The Endorphin Conspiracy

by Fredric Stern

Geoff read the message over, exhaled to release the tension. He tapped his foot nervously. What he had been calling experimentation with his patients was an organized conspiracy—the Sigma Project—with Balassi and whoever Bluebird was at the center. Pederson had to be in on it. Lord knew who else was involved.

  They had tried to take Geoff out of the loop by suspending him. If an agent from the IG’s—Inspector General’s—office was infiltrating the project, something big was happening here. That much was obvious. So was the term “neutralization.” He had to do something to contact the agent, find out who it was. Could it be his anonymous pen pal, Proteus?

  It was worth a try. Stefan said he’d have information for him tonight.

  The problem was, the message was already over twenty-four hours old. The agent, whoever it was, might be dead by now.

  Chapter 31

  Geoff checked his watch as he walked down the dark and musty corridor to the autopsy lab: 7:54 p.m. Better to be a few minutes early, get what he needed and get out so he could head downtown and meet Stefan. Geoff was worried about him. He had left him a message to rendezvous at nine instead of ten o’clock. With the order to neutralize the agent foremost on Geoff’s mind, every minute counted. He reached down to his left calf and checked to be sure his Colt was in its holster. It was. O’Malley had taken his combat knife, but not his pistol.

  The autopsy lab, located in the basement of the old wing of the hospital, was not one of Geoff’s favorite places. He had wondered why Suzanne wanted to meet him there and not her research lab, but concluded it would be more private. So much the better.

  Geoff approached the autopsy room, inserted his ID card into the slot. The door opened with a soft whoosh. A waft of moist, acrid air smacked him in the face. His nostrils flared. His eyes watered. Nothing else smelled quite like a room full of stiffs in various states of pickling and dissection.

  Expecting Suzanne to be sitting at the desk just inside the doorway, Geoff was struck by the room’s eerie silence. No saws were buzzing, no voices dictating notes. Not a living creature was in sight or within earshot as he scanned the room. Ten autopsy tables, four of them occupied. He checked his watch again and verified the time on the wall clock: 7:56 p.m.

  Geoff walked over to Suzanne’s desk and sat down. He hunted around, looking to see if she had left the information she had promised. Nothing but scattered papers and research grant proposals. He scanned the room to be sure no one was watching, then searched her desk drawers one at a time. Nothing in the top three, but the bottom drawer was locked. He glanced up at the clock: 8:02 p.m. Suzanne was nothing if not punctual.

  Geoff picked up the phone and dialed her research office, let it ring ten times. He was beginning to feel uneasy. He looked around the dimly lit room again, thought he heard a sound. He waited. No sound. No movement.

  Geoff began to wonder whether Suzanne was playing games with him, testing him. He stared at the locked drawer and was somehow sure the information he was after was inside. He rummaged through the other drawers for a key, found none. He had to get into that drawer.

  Geoff took a letter opener out of the top drawer and forced it in the crack between the drawers. He fiddled it back and forth, trying to force open the lock, but it would not budge. He grabbed a paper clip and tried to pick it the lock, but to no avail. In frustration, Geoff pounded the drawer with his fist. A metallic clink from beneath the desk echoed through the room. Geoff looked down and found a small key. Couldn’t be that easy. He tried it anyway. The drawer opened.

  He found a large, thick manila envelope, clearly marked: “Theater tickets for Geoff Davis. Hope you enjoy the show!” Geoff looked around the room again to make sure he was alone, then ripped open the envelope. Inside was an SD memory card, a flash drive, and a stack of papers. Geoff rummaged through her desk for a handheld digital recorder and found one. He put the memory card in and turned on the recorder.

  “Hi,Geoff. I don’t have much time...” Suzanne’s voice had a sense of urgency and echoed through the room. Geoff instantly switched off the recorder, placed the contents back in the envelope. Suzanne was obviously in trouble, and he was convinced he had to get out of there right away. He’d listen to the rest of the recording when he got back to his apartment.

  Geoff scanned the room one more time. He listened for any sounds, his hearing hyper acute. Nothing. The morgue was often the most private place in the Trauma Center.

  I don’t have much time...

  The words jolted him like an electric shock. Who knew he was coming here besides Suzanne? Where was Suzanne? He looked at the clock: 8:17 p.m. His mind raced with options.

  It was past time to get the hell out of there. Geoff stood and stuffed the envelope into his pants, covering it with his sweat shirt. He reached down his leg, removed the Colt from its holster, and slowly walked away from the desk, weaving his way between the autopsy tables.

  Geoff heard a strange sound to his right, the sound of water dripping onto the floor. His gaze darted from table to table, searching for any sign of an intruder. The dripping sound became louder.

  Slowly, he moved past the last table, toward the exit, revolver drawn. Geoff found himself standing in a puddle of blood. He turned, almost lost his footing, tried to stabilize himself by grabbing the edge of the table. Instead, he grasped the body’s arm and pulled its dead weight on top of him, landing on the floor with a crash.

  Covered with warm blood, Geoff jumped up, lifting the freshly autopsied body off of him in the process. Geoff forced himself to look down at the body as he tried to wipe himself clean.

  He gasped.

  “Oh my God, Suzanne!”

  Suzanne Gibson, her skin chalky white, her belly slashed cleanly, surgically—professionally—was lying on the floor in a dark crimson lake of her own blood. Geoff grabbed Suzanne’s face, looked at her lifeless eyes, checked her carotid pulse. She was still alive, gasping for air, her pulse barely palpable. Geoff grabbed a towel from the table and applied pressure to her oozing abdominal wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Suzanne had lost a lot of blood and Geoff knew he didn’t have much time. He had to get her to the ER right away so they could stop the bleeding and replace her lost blood volume.

  Suzanne opened her eyes, stared at Geoff, tried to speak, but no words flowed. Geoff’s eyes were glazed, somewhere between sadness and anger.

  “Who did this to you, Suzanne, who?”

  Suzanne whispered a response, nothing Geoff could understand. Geoff bent down, kissed her cool, waxy lips. “Stay with me Suzanne, I’m taking you to the ER. You’re going to be O.K.”

  His instincts told him to get them out of there as quickly as he could. Geoff placed his arms beneath her, lifted her carefully and turned to run but something blocked his path.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man in a ski mask stood in front of them, holding a large autopsy knife dripping blood. Suzanne’s eyes widened with a flash of terror. Geoff set Suzanne down as quickly and carefully as he could. He was breathing so hard his ribs hurt. His heart felt like it was going to burst. He started to reach down for his gun, realized it had fallen on the floor by the autopsy table. Once again, he and this masked man stood across from each other, facing off. Only this time, there would be only one survivor.

  “What the hell do you want?” Geoff demanded.

  Ice blue eyes, set deep in their sockets deflected Geoff’s anger, gazed at a limp Suzanne now moaning on the floor nearby. The assailant approached, knife in hand, slashed at Geoff, who dodged the lunge, then ducked under one of the autopsy tables.

  Geoff ran from table to table, knocking over buckets of body parts, staying low to the ground, out-maneuvering the less agile killer.

  A foot kicked in from the side and connected with Geoff’s ribs. A sharp pain radiated from his side around to his back. The foot came swiftly again, but this time Geoff was prepared.
He grabbed it and flipped the man to the ground with a loud crash.

  The knife bounced to the floor, and both men scrambled to get to it. Geoff was just a foot away from the weapon, when the man grabbed his leg with a grunt and pulled him away. Geoff kicked fiercely, heard a loud crunch as his heel connected with the man’s nose.

  Geoff broke free, grabbed the knife, turned and lunged. He put the knife to the man’s throat. Though Geoff had been trained to kill as a Navy Seal, he was a healer, not a killer.

  “Who sent you?”

  Silence. Geoff reached to rip off the mask, but the killer grasped his hand and squeezed. The knife dropped to the ground.

  The man seized the knife again, thrust it at Geoff who had stood to run toward Suzanne, then collided with one of the autopsy tables. The slashing knife missed its mark, but the man’s momentum carried him forward, the weight of both combatants knocking table and corpse to the ground.

  Geoff’s head hit the ground, and he was dazed briefly. He looked up just in time to see a glimmering reflection coming at him. He rolled to his right, the knife whooshing by his ear and piercing the dark flesh of the supine corpse.

  Geoff felt something fine and cold against his face. He grabbed an autopsy knife that had fallen off the table and plunged it through one side of the assailant’s neck and out the other, just as the man freed his own knife from the cadaver’s chest. Blood pumped fiercely from the neck wound at first, then slowed to a trickle.

  Geoff rolled the man’s body over on its back and removed the knife from his hand. He checked for any signs of life. The man had stopped breathing, and there was no pulse. Geoff took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. He studied the man’s lifeless eyes, eyes just moments ago full of cold-blooded hatred.

  Geoff knew who it was, who it had to be. Slowly, Geoff removed the mask.

  Walter Krenholz.

  Sweat poured down Geoff’s chin onto the lifeless body beneath him. Geoff dropped the mask, stood, ran toward Suzanne. Her pulse was fainter, her eyes now closed, but she still breathed. Geoff lifted her slowly off the floor.

  “You’re safe now, Suzanne. I’m taking you to the E.R.”

  He was halfway to the exit when he froze in his tracks. His Colt was somewhere in the bloody mess on the floor.

  Geoff cursed himself for his carelessness. Military issue guns were easily traced. He bent down, looked underneath the autopsy tables, scanned the floor. Tables turned on their sides, partially dissected corpses, their parts strewn on the floor, trays of instruments scattered about.

  Geoff peered farther across the room toward the table Suzanne’s body had been resting on. Geoff had slipped there, hit the ground hard, Suzanne’s body falling on top of him. That’s where the gun had to be.

  A chill crept up his spine. He had no choice but to retrieve the gun and he didn’t have much time—Suzanne was hemorrhaging to death. A security guard, morgue tech, someone who heard the commotion, would be here any moment. He had to get the gun and get the hell out. Now.

  Geoff stood, took a deep breath, looked at Walter’s dead body, then back towards the door. All clear so far. Still cradling Suzanne’s almost lifeless body, he slid between the overturned tables, made his way to the table he had found her on. Geoff paused, looked around the area one last time. Nothing. The gun had to be somewhere in the vicinity.

  Commotion outside the main door, loud voices calling, legs moving quickly toward the morgue. Geoff glanced at the door. Someone, probably security, was heading toward him. Shit. He had to get his gun back!

  Geoff’s gaze darted all around the chaotic mess on the floor. Nothing. He walked towards Walter’s body, rolled it over with his foot. No gun.

  The sounds were now louder, whoever was approaching just outside the door. Geoff had to give up the search.

  Where the hell was that gun?

  He looked beneath the nearest autopsy table, looked around the room one last time, peered between the table supports. A shimmer of light drew his attention. Jutting out from beneath an overturned stainless steel basin was the blue steel grip of his Colt—near the front of the room, by the entrance.

  The automatic doors parted with a whoosh, four guards entered the room, guns drawn. Goddamnit! Suzanne’s life, or the gun. Geoff slid softly to the back corner of the room and bolted out the fire exit to the emergency room.

  Chapter 32

  Trauma doc Brian Phelps was sitting at the ER nursing station finishing a chart note when Geoff burst through the doors of the emergency room bloodied and frantic, carrying his precious cargo still clinging to life.

  “I’ve got a knife wound to the abdomen here, massive blood loss, severe internal injuries! Call the OR and have them get the trauma surgery team mobilized!” said Geoff.

  Phelps jumped up from the station, ran towards them, motioned to the gurney in the entranceway. “Geoff? What the hell—?”

  “—It’s complicated, Brian. Just get her volume up fast until you can stop the bleeding, Goddamnit!”

  A flurry of activity, nurses and technicians, now surrounded Suzanne placing monitors, IV’s, hanging bags of blood. Geoff grasped Suzanne’s hand, leaned in close to her, whispered in her ear. “Hang in there Suzanne, you’re going to pull through. I’ll take you to see that show when you get back up on your feet.” Oblivious to the hive of activity around him, he kissed her forehead gently. “I have to go now, but I will be back for you.”

  Geoff turned and slipped out of the emergency room, into the darkness.

  Chapter 33

  Geoff sat impatiently in the same booth of the smokey coffeehouse on Houston Street, waiting for Stefan to arrive. It was nine forty-five and he had left a message for Stefan to meet him at nine. Maybe he never picked up the message. Geoff tapped his foot, scanned the crowd for anything irregular. He had to be on his guard. They tried to kill Suzanne. Walter Krenholz had been eliminated. They—whoever they were in a broader sense—wouldn’t take kindly to that.

  “Get you another one?” asked the waitress.

  “Sure,” Geoff said. He lifted his shot glass, drained the last few drops of Stoli.

  The waitress smiled, cracked her gum. “Looks like you could use it. Rough night with the girlfriend or somethin’?”

  “Something like that.”

  Geoff didn’t realize he looked so bad. He had run home from the autopsy lab, showered, changed, bagged his clothes and sent them down the incinerator shoot.

  The only thing that had worried him besides Suzanne was the gun. It wasn’t a good situation, but neither was getting caught with blood stained hands alongside a murder victim, even if it was self defense. Geoff had taken a cab downtown, looking out the back window the whole way to be sure he wasn’t being followed. He’d tried to look like a regular guy out for a drink, but the worry behind his eyes must have given him away.

  The second Stoli arrived and Geoff downed it quickly. He checked his watch again: 10:05 p.m. He left a twenty dollar bill on the table, left the bar and walked east to Third Avenue towards Stefan’s apartment, looking over his shoulder all the while.

  The vodka had taken the edge off his anxiety, the nightmarish image of Suzanne nearly bleeding to death burned into his visual memory, but Geoff remained keenly aware of his surroundings. His only weapons now were his mind and his hands. Brian Phelps had sent Geoff a text message a short while ago Suzanne made it to the OR and the trauma team had stopped the hemorrhaging. Her spleen was ruptured and her liver badly lacerated, but it looked as though she’d make it.

  Geoff turned up Third Avenue, crossed to the east side of the street. Red lights flashed two blocks north. Cautiously, he approached the corner of Third Avenue and Beekman, then stopped dead in his tracks. Police cars and an aid unit, a crowd of onlookers, massed outside Stefan’s building. Yellow police tape cordoned off the area. An orange body bag on a stret
cher was being wheeled to the ambulance parked at the curb.

  Frantically, Geoff searched the crowd for Stefan. He moved through the throngs, checking silhouettes of faces in the red strobe lights of the emergency vehicles. Voices crackled over the police band. Television crews arrived. Vans set up their equipment. The faces of the crowd would be blasted into daylight with bright halogen lights any minute. Geoff had to find Stefan and get them out of there, quickly.

  If he couldn’t find Stefan, maybe he’d recognize a friend, a neighbor, someone who knew where Stefan was, someone who could tell Geoff he was okay.

  Geoff felt a hand on his shoulder, heard a man’s voice, spun around.

  “Hey bro, sorry I’m late!” said Stefan.

  Geoff grabbed Stefan on each shoulder, looked him squarely in the eyes. “Where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried sick about you!”

  “Some little old lady set her kitchen on fire in my building and apparently died of smoke inhalation. The fire department made us evacuate.” Stefan eyed Geoff at first taken aback by Geoff’s urgent tone, then sensed Geoff’s exhaustion. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks. I feel a lot worse than that. Let’s get out of here and go somewhere we can talk more freely. I’ve got a lot to fill you in on.”

  Chapter 34

  Geoff fled to Kapinsky’s apartment. He didn’t know where else to go, any other place no one would think to look for him, at least not right away. He was fortunate enough to find Kapinsky’s spare key in the same hiding place he had left it in the past when Geoff and he had socialized.

  First his patients, then Kapinsky, now the attempt on Suzanne’s life. If they had been killed so readily, Geoff could be eliminated just the same. With murder all around him, bodies stacking up like cord wood, there had to be a reason his life had been spared.