The Endorphin Conspiracy

by Fredric Stern

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Geoff muttered. “One of the oldest tricks in the book.”

  “April 4, 2010. Shock and surprise! I saw a side of Josef Balassi today I never dreamed existed. He was understanding and sensitive to my situation and promised not to tell Pederson or anyone else. He said my secret was safe with him. In fact, he said I could stay with the lab. Now that he knew something so intimate about me, he felt as though he could trust me more and would let me in on a new aspect of the project.”

  “May 12, 2010. No entries for a while. Things have taken a turn. Walter’s peering at me strangely these days. He gives me the creeps. I think Balassi must have told him. I’m being blackmailed to remain with the project and do more than I want to, more than I should do as a physician. I don’t think Balassi would do it, but, G-d, if those photos get out about me, and my family found out, I don’t know what I’d do! Balassi’s not what I thought he was. I’ve totally fucked up my life.”

  Geoff continued reading. He noted a definite change in the tone. Despondent was a good description. Kapinsky’s handwriting, normally akin to Chinese, had become total chicken-scratch, barely legible. Fortunately, Geoff was used to deciphering it in patient charts.

  “May 25, 2010. I was told to inject a new compound today into a patient named Jesus Romero. Carried it out per instructions, but no effect noted yet. I think the stuff has a delayed reaction. The new analog they’re working on is going to be more immediate. I’ve had it with this! I didn’t spend my whole life training to become a slave! I’m going to do some snooping around on my own and see what’s really going on, what Balassi’s hiding.

  “July 03, 2010. Snooped around Balassi’s desk after he left for dinner. The lab was empty. Found a list of what appears to be patient numbers under the heading Sigma Project. Balassi’s getting careless in his arrogance. There’s big time involvement here. Is this a James Bond movie or real life? Sometimes I think it’s all just a bad dream. How did I let myself get involved in all this? I must have been set up from the beginning. Shit, I’m scared!

  “The numbers under the Sigma Project match patients I injected already in the NSICU. The other is a little girl who was just admitted a few days ago. I won’t do it even if he threatens to announce my secret on the reader board in Times Square!”

  “Kapinsky, you coward, how could you?” Geoff swore under his breath.

  “July 05, 2010. I tried to refuse, but Balassi brought Pederson in and showed the photographs to him right in front of me! I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. They forced me to carry it out. They said it was a newer analog and would bring her further out of her coma, that it wouldn’t cause any harm, that it was part of a classified experiment backed by the United States Government,that it would be tantamount to treason to refuse. Well, I could live with that, but I removed myself from the situation in a way they’d never know. I left it there at her bedside in a syringe marked “irrigation.” The nurse did the job for me without realizing it. My G-d, what have I become?”

  When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

  Of course! The only way to reach the deep brain tissue was to deliver it directly, and the only way to do that and evade detection was to deliver it with an entry site that was already there: the ICP bolt!

  Every one of those patients—Romero, the Rabbi, Jessica, DeFranco, Smithers—had ICP bolts drilled through their skulls that communicated directly with the space around the brain to measure the pressure in their heads and monitor their levels of injury. The lines were flushed daily. It was not a difficult chore to substitute the endorphin, or any substance for that matter, with the saline irrigation. The nurse on shift that night delivered the substance without knowing it when she irrigated the line.

  Geoff resumed reading. “After she coded, they said it must have been too potent to inject directly into the brain. They would have to refine the analog further. I was instructed by Balassi to start raising the suspicion of a mercy killer on the loose and plant evidence to implicate Geoff. Tie it in with a drug problem. Balassi told me Geoff had had one in the past. I was supposed to accuse him of forging medication logs. At first I refused, then Walter—I hate that man—came to visit me at my apartment that night and...it was awful.”

  “That son-of-a-bitch, Balassi. A drug problem?” Geoff’s mind was whirring at a fast clip. He had forged that pharmacy log, but not because of a drug problem. The morphine was for Sarah, poor suffering Sarah. But he had never told anyone that.

  Chapter 36

  Geoff slammed the journal closed and placed it along with the documents and Suzanne’s digital recorder memory card in the manila envelope. He had to act right away, get this incriminating information to someone who could help, someone he could trust.

  There are some pretty powerful people involved here with a lot more to lose than yourself, doc.

  Geoff pondered that statement over and over. Should he call O’Malley and hand over all the information to him, and let him deal with it? What the hell could this New York cop do against the CIA, a huge multi-national corporation, and the Director of the New York Trauma Center? Would he even understand it all?

  Geoff made a decision. He reopened the envelope and removed the piece of paper on which he had jotted down the phone number of the person Suzanne told him to contact. Suzanne was in the ICU still critical. He had to trust she was telling it to him straight when she thought it was over for her. It was Geoff’s best bet.

  Geoff dialed the number and waited. Strange electronic tones, then a women’s voice came on the line. “Are you calling for Director Bennington?”

  Geoff was shaken by the unexpected female voice on the other end. He hesitated, hoping Bennington would pick up. He didn’t.

  It’s his private, secure line Geoff. He’ll help you.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “The Director is out of the country right now. Please identify yourself.”

  Geoff’s heart sank.

  The voice on the other end persisted. “Excuse me, sir, did you say something?”

  “Uh, no, I didn’t.”

  “Perhaps Deputy Director Lancaster, his assistant, can help you? Your identification, please.”

  Geoff was desperate. If the man was his assistant, he had to know what was going on. “The Sigma Project. Just tell Mr. Lancaster it’s about Sigma.”

  “One moment, please, sir.”

  All of the sudden, Geoff wasn’t feeling so secure, and the line didn’t seem so private. More electronic sounds, then an icy male voice on the other end. “Code name?”

  “I have information on the Sigma Project. Do you want it?”

  Seconds passed in silence. “Who is this?”

  “A friend of Suzanne Gibson’s. She was murdered and asked me to deliver the information she had acquired to Director Bennington.”

  “Director Bennington will be unavailable for an extended period of time. I’ve assumed his responsibilities. Tell me where you are, and I will have a courier pick up the information.”

  Suzanne hadn’t said anything about his being unavailable.

  Geoff felt increasingly uncomfortable. Was the call being traced?

  “Is there any way he can be reached? I was instructed to speak with him directly.”

  “I’ve told you that’s not possible.” Lancaster’s voice had lost its hardness. “It sounds by your tone like you’re doing more than conveying information. Sounds to me like you’re in trouble, in need of assistance. I can help you. Just tell me who you are and where I can find you.”

  Geoff hung up the phone. He held onto the receiver and stared at it, waiting to see if it would ring back, if they had traced the call. Seconds, then minutes passed. Nothing.

  They must have gotten to Bennington.

  Chapter 37

&nb
sp; Geoff now had no other options. He needed an ally, and O’Malley was the only one left. He reached into his wallet, retrieved the card O’Malley had given him, punched in the number, took a deep breath, waited.

  “Yeah, O’Malley here.”

  Geoff paused, then answered. “Detective O’Malley, this is Dr. Geoff Davis.” He exhaled.

  “Well, doc, you’ve had a pretty busy twenty-four hours, haven’t you now?”

  “That’s an understatement, detective. Listen, remember the conversation we had at my apartment the other day? The endorphin conspiracy I told you about? I’ve got some pretty incriminating evidence about who’s behind it all, the same ones who tried to murder Suzanne Gibson.”

  “I’d be very interested to see your evidence, doc, but first I’ve got a question for you.” O’Malley’s tone changed, became more grave. “Where were you between the hours of eight and ten p.m. last night?”

  The question was not unexpected, but Geoff didn’t know what to answer. “Waiting for Suzanne Gibson and my brother Stefan. I think you must know the rest of what happened.”

  “Doc, my instincts tell me I have no good reason to believe you to be a murderer, no motive to explain the deadly assault on your friend Suzanne Gibson. I have a few problems with this situation, though, that the chief keeps bringing up to me, and I don’t know how to explain them. Maybe you can help me out.”

  Geoff didn’t like the way the conversation was heading. He wondered if they were tracing his call. He checked his watch. He’d been on about a minute. He’d have to hang up before another minute passed. “I’ll try.”

  “My first problem, I should say your first problem, has to do with why your ID badge was found in the morgue in a pool of Suzanne Gibson’s blood. She was carved up pretty skillfully, like whoever it was knew what they were doing, you know?”

  Geoff knew all right. He had been so worried about finding his gun, he hadn’t even realized his ID badge was missing as well.

  “The second dilemma, the unfortunate murder of one of the security guards who was near the morgue at the time. You see, the murder weapon was a Colt 45, registered to a Lieutenant Geoffrey Davis, military issue.”

  Oh, my God. Balassi’s cohorts must have picked it up from the morgue. Geoff felt his face flush with anger. “What the—”

  “I’m sure you have a good explanation for these things, doc.”

  Goeff thought about Walter. Surely, finding his body there would help support Geoff’s explanation. “Walter Krenholz savagely attacked Suzanne and left her for dead. He attacked me in the morgue after I discovered her near death, tried to kill me as well. I killed him with his own knife in self defense. My gun fell out of my belt during the struggle. Surely your forensic team is sharp enough to confirm this as the cause of Walter’s death. “

  “Doc, I’d have a hell of a lot easier time believing you if you’d tell me where his body and the knife you speak of are.”

  Silence. “What do you mean?” Geoff asked. “He was on the floor near the front of the morgue with a knife in his neck.”

  “The only fresh stiff in the whole place was the dead guard.” O’Malley cleared his throat. “What do you say you and I get together here at the station house and talk about it all over a cup of coffee? You might want to call a lawyer, but that can probably wait until we chat a bit. If these people are as dangerous as you say, you’d be a hell of a lot safer here than wherever you are. Where’s your brother, Stefan who you say you were with later that night? And where are you, anyway, doc?”

  Geoff hung up the phone. Shit. It was a tight, professionally orchestrated scenario. They had set him up without leaving an escape hole big enough for a lab rat.

  Chapter 38

  Geoff walked the five blocks from Kapinsky’s apartment in the shadows, his hooded sweatshirt bunched up around his neck and the side of his face, concealing his identity as best he could without looking too suspicious. It was five-thirty. Though sunrise was just a half-hour away, the thick cloud cover gave Geoff a little more darkness than he would have had otherwise.

  Geoff crossed Cabrini Boulevard and stayed about ten paces behind an old man walking his dog, then stopped in front of the Cabrini Arms apartments. Geoff scanned the area. He was alone. He walked to the entrance, climbed the three steps leading to the stained glass door, quietly turned the brass handle. Locked, as he thought it would be.

  Geoff slipped into the shadows around the east side of the building, looked up. The fire escape was his only ticket into the building. Only problem was, the bottom of the ladder was at least ten feet off the ground.

  Geoff continued to the service entrance around back, looked for a large box, a small step ladder, anything that could give him a few feet of reach. He searched the area around the dumpster. Nothing. Quietly, he lifted the metal lid, looked inside. The stench made his nostrils flare. A large plastic milk crate caught his attention. Geoff reached in, pushed aside a foul-smelling garbage bag, pulled out the crate, set it down. Perfect.

  Geoff carried the crate to the east side of the building, placed it beneath the fire escape ladder. He stood on the crate, extended his reach as far as he could. His fingertips scraped the rusted bottom rung, but he couldn’t grab hold.

  Geoff relaxed his outstretched arm, shook it off. He took a breath, bent down, and with a grunt jumped as high as he could, knocking over the crate in the process. “Yes!” he said as his hand gripped the fire escape ladder.

  Geoff pulled himself up and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. Short of breath, he paused, listened for any activity. No sounds, no movement.

  He followed the fire escape to the back of the building. Apartment 4G. Geoff paused, felt for Kapinsky’s switchblade, removed it from his pocket. Geoff looked through the bedroom window into the familiar apartment to be sure he was at the right place. The target was sleeping soundly in bed.

  Geoff used the knife to pry open the window, slid into the room, landed quietly on the floor next to the dresser. The man snored, shifted in the bed. Geoff approached from the back side, knife in hand. He inched closer until he could hear his target’s respirations, then put the knife to his neck, indenting the skin.

  Josef Balassi raised his arm to swat away the object on his neck, awoke with a start. He tried to turn his head around to look at his assailant, but Geoff pressed his face into the pillow with his opposite arm.

  “What the hell—”

  “I wouldn’t make any sudden moves, if I were you.” Geoff released him slowly. “Now get up. Very slowly.”

  Balassi sat up, turned toward Geoff, looking dazed, confused. “Geoff? What are you doing in here? How’d you get in?”

  “Thought I’d drop by for a cup of coffee, talk about the Sigma Project.”

  Balassi’s pupils dilated in surprise. “Ah, you’ve heard of the project. Must have been through Suzanne Gibson. You two were quite close in the end, weren’t you?”

  “Cut the bullshit, Balassi.”

  “Patience, Geoff, patience. We have all the time in the world here.” He smiled.

  “Have you ever heard of the MK Ultra experiments, Geoff?”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  “In the late fifties, a visionary group within the CIA formed a top secret research project known as MK Ultra. The Agency, at the height of communist paranoia, wanted to develop mind-control drugs that could be unleashed to reach the populace of the Soviet Union and perhaps ultimately their leaders. An admirable goal at the time. The strategists behind this project went to Montreal and recruited a young neuroscientist, an émigré from Yugoslavia.”

  “You?”

  “That’s right, Geoff. I was a foreigner in a strange land. U.S. Immigration had turned me away in New York, and like many others I was sent to Canada. Well, these men from the Agency—I didn’t know who they were at first—offer
ed me a position as assistant director of a new research facility called the Human Ecology Institute and connected me with a brilliant neuropsychiatrist, Dr. Rudolph Schmidt, who was studying the chemical basis for schizophrenia.

  “He had discovered that LSD given in high doses could induce a schizophrenic-like condition and wondered whether giving this drug at varying doses could bring the neurotransmitters in the brain to normal balance. Dr. Schmidt had a sizeable clinical practice in Maryland, and we had plenty of subjects on which to try out our theory.

  “The Human Ecology Institute was the control center of this project, but MK Ultra had tentacles that extended throughout the U.S. and Canada. There were over eighty sites, some at major universities, Geoff,that participated in one way or another.”

  “Well, as I said, we experimented primarily with LSD at the time. Only we were haphazard and crude in our methods. We had no way to physiologically monitor our results. We didn’t have the PET scanner we have today. Short of normal subjects we could monitor closely, we tried our theories on some of our own agents, who were slipped the drug at a CIA retreat. One poor fellow had endless hallucinogenic flashbacks and eventually committed suicide by jumping out a window.”

  The newspaper clipping of Suzanne’s father’s suicide burned through Geoff’s consciousness. Now another generation carried the torch. Balassi had to be stopped. Death was too high a price for scientific advancement. With Suzanne in the hospital recovering from her injuries, Geoff felt he was the only one left to carry out the mission, to stop it all for good. Suzanne’s brush with death had sealed that for him.