Mind in Chains

by Bruce M Perrin

  “OK,” said Rebecca, after she made a note. “You’ve probably heard, but Sister Constance has claimed responsibility for the attack. Are you familiar with her and the group called the Crusaders for Common Sense?”

  “Those cowardly murderers,” said Greenwood. “Yeah, I know who they are. Doesn’t everyone?”

  Greenwood’s words were right, but the tone seemed a bit flat. Rebecca knew if their positions were reversed, and it was law enforcement that was being targeted, her words would be dripping venom. But then, it probably came down to upbringing. Greenwood had led a sheltered life, first by her family’s wealth and now, by her status. Rebecca had grown up dealing with her problems in her own ways.

  “Yes, unfortunately, they’re making a name for themselves. Do you have any idea how many people there are in St. Louis with … let’s call it, visibility in the medical field that’s similar to yours? People that might catch the Crusaders’ attention?”

  Greenwood’s lips came together in a tight line as she slowly shook her head. “Sorry, but you’ll probably need a different filter. How many medical researchers in St. Louis got patents in the last few years? Dozens? Hundreds? How many published important papers in their fields? Hundreds, maybe thousands? We may not have Johns Hopkins or the Mayo Clinic, but between the schools, the research hospitals, and the major commercial institutions involved in medical research, you’re looking at a lot of people.”

  Rebecca nodded. “OK, thanks. You know a lot more about this community than I. Still, no particular lightning rods?”

  Greenwood rested her chin on a hand, a single finger tapping her lips. “Dr. James Conroy,” she replied after a moment.

  Rebecca nodded. “Yeah, his stance is pretty much the opposite of theirs. Anyone else?”

  “No, not that I can think of.”

  Rebecca again checked her notes. “As I understand it, you’ve mentioned a connection between your treatment and evolution. You think the Crusaders came after you because of that?”

  Greenwood’s head was shaking even before Rebecca finished the question. “You must have read some of the you’re-calling-my-baby-a-monkey stories. Mentioning that possible connection has to be the biggest blunder of my professional career. And the funny part? It was the researchers at the Washington University School of Medicine who drew the parallel to evolution, not me. I even remember the title of one of their papers, ‘Baby brain growth mirrors changes from apes to humans.’ I just use their findings to explain some of what I see when I hold brain development steady while the body matures. Why didn’t they get the bad press?”

  “Wrong phrase at the wrong time, I guess,” replied Rebecca, although she was finding it difficult to feel too sorry for the doctor. If that was the worst thing that had happened to her professionally, she had lived a charmed life.

  “Must be,” said Greenwood. “Anyway, as far as the Crusaders being particularly incensed by my research, I doubt it. You would know more about them than me, but that professor at St. Louis University? He was studying flu vaccines, right? I can’t see any connection to evolution there.”

  “What about the other cases?” asked Rebecca.

  “Sorry. I don’t remember much about them.”

  “Besides SLU,” said Rebecca, “Sister Constance placed bombs at the back door of a clinic that provided family planning services and under a car in the doctor’s lot at a hospital. We don’t see any connection between the car’s owner and abortion—or evolution—but there’s always the chance someone in the field, like you, would see a link we don’t.”

  “This doctor whose car was bombed—what was his field?”

  “Her field, actually,” replied Rebecca. “Radiology.”

  Greenwood paused, looking out the window again. When her gaze returned to Rebecca, she said, “No, I don’t see any connection … other than medicine, of course.”

  Rebecca could see why Greenwood might not remember the first bombings. They had been covered in the media, of course. But those stories had none of the sensationalism that came after the death of the St. Louis University researcher. That later coverage mentioned the first two attacks, but the details tended to be buried at the end of an article or as an afterthought in a broadcast.

  But she also suspected that Greenwood and St. Louis would soon be paying a lot more attention. Sister Constance was showing persistence and a willingness to adapt to the situation—whatever it took to kill another member of the medical community. The media wouldn’t miss this fact, and soon everyone with an MD behind their name would be looking over their shoulder, jumping at every shadow. Then, the fear would spread to anyone needing medical treatment. If this continued, the Crusaders might prove even worse than the Unabomber. His attacks were horrendous, but they were scattered across the country and over time. Constance’s hunting ground was a couple of hundred square miles with attempts spaced only about ten days apart. Panic would soon grip the city.

  “Is there something wrong, Agent Marte?”

  Rebecca left her thoughts to find a look of concern on Greenwood’s face. “No, not really,” she replied. She glanced at her notebook. The next three questions were the last of her prepared queries, and they were extremely long shots, at best.

  “Did you notice anything suspicious from the time you left Biomedical Engineering Associates until you arrived at Veles’s apartment? Maybe someone hanging around on the sidewalk or watching from a car?”

  Greenwood smiled. “No. I didn’t notice a tail if that’s what you’re asking. But then, checking for one’s not a habit I have.”

  “Understandable,” Rebecca replied, disappointed but not surprised. “We’re also considering the possibility that someone other than Sister Constance attacked you. The Crusaders might not have been involved but saw it as a chance to enhance their reputation without any risk. Can you think of anyone who would want to harm you?”

  “Oh, lord, no,” said Greenwood. “I have trouble believing I have any enemies. I’m not even the subject of any professional jealousy because my work is still immature.”

  Rebecca nodded. That left one question, and it was like the desperate, Hail-Mary pass a football team throws at the end of a game they’re losing; occasionally it works, but no team can make a season counting on them.

  “You said you knew of no personal enemies, but do you know anyone who thinks medicine, in general, has become too powerful? In other words, someone who would support the Crusader’s agenda?”

  Rebecca was surprised when the woman didn’t immediately dismiss the question. In fact, she was troubled by the hesitation. Greenwood stood, moved to the picture window, and looked out for a moment. When she turned back, she said, “Walk with me.”

  Rebecca followed her outside. They rounded the corner of the hotel, reaching the same small garden they had seen outside the picture window. Two wood and wrought-iron benches sat at a right angle, forming one corner of the green space. Greenwood sat on one bench. Rebecca took the other.

  “It’s obvious that the Crusaders have some type of connection to medical science,” said Greenwood. “They know too much. The words they use are too precise. And that makes it possible I’ve met that person, maybe even worked with him or her. But I hate to mention the name that’s come to mind because … well, because I hardly know him.”

  “I understand,” said Rebecca. “But a name in this context would be held in strict confidence. And no action beyond a routine screening would occur until we know more.”

  “I’m trusting your word on this,” replied Greenwood, holding eye contact until Rebecca nodded. “Last night, at dinner, a friend of Nicole Veles was present—Dr. Sam Price. Do you know what he does?”

  “Not fully, no.”

  “His job is to verify every number and calculation in other people’s research even when that work has been done by some of the brightest minds in the country. Sometimes he’s called on to pass judgment on medical research, and at least once, the project he evaluated was terminated. Not paused unt
il there was more information; it was ended and blacklisted, so it couldn’t resurface in another lab. The research wasn’t in cellular biology where I work, so I don’t know the details, but that kind of action is unheard of in my field. He’s the only person I know who’s actively worked against medicine, and he’s in a position to know a lot about the industry.”

  Rebecca nodded. “Thanks for confiding in me. We’ll check, discreetly, of course.”

  Rebecca couldn’t deny that the parallels between the Crusader’s goal to throttle medicine and Price doing exactly that were setting off alarms in her head. Although it was possible that the organization that funded the work had been wrong, how often would such a group be so far off that banning the research was the only option? Most agencies were extremely careful with their money.

  Wasn’t it more likely that the rather extreme act of burying the project rested on Price’s conviction that its goals were inconsistent with the common good, as he defined it? And if that was the case, it wasn’t much of a leap to conclude he’d found others who shared his beliefs. Perhaps he had even started a group under that banner.

  The interview with Price that she had expected to be equal parts routine and boring now looked anything but. She said her good-byes to Greenwood and went back to her car. With over an hour until the meeting at Ruger-Phillips, she had time to return to her office, see what else she could find on Price. Where she didn’t have the luxury of time, however, was the interview with Veles; Clements might be finishing that talk at any moment. Fishing her phone from a pocket, she dialed her mentor. No answer. So, she composed a text.

  Greenwood checks out, but she’s suspicious of Price. Thinks he might use his job to hinder medical research and we know who else has that agenda.

  If Clements was still talking to Veles and saw the text, he’d know what to ask.

  9:36 AM – The Evangelical Church of the Rock

  “Mary Jo.” The Reverend Micah Eastin’s tone reflected his disbelief as he looked through the doorway that framed his wife reclining on a sofa. He pushed the brown hair off his forehead revealing a furrowed brow.

  His wife opened her blue eyes slowly and looked at him, her long, blonde hair fanned across the rose-colored pillow under her head. She stretched her legs and arched her back in her manner of waking—one that he still found seductive even after years of marriage.

  “Just what are you thinking?” he asked.

  She muted the soft music that was being piped into the large room and sat up. “I’m thinking it would be nice to have some natural light in here,” she replied. “We don’t always have to live like mushrooms.”

  “And what …,” he started.

  “What would we do if one of the ladies of the church got a peek inside?” she finished for her husband, smiling. “None of them are around. And besides, there’s nothing in here they shouldn’t see. Unless you think my attire too revealing?”

  She playfully pulled at the hem of her shorts, revealing another few inches of her long, lightly tanned legs.

  The Reverend smiled despite himself. “The clothes are fine. I meant the accommodations.” But as he stepped fully into the room, he realized his wife was much further along in her reorganization than he had thought. Most of the furniture had already been removed. What remained, save the sofa, had been pushed to a corner and covered with sheets.

  “OK, it’s emptier than I expected,” he conceded. But he was still uneasy and rubbed at the tension in the back of his neck. “Even the room’s proportions are incriminating. You can get this done fast; have you lined up all the bodies you need?”

  “I do,” she replied. “Six of them and we’ll get it hammered out this afternoon. And when it’s done, you’ll see. We won’t be tripping over each other anymore. Well, not so much, anyway.” She rose from the sofa, walked to where he stood, and laid her arms lightly on his shoulders. “Not that I mind you tripping over me, time to time.”

  The Reverend chuckled, no longer able to even feign displeasure. “OK. Just make sure the drapes get closed before you start moving all the new stuff in.”

  “I will.” She paused, now her face becoming the one that was serious. “Honey, what I’m doing in here will help, but it’s not near what we have planned. How long are we going to have to live like this? And please, ‘this is a marathon, not a sprint’ isn’t an answer.”

  The Reverend had come to think of their life’s work in much the same terms that his first Mary Jo had said to him, and he used those words now. “Getting people to open their hearts and their minds takes time,” he said. “Things will continue to accelerate, but still … ten years, maybe five if everything goes perfectly?”

  “Well, you know, for better or for worse, we’re in this together. But let’s aim for five.”

  Reverend Eastin smiled again. “I know. And I couldn’t ask for a better partner.”

  He meant it. His diminutive, dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty in white had opened his eyes to the path he followed. But the statuesque, blue-eyed blonde before him in black shorts and a pink top was much better suited for that journey.

  11:03 AM – The Offices of Ruger-Phillips

  Special Agent Rebecca Marte pulled into the parking lot adjoining the Ruger-Phillips building and lowered the car’s window. The structure didn’t have the utilitarian look she expected from a company involved primarily in design, research, and engineering. A large water feature dominated the well-manicured lawn. Several, oddly-shaped pieces of metal extended from the pool, interspersed among small fountains. As she looked closer, recognizable objects materialized from the abstractions. One was an aircraft skimming above the water. Another was a submarine, its breach of the surface dramatized by the spray of water from a nearby fountain.

  Behind the waterworks, steps led up to a set of glass, double doors on a simple, one-story brick building trimmed in white stone. Plantings of iris, roses, and peonies flanked the steps, several small birds finding food among their branches and blooms. The fragrance of the spring flowers drifted to Rebecca’s nose, and she inhaled deeply, appreciating the setting.

  It was all so idyllic, so welcoming—at least until her gaze traveled away from the building. To one side, a manned guard station sat at the edge of a concrete drive, its moveable gate now lowered. Across the road from the guard station, there was a 12-foot-tall, chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. It encircled the rest of the visible campus.

  “At least it’s not razor wire,” she muttered through the open window. If it was, she thought, it would look exactly like a prison.

  Rebecca was late, but still, she sat, mulling the upcoming meeting. After all, Price wouldn’t be inconvenienced. He’d asked her to see the receptionist when she arrived; then, he’d come over to meet her. At the time of his suggestion, it seemed innocuous, but now she was irritated. Why was she supposed to wait while he wandered over from another building? He probably figured no woman could be on time—although now, perhaps she was furthering that prejudice. Whatever.

  Rebecca raised the window and leaned back on the car seat. From the time she had scheduled the interview until now, she had reversed herself once and now sat at another, potential turning point. Initially, Price seemed an out-of-his-element scholar studying theoretical minutia in private industry. How else could you explain all those papers? Then, Greenwood’s observations about him had kindled her suspicions. Maybe there was more to this misplaced academic than met the eye. How strong were his beliefs about subverting medical science? Was he just doing his job when he had one medical project terminated, or did his actions reflect something more nefarious?

  The excitement she felt from unearthing a possible lead began to ebb, however, as she drove to her office between interviews. First, she had tried to recall the titles of his papers, a task complicated by the fact that concepts that don’t have a lot of meaning don’t tend to be memorable. But even so, she couldn’t remember seeing the word “drug” or “pharmaceutical” or “clinical” or anything else remotel
y medical in them. Then, she started wondering—if Price was really involved with the Crusaders, would he draw attention to himself by planning a hit on Greenwood at his girlfriend’s apartment? In his presence? It seemed unlikely.

  Once back at her desk, Rebecca first checked his papers. Her memory was spot on. But maybe Price didn’t publish in the medical field because of confidentiality. Weren’t drug companies always worried about their proprietary formulas and treatments? So, she checked the online descriptions of Ruger-Phillips’s business units, their current and past projects, and their current and past customer list. She found nothing about medicine or medical organizations, save one reference to a Veteran’s Administration project. That was almost two years ago, and it hadn’t recurred.

  With those discoveries, Rebecca had just about put Price back in the innocent-bystander category. Just about, but she hadn’t. It was better, she reasoned, to interview him as a person of interest than to assume he wasn’t. And if she was careful in her questioning, he’d never know the difference.

  She got out of the car and entered the building. A receptionist sat at a desk just to the left of the double doors. She was perhaps mid-40s in a dark blue jacket and white shirt. Her light brown hair was piled in a messy bun on top of her head. But something told Rebecca that there was nothing haphazard in its preparation; it was too randomly perfect. That precision was matched by her posture—ramrod straight as if poised to spring to action should the situation dictate. Prior military or perhaps law enforcement, thought Rebecca.

  To the right of the doors, Rebecca saw several, upholstered chairs, comfortable but not lavish in appearance. A second set of glass, double doors sat straight ahead. Occasionally, people were visible, moving around the office space beyond them. She approached the receptionist, provided her particulars accompanied by her open badge holder, and asked to see Dr. Sam Price.

  “Nice to meet you, Agent Marte. I didn’t know Doc had any projects with the FBI.”

  If the woman assumed it was business, that wasn’t a problem. But there was one thing that puzzled Rebecca. “Doc?”