Mind in Chains

by Bruce M Perrin

  “What’s she doing?” asked Clements.

  Rebecca shrugged. “Getting ready?” At that moment, Constance burst forward, reaching full stride in two steps. Just before she would have crashed into the wall of one of the buildings, she leaped into the air.

  “No way,” said Clements, as her feet left the ground. And indeed, after leaping between the walls of the two buildings and then reaching for the top of the hallway between them, she fell back to the earth. “Damn, she almost made it. And the roof of that passageway is what—almost two-and-a-half times her height?”

  “Fourteen feet, give or take a few inches depending on where you measure. And she makes it the second time.” They watched as she did.

  “Is that as hard as it looks?” asked Clements.

  “It’s not easy. We had a local parkour trainer check it out. He had a whole list of things that made it a tough scale—rough ground, uneven wall surfaces, the height. But it was the depth of the recess that he really hated. It’s only eleven inches. He hit his elbow against the back wall on his third try and gave up.”

  “And you didn’t goad him into another attempt, saying even a woman could do it?”

  “I wasn’t there,” replied Rebecca, leaving the implications unstated.

  Clements snorted again, then walked over to a chair near the wall of her cube and dropped into it. He crossed one arm over his chest and rested the elbow of the other on it while his fingers massaged his forehead. Rebecca had come to think of this position as Clements’s thoughtful pose. After a moment he said, “I think you told me that Constance cases her scenes carefully. Is that really the easiest way into the building?”

  “Without setting off an alarm or involving someone else—like stealing someone’s entry card—yeah, that’s about as simple as it gets. She couldn’t even use a rope to scale that wall because there’s nothing there to hook. Once again, she was well prepared, right down to the days, if not weeks of training to make that jump. And the window she got in?” Clements nodded. “One of the few that wasn’t replaced when they rehabbed the building a couple of years ago. The new ones are covered with …”—Rebecca checked her notes—"an acrylic sheeting, making them about 50 times stronger than glass. She knew exactly where to go.”

  “Any other video?” asked Clements.

  “When she leaves. The only cameras inside the building are on the first floor. And she simply walked out when she was done.”

  Rebecca clicked a tab on the video viewer and started the clip. A young, black woman walked down a hall. You could almost see the muscles in her legs and shoulders rippling under the tight, black clothes she wore. Pausing just below the camera, she looked up and smiled. But it wasn’t an everyday, life-is-good smile. It was elation.

  “You know, it’s too bad she’s a wannabe serial killer. She has a great smile.”

  “I hate that taunting shit too much to admire it,” replied Rebecca, biting off each word. “She’s mocking us. She’s sure we can’t find her even with all the physical evidence she’s leaving behind—pictures, fingerprints, even some blood from the second case.”

  “And that hasn’t changed, right?” asked Clements.

  Rebecca scowled in response.

  “And you’re trying to get in the international databases, too?” Clements asked.

  “The key word is ‘trying.’ So far, it’s been slow going. That’ll probably change now.”

  “Probably.” Clements resumed his thoughtful pose. Rebecca wondered if he was reaching new depths of contemplation; he was kneading his forehead so hard that his fingertips were turning white. When he dropped his hand, he said, “We seem to be getting slower at taking her posts down. The news had several minutes of what appeared to be scrolling text. Never saw that before.”

  “I know the story there. Constance went higher tech on this last message. She set up a laptop as a web server, connected to the Internet service at a downtown coffee shop. You’ll have to ask IT, but I understand it’s not that hard to do. She left the computer running a webpage off batteries for a couple of hours. The staff found it just before the police arrived, so all of Constance’s fingerprints were probably smudged, not that we need them.”

  “Same—” Clements started, but Rebecca cut him off.

  “We even have video of her going into that coffeehouse. This time she winked at the camera,” she said, her tone dripping sarcasm. “Wanna see?”

  “That’s OK,” replied Clements. “I was going to ask, any change in her profile? I just caught the highlights of her message on TV.”

  “I’m getting the full review, but their first impression is that there’s nothing new. They’re still saying well educated, articulate, high IQ. Her athletic prowess is obvious. She’s probably spent all or most of her life in the Midwest, which of course is one of the reasons why approval to search the foreign databases has bogged down. Social, but most likely single.” Rebecca paused a beat. “How the hell do they figure that?”

  “Not sure.” Clements shrugged. “Maybe they figure no spouse would go along with this insanity. Anything else?”

  “There’s a lot more detail—things like she’s extremely knowledgeable about medicine.” Again, Rebecca paused. “That still feels weird to me. Talks like a doctor but thinks medicine will be the death of us? And, yeah, Chuck has reminded me—several times—that the Unabomber was a math professor, and yet, he railed against technology.”

  Clements shook his head. “I wish he wouldn’t make that comparison either, but he has a point. Constance wouldn’t be the first to learn her hate from the inside. And you’ve got that on your board?”

  “It’s there,” Rebecca said, sticking a thumb toward the whiteboard across the cube from where he sat. He wandered over.

  Clements knew her organizational strategy, and accordingly, he started at the center of the board. He worked his way slowly to the right, tapping a couple of fingers against his chin as he read. That side contained the “facts” of the case or as close as one had in a criminal investigation. And some of those data were extremely accurate, like Constance’s height. The FBI had enough pictures of her with backgrounds that could be measured to know it within a half-inch or so. After finishing that side, he returned to the center of the board and repeated the process to the left, covering everything from fairly well-founded inferences near the center to the wild guesses on the far edge. The scheme was basically one Rebecca had learned from an instructor at Quantico and had modified for her own use.

  “There’s an assumption running through your analysis,” Clements said. “Or, at least it seems that way. Like you’re trying to make everything fit one person.”

  “Yes and no,” she replied. “If there are two or more people, I think the centerline could divide them. The right side is Constance—gender, height, weight, physical skills. The left side would be Constance and the person in the shadows, if there is one. I realize it’s easier to think of several people: the near Olympic athlete, a computer type for setting up their broadcasts, a doctor who’s gone over the edge. But it’s not required, I don’t think. At least, not yet.”

  “No, you’ve taken the right approach,” said Clements. “Keep it one person until we’re proved wrong, even though I think we’re getting close to that point. I mean, who says things like ‘arrogance-fueled medical atrocity,’ can discuss state-of-the-art gene editing, and can scale a 14-foot wall wearing a backpack? There’s hardly enough hours in the lifetime of a 20-something-year-old for all the training and education implied in that.”

  “Tell me about it,” replied Rebecca. She snapped her fingers and walked over to the board. “I almost forgot to add something about local medical school graduates. School could explain a couple of things: Constance’s medical expertise and her detailed knowledge of some of these buildings. But so far, nothing. Most of them moved away after graduating, and we’ve found nothing on the rest.”

  “Still worth the look,” replied Clements.

  As Rebecca was adding an
entry to her board, a possible motive for Clements’s interest came to her. “Are we doing this so I have everything I need to brief my successor?”

  Clements rubbed his chin, his gaze tracking around the cube as if in search of the right words. “I’ll make a case for you leading.”

  She was shaking her head even as he spoke. She had come to accept the inevitable after the phone call from her boss. Nonetheless, she appreciated Clements’s gesture.

  “But, yes,” continued Clements slowly, “if it comes to a handoff, make sure you cover everything on the board during the briefing.”

  “Any idea who it will be?” asked Rebecca.

  Clements turned to look at her. “Probably Hawkins.”

  Rebecca took a deep breath, turned away, and slowly shook her head. “Just my luck.”

  Rebecca’s dislike of Special Agent Bradley Hawkins wasn’t news; everyone knew the she-said, he-said story. She said he introduced himself as separated. He said he and his wife were just in a rough spot and had said so. Now, Rebecca cursed the day she had decided to relax her no-law-enforcement boyfriend policy for that “lying sack of shit,” as she now thought of him.

  “OK,” she said after another sigh. “I’ll tie it up all nice and neat for Agent Hawkins. All he has to do is find an attractive, black, world-class athlete with a genius-level IQ who thinks we should go back to the days of roots and berries for all our cures. He’ll probably start by checking his websites.”

  Clements frowned. “Check what?”

  “You know, all his dating websites?”

  Clements guffawed, then turned and left.

  1:03 PM – The Biomedical Engineering Associates Building

  Nicole opened the door to room A27, and she and Dr. Laura Greenwood entered.

  “That was a great suggestion for lunch,” said Greenwood. “I doubt I would have ever tried that place without your recommendation, but it was excellent.”

  “Thanks, Laura.” Nicole knew she was grinning—had been for most of the lunch—but she couldn’t help it. Greenwood had been so complimentary of everything. “But I guess it’s time to get to work.” Nicole gestured to the chair behind the desk.

  “No, you take that,” said Greenwood. “You’ll be taking notes, and typing on your laptop will be a lot easier at the desk. That gives me the rest of the room for pacing while I talk and draw pictures on the whiteboard. I usually need it—both the space and the board. So, I take it you’ve been doing a bit of homework?”

  Not sure exactly what she meant, a frown must have replaced Nicole’s smile. Greenwood explained without being asked. “I saw an old copy of Brain Cell Biology on your desk. So, what did you learn from hours poring over dry medical journals?”

  Nicole nodded, then sat behind the desk, opened the laptop, and powered up. Her settling-in production was more elaborate than necessary, but the biologist’s question had caused some of Nicole’s nervousness to return. She felt something like she did before an oral exam by a particularly tough professor but even more so. She was about to summarize the life’s work of a woman who was revolutionizing the treatment of abnormal brain development in preterm babies. And now that they were in their working quarters, some of the intensity Nicole thought she had seen earlier was clearly evident in her client.

  She looked up at Greenwood who was still standing on the other side of the desk. “I actually got interested in your work several years ago from a story in the local paper. You mentioned that some of your inspiration came from research completed right here, at the Washington University School of Medicine in St. Louis.”

  Greenwood nodded, but she remained silent. Her eyes never left Nicole’s face.

  “The school was researching brain development in newborns, looking at the areas that showed most of their growth and maturation after birth. The idea was that these areas would give us clues about what might go wrong in babies that are born preterm.”

  “Well, it’s nice to finally meet someone who got something positive from that story,” said Greenwood. She pulled a chair from the corner of the office and placed it next to Nicole, then sat. She was sitting close enough that Nicole had to turn slightly to see the woman’s face.

  “Do you happen to remember the correlation the researchers drew between brain changes after birth and evolution?”

  “I do,” said Nicole, not certain why the woman had asked but glad she could provide the answer. “They found the areas that change are the same ones that distinguish apes from man. In other words, the brain of a newborn is similar to the brain of a lower primate.” Nicole paused. “Is that why some people didn’t react well to you drawing parallels between your research and the Wash U study?”

  “You’re very generous to use the phrase ‘didn’t react well’,” replied Greenwood, matter-of-fact. “Irrationally livid is how I think of their responses. But then, in the Midwest, it might have been a reaction to evolution as much as anything I said. It’s hard to believe how many people still don’t believe in evolution in any form.”

  The scientist’s face screwed up for a moment as if she had just swallowed something bitter. “Anyway, at the time, I was planning to return to the Midwest after nearly ten years in Florida. I thought the mention of a local institution might garner some goodwill, but obviously I hadn’t considered my audience. Suddenly I was calling people’s little bundles of joy nothing more than monkeys. It was a PR nightmare. Now, I stick to the work of Martin Schwab and his colleagues when I talk about inspiration.”

  “Like the study by Schnell and Schwab?” Nicole asked, hoping she could bolster her credentials in the eyes of her client.

  The question had the desired effect, as Greenwood’s head jerked back. “You know that research?”

  “I think I remember the basics,” said Nicole, now realizing she had unintentionally volunteered to be quizzed further. “They identified a protein that inhibited neuron growth in primate spinal cords. Then, after discovering an antibody that neutralized the protein, they used it to treat rats with spinal cord injuries. With the protein out of the picture, new nerve pathways grew and the animals regained lost functions.”

  “And how does that relate to my work?” asked Greenwood.

  “Basically, you want to do the opposite in primates.”

  “OK,” said Greenwood slowly. “And why would I want to slow cortical development rather than speed it up?”

  “As I understand it, premature birth places demands on a preemie’s brain that it’s ill-equipped to handle. So, you want to temporarily impede neuron growth, giving the rest of the body time to mature while the more primitive parts of the brain keep the baby alive. Then, when the treatment is removed, the demands from the heart, lungs, and limbs are better regulated, and the risk of disabilities may be reduced.”

  Greenwood chuckled, and for an instant, Nicole wondered if she had misunderstood the woman’s research.

  “The inquisition is over,” said Greenwood smiling. “Knowing my research and the work by people like Schwab is in no way a prerequisite for what we’ll be doing. But I wanted to get a feel for your background, and you’ve certainly done a lot more than give this area a cursory look. Thanks, because your preparation will make my job a lot easier.”

  Nicole tried to keep her grin from returning but knew she wasn’t completely successful. Now that Greenwood had admitted her purpose, Nicole realized why the give-and-take had felt so familiar. She’d had professors who preferred it as a means to gauge their students’ mastery of a topic. And it was certainly more revealing than asking if everyone had read the chapter, which always received a unanimous response in the affirmative.

  “And I particularly like the way you’ve cast the forward-looking nature of my work,” continued Greenwood. “So many want to say I’m researching treatments for autism or attention-deficit disorder and that’s just not true. Not yet anyway.” Greenwood touched two fingers to her lips, staring for a moment far beyond the office wall that was only a few feet away. Then, she turned back t
o Nicole. “Well, maybe someday, when we’ve jumped through all the regulatory hoops.”

  “You’ve run into issues there?” asked Nicole.

  “Oh, no,” Greenwood replied, placing a hand on Nicole’s arm. “Nothing like that. It’s just that approval is a bureaucratic paper chase. The first cases where Schwab’s methods were used in rats were in the late 1980s, but it wasn’t until about 2010 that they could start the human trials. And that was in Europe, which tends to move more quickly than we do. It’s tough, thinking about all the suffering that could be avoided if we could streamline things.”

  “Well, hopefully, your procedure will gain approval quickly. Aren’t nearly ten percent of all births in the United States premature?”

  “Now look who’s quoting statistics,” replied Greenwood. “Must be your fiancé rubbing off on you.”

  Nicole felt her face warm. It was true her life had changed because of Sam, was still changing, and all in good ways. She loved his quiet, measured approach to life and his intense curiosity about life in general … and her, in particular. His eyes lit up with the details of her day. But his reaction was the same when she spoke of work, a topic that had put all of her previous boyfriends to sleep—if she dared talk of such things at all. It was a passion for another she wasn’t sure she’d find until it happened. And now, she wondered if it showed in her words and actions. But that was a question for another time and for someone other than a business client.

  “I was wondering,” Nicole said instead, “just how much can you slow brain development?”

  “We can stop it.”

  “Really?” Nicole hadn’t expected anything this dramatic.

  “Yes, for all practical purposes. Change would be so slow as to be nearly undetectable. But interestingly, the protocol has the opposite effect on the rest of the body. We’re not certain about the mechanism, but it may be related to the stage of development when treatments start. When we pause brain development at a more primitive state, the biological clock runs at a pace appropriate to it. The human body matures at about the same rate as that of a lower primate.”