or so he thought. His pain and loneliness could end tonight, he thought. He stared at the pistol for a long moment, set it down on the nightstand by his wedding picture with Sarah, stared at her image, her warm, happy smile. Geoff sniffed back tears. He grabbed the pistol in his hand once again, released the safety, his eyes staring blankly into space. His mind ticked off the path of the projectile. Tearing through the brainstem, his respirations and heart beat would cease almost immediately, his parietal and occipital cortices would be obliterated, a hole the size of a baseball would be blown out the back of his skull…..

  Sarah would not want this!

  Sarah’s voice in his head jolted him back to reality. Slowly, he reengaged the safety, removed the clip, put the pistol back in the chest, and placed it back on the top of his closet shelf.

  Geoff had tried to slam the door shut on that part of his life as well on that painful day. As he reached the top of the steps, he paused and closed his eyes briefly. He felt light-headed, short of breath. Then he remembered the report on the morning news about the inversion. It took his mind off Sarah.

  Geoff stopped briefly in the marbled lobby of the building to check his mail, something he did regardless of the day. He looked through the window in the brass box, but it was empty. Odd. Yesterday wasn’t a holiday, and his box was almost always crammed with something, at least a medical journal and some junk mail.

  Geoff passed the stairs, deciding to take the elevator up to his third floor apartment. The old metal door slid closed with a loud clang, and the elevator departed with enough of a jolt to cause him to lose his balance. Amazing the old lift still worked.

  As he walked down the dim hallway towards his apartment, something felt different. Just a feeling, nothing concrete, nothing he could put his finger on. He paused and looked up and down the hall, then looked at his watch. Six a.m. A strange silence enveloped him.

  He paused by the door of his next door neighbor, Mrs. Lubka, and leaned close to listen for any sounds. Nothing. She must not be feeling well. Geoff couldn’t remember the last time he entered his apartment without her opening her door and convincing him to come in for a cup of coffee and to check her blood pressure. He made a mental note to check on her later.

  Geoff reached into his pocket for his keys, fumbled the keychain, and dropped it on the floor, the noise echoing along the hallway. As he bent down to pick it up, he heard a sound, not from the hallway, but from inside his apartment.

  Was it his imagination?

  He put his ear to the door and heard the sounds of cabinet doors opening and closing, drawers sliding open and closed, what sounded like things being dumped on the floor. The door showed no signs of being forced open, and he didn’t remember leaving any windows unlocked.

  Geoff reached down to his shin, unsheathed his combat knife, and gripped it in his left hand. One swift pass with the blade could easily slit a man’s throat. That would do nicely.

  Slowly, he inserted the key into the deadbolt, tumbler by tumbler, unlocked it, turned the doorknob.

  The door creaked as it opened. Geoff listened. The activity continued unabated. Whoever was inside hadn’t heard him.

  Geoff set his pack down by the door and walked toward the bedroom, from where the sounds were now coming. As he passed through the living room, a glimmer of something resting on the carpet reflected in the light and caught his eye.

  Geoff bent down to pick it up. It was an old pair of glasses, frame bent and thick, bloodied lenses smashed as if they had been intentionally stepped on. Geoff bent down and studied them closely. They were cataract glasses. The only one he knew who wore glasses like those was Mrs. Lubka. A trail of dried blood lead to the broom closet.

  Geoff’s heart pounded so fiercely he wondered if it could be heard a room away. He tightened his grip on the cold metal weapon as he approached the threshol
d of the bedroom, peaked around the corner.

  A man stood by the window, looking through Geoff’s dresser. Geoff tried to get a better look, but could see the man only from behind. Tall and broad shouldered, he wore a running suit. A black ski mask covered his head and face.

  This wouldn’t be easy, but Geoff was trained for hand to hand combat. Geoff heard a murmur of frustration as the man threw down the dresser drawer. The intruder checked his watch, then looked around and paused. His gaze focused on the night stand.

  The man bent down and opened the drawer. He removed a small, grey box and picked it open easily with a metal pin. Geoff could see the shadow of a smile as the intruder opened the box and removed two small glass vials.

  He had found what he was looking for.

  Geoff’s heart pounded more loudly. His pulse raced wildly. He tried to slow his breathing. He shifted his weight, and the floor creaked.

  The intruder set down the box after quickly slipping the vials into his pocket. He reached inside his jacket and removed a small, black pistol with a long silencer on the end of the barrel. He scanned the room, cocked the slide. Geoff backpedaled toward the living room.

  The intruder reached the threshold of the bedroom, gun leading the way.

  Geoff squeezed the knife handle, raised his arm.

  Now, man, now or never! Geoff’s knife came crashing down with great force and caught the man by surprise. It missed his neck, slashed his right arm instead.

  The man howled, the gun flew out of his hand and bounced onto the carpeted floor with a thud. Quickly, the intruder regained his footing and held his injured arm, blood dripping on the floor. For a few long seconds they locked stares. Geoff examined the frosty eyes of the man behind the mask, his chilling stare hauntingly familiar.

  Geoff summoned all his reserves and lunged toward the pistol. He was surprised he got to it first. He stood up ready to confront the intruder and pull off his mask, ready to shoot if he had to, but when he looked up the man was gone.

  Geoff heard the front door open and close, then the squeaking sound of rubber soles skidding down the tiled hallway, down the stairs. He ran to the door, gun in one hand, knife in the other, thinking he’d chase him down, but realized the chase would likely be fruitless.

  The peas. Check the peas!

  Geoff ran to the kitchen and retrieved the bag of peas from the freezer. He ripped open the bag and spilled the contents into the sink, retrieving the two vials of endorphins. He sighed in relief as he clutched them in his hand.

  His plan to root out the players had worked almost too well. It had almost cost him his life. Most difficult was the sense of betrayal, no one he could trust. He couldn’t do this alone any longer, not with a professional hit man, or whatever he was, involved.

  Geoff made another decision. He set the vials down on the kitchen table, removed a card from his wallet, and dialed the phone.

  “Detective O’Malley, please. Tell him it’s Dr. Geoff Davis from the New York Trauma Center. No, tell him it can’t wait.”

  Chapter 29

  “Well, doc, that’s quite a story,” said Detective O’Malley as he chewed on a fresh piece of gum, the stub of his unlit cigar dangling from his lips. O’Malley leaned back in the recliner, gazed at Geoff, who was seated in the overstuffed couch opposite him.

  “They say truth is stranger than fiction.”

  “They do, don’t they, doc? I must admit, after twenty-two years on the force with all I seen, I’d have to agree with you. I mean, I could’ve written ten books by now. They’d all be bestsellers, nobody’d believe the stuff was true. You hear what I’m sayin,?”

  O’Malley paused for a moment, glanced at his note pad, then peered up at Geoff with a slight squint. “Even so, doc, what you’re saying is far-fetched. Don’t get me wrong. You seem like a pretty sharp guy. No reason I know of to think you got a screw loose or anything like that. Still, you’ve had a busy few days yourself, to say the least.”

  “That’s very true, detective.”

  “There’s that word, again, doc. Truth. That’s really all I think we’re both after here, isn’t it?”

  O’Malley turned on his recorder and placed it down on the coffee table. “Let’s recap today’s events first. Interrupt me if I say something wrong.”

  Geoff nodded.

  “You say you left your lady friend’s apartment about six o’clock this morning and came straight home. You didn’t stop anywhere on the way. After entering the building you took the elevator up to the third floor. You didn’t see or hear anything unusual—no sounds, no strangers, nothing out of the ordinary—except of course that there were no sounds, nothing going on, which you say is unusual at that hour.

  “You go to open your apartment door and two things strike you: your neighbor, Mrs. Lubka, doesn’t open her door to see what’s going on as she usually does when you come home—because she’s stuffed in your broom closet with a bullet in her head—and you hear sounds in your apartment.” Again, Geoff only nodded.

  “You sneak in and find a guy going through your night table and see him steal a couple of dummy vials you planted there. You sneak up on the fellah and slash his arm with your knife.”

  O’Malley picked up the plastic bag containing Geoff’s standard issue combat knife and held it up. “Correct?”

  “What are you doing with that?” asked Geoff, grabbing the bag, “That’s mine.”

  O’Malley reached over and pulled the bag out of his hands. “Evidence, doc. I’m goin’ to have the boys in the crime lab check it out. I’ll make sure you get it back when they’re through with it.”

  O’Malley leaned back in the chair. “Now where was I? Oh, yeah, so you grab the gun, face each other off. You don’t recognize him because he’s wearing a ski mask, but you do notice his eyes, like you’ve seen him before but aren’t sure where or when. He runs out the door. Sound about right?”

  “All except the face-off. That was before I grabbed the gun off the floor.”

  O’Malley wet the eraser with his tongue and made the correction. “Good doc, real good. But the incident does pose a number of questions that make me uneasy, as I am sure you are about this whole thing.”

  O’Malley replaced the unlit stub of the cigar in his mouth. “Don’t worry, doc, I won’t light up. I never do when I make a house call.”

  He removed the stub, examined it fondly, placed it back between his teeth. “Lots of people, my wife included, find these things offensive, though I’m not sure why.”

  O’Malley gazed back down at his notes. “Now, if no valuables were touched in here, as you say, it’s apparent the perpetrator was after only one thing, the vials you acquired. If that’s the case, someone had to know you had them. Correct?”

  Geoff exhaled loudly, briefly closed his eyes, trying to shut out the fact he knew he had to face. “To the best of my knowledge only one person knew. Suzanne Gibson, a pathologist at the Trauma Center. That’s not to say others didn’t find out.” Geoff fidgeted in his chair under O’Malley’s watchful eye.

  “Of course, one never knows for sure, but let’s assume she was the only one who knew. What motive would she have to tip off a professional hit man—and that’s what he had to be judging by the methods of entry and the single bullet in the old lady’s head—to break into your apartment, steal those vials, and wait for you to arrive to knock you off the same way he neatly finished off the old lady?”

  Geoff sat in stunned silence, his hands clasped in front of him. He had assumed the man was there only to get back the vials. It had never crossed his mind he might have been sent for another purpose as well.

  “Suzanne is the one who brought the whole thing to my attention. She discovered the strange endorphin in the patients’ brains on autopsy.”

  “So, this Dr. Gibson, she drew you in, involved y
ou more deeply?”

  “I guess you could say that, but I pressed her to look for anything unusual when she did the autopsy on the girl.”

  “You said the test she ran was not done routinely?”

  “That’s right. It’s more of a research test. Besides, when she isolated the compound, she was genuinely excited and thought she had made a remarkable discovery, something that might win a Nobel Prize. I find it hard to believe she was acting,” said Geoff, his voice trailing off.

  “Maybe so, doc, maybe so. But you haven’t convinced me she’s innocent.” O’Malley took a sip of water and cleared his throat. “Did Dr. Gibson—Suzanne as you call her—and you have any interpersonal involvement other than of a business nature?”

  Geoff was caught off guard. He wasn’t sure where O’Malley was leading him. “No, not really. Not until last night.”

  O’Malley’s ears perked up a bit. “In my business, that usually means yes.” He leaned forward and patted Geoff on the knee. “It’s okay, doc. This isn’t divorce court, and you aren’t married, anyway.”

  “It’s not like that. We’ve worked pretty closely lately on these strange cases I’ve told you about. I was at her place to review some scans, had a bit too much to drink, and ended up spending the night. That’s all.”

  “Did she suggest you break into Dr. Balassi’s lab?”

  Geoff’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”

  “Sorry, I forgot the official report said the security guard let you in, even though it was after you tried to break in and set off the alarm in the process.”

  O’Malley smiled and put up his hand. “I got my sources, you know. Don’t worry, nobody’s filed any charges, so I couldn’t do anything about it even if I wanted to.”

  “No, she didn’t.”