Drawing Conclusions

by Deirdre Verne

  “Fuck,” DeRosa yelled. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The glass table next to my mother’s lounge had splintered into a million pieces from the weight of his fist. My mother appeared oblivious to the upheaval while his hand was dripping in blood, a shard of glass sticking out of the pad by his thumb. He shook the blood from his hand, leaving speckles across my mother’s aggrieved face.

  “Frank, you have to stop,” I yelled as I ran toward my mother, shielding her with my body. “Come on, what are you doing?”

  He was at his breaking point, his own personal line in the sand. The details of the case aside, I knew his goal had been to confront my father with enough information to bury him in moral purgatory. There was not a minute from the past thirty years he could retrieve and alter. Though they had lived within a few miles of each other, years had passed while he never met his brother. His only retribution was a showdown with my father. Now it seemed this moment, too, had passed.

  “Do you know where Dad is, Mom?”

  My mother appeared completely incoherent.

  “Mom,” I screamed as I shook her shoulders. “Where did Dad go?”

  She lifted her head like it weighed a thousand pounds. Her eyes were glassy and loose. They rolled as if the tendons holding her eyes in place were inches too long for their sockets. “A baby,” she said in a voice that was almost inaudible, “another baby, Teddy told me.” I held her head up with my hands leaning into catch her words. “Find it, CeCe. Bring the baby home.” And then her body sunk into itself as her breathing slowed and she sank into a deep slumber.

  “Frank,” I cried. “It’s not over.”

  thirty-nine

  Igor remained true to his word. His gruff voice and thick accent lent an air of drama to the court proceedings, which held spectators spellbound as they heard his damaging portrayal of Peter Dacks as the mastermind behind a scheme of blackmail and death. An up-and-coming assistant district attorney had managed to secure grainy photos of Igor’s dead wife, Dacks’s sister. The shots, enlarged and mounted on a pair of easels, made a lasting impression on the jury. The photos built Igor’s credibility and created sympathy for Becky. Who could resist the story of a young, healthy mother seeking a quick fix to her family’s chronic money problems? Wouldn’t we all have signed on to what seemed like a legitimate drug trial, especially one organized and endorsed by a family member?

  Each time the lawyer motioned to the photos, Becky’s eyes would stream freely as some jury members shook their heads in dismay. Enhancing the drama, the lawyer sprinkled his presentation with names of faraway places that seemed to lack a sufficient number of vowels. Even Igor and Becky’s hometown had an air of intrigue as the lawyer produced witnesses who described rounds of disastrous medical testing on trusting residents. The lawyer made a point of regularly employing Peter Dacks’s real name, Piotr Dackow. Each time the young lawyer crunched through the hard syllables, Dacks sounded guiltier.

  Igor’s testimony was a crucial piece of the case. To prove Peter Dacks had hired Igor and Becky to kill Teddy and threaten me, the ADA needed to craft a compelling story, casting Dacks as a manipulative sociopath with the singular goal of dominating the scientific world. By presenting Igor and Becky as victims of Dacks’s larger plot, the negative emotion of the courtroom shifted away from the father and daughter toward Dacks. A believable story emerged. After moving his widowed brother-in-law and motherless niece to the United States, Peter Dacks revealed to Igor that Dr. William Prentice was solely responsible for his wife’s death. He led Igor and Becky to believe that Dr. William Prentice was also hindering his ability to build a profitable scientific research company, the results of which would leave the family wealthy beyond imagining. By promising to expedite their immigration papers, Igor and Becky were easily transformed into Dacks’s puppets. He would constantly remind them that Dr. William Prentice was responsible for the death of their loved one, making it easy to coax them into questionable behavior.

  On the witness stand, Becky held firm to her innocence. The lawyer posed the same basic question in a variety of formats, and each time she denied any knowledge of Dacks’s ulterior motive.

  “You assert that you had no idea the cookies contained a potentially lethal ingredient for Dr. Theodore Prentice,” the lawyer prompted.

  “I did not know,” Becky stated.

  “Did your uncle at any time lead you to believe that the cookies could cause symptoms of choking?”

  “No, he did not.”

  “Where did you purchase the cookies?”

  “I did not purchase the cookies,” Becky said, knowing full well her next statement was the case closer. “My uncle gave me the cookies and suggested I bring some to Teddy.”

  The gasp from the crowd was audible.

  Igor’s attacks on DeRosa and me were omitted from the trial, since they were considered incidental to the case against Dacks. Unless DeRosa or I pressed charges, technically nothing had occurred in the attic; DeRosa had never filed a report or called in for backup. He and I had discussed it at length as we cleaned up the aftermath of DeRosa’s nighttime mêlée with Igor in the attic. I was none too happy with the results.

  “CeCe, it happens all the time in police work. You trade a small-time criminal for a shot at the kingpin. Our target is Dacks. Think of it as a trade. We swap two lesser players, Igor and Becky, for the big hitter, Peter Dacks.”

  “Why do men compare everything to sports?” I’d said with exasperation. “So a man breaks into my house with intent to kill and we let him walk?” I picked through the upended paint cans, avoiding a pool of spilled turpentine on the attic floor.

  “Close,” he said as he pushed the mop across the ancient floorboards. “We’re letting Igor walk but with conditions. These conditions—namely, providing testimony accusing Dacks of orchestrating Teddy’s death—will increase the chance that Dacks will go to jail for the rest of his life.”

  I tossed a garbage bag of debris in the corner and approached one of the half-finished portraits of my mystery man, who DeRosa and I both now knew was him. I dipped a paintbrush in a bowl of black paint and swiped a ridiculous mustache on the portrait. Then I painted a pair of horns on his head and added an air bubble. I filled the bubble with the words, the devil made me do it, much to his amusement.

  The most sensitive part of the case was how to spin my father’s role. which hinged, in part, on actually locating him. In a twist I could barely stomach, it appeared that my father was quite possibly not guilty of anything criminal, making it difficult to have him detained when he was ultimately discovered at JFK boarding an international flight to Brazil. We left my mother in a nearly comatose state under the care of Norma, who dailed 911 as we rushed out of the house. With FBI Agent Swell handling the legwork, DeRosa was able to direct a quick sweep of the area airports. We drove to the airport with the police siren screaming on the roof of the car. As DeRosa explained it to me, we were lucky if we’d be able to hold my father for more than a few minutes. There was no evidence that he had actually tried to steal two infant boys. DeRosa guessed that my father would say that he’d agreed to adopt only one baby through what he believed was a legitimate adoption agency. It was also entirely plausible that my father had agreed to accompany the other baby to the United States en route to the child’s adoptive parents. Who wouldn’t trust a doctor to supervise an infant on a transatlantic flight?

  As far as the deadly drug trials conducted more than twenty years ago, the FDA maintained no regulatory oversight of offshore drug testing, hence its popularity among pharmaceutical companies. My father was a pioneer in offshore trials, but he was clearly not the only doctor to take advantage of the low-cost venue. Today, it was common practice. Drug trial patients are made aware, through the small print, of potential side effects, but the FDA requires no explanation of testing results. In fact, a drug that tests poorly and is ultimately shelved never passes over the desk of an FDA agent. Only
drugs seeking their approval based on positive testing results go through the rigor of the FDA process. This loophole, the size of a celestial crater, seemed horribly biased against an uneducated population. Yet it was this crack in the system that Dr. William Prentice had so successfully exploited.

  Forcing lines of cars to the shoulder, we’d sped to the airport in under thirty minutes, a miracle by New York standards. Frank double-parked the cruiser in front of the terminal entrance and tossed the keys to a uniformed cop. My father had been pulled from the line of embarking passengers by the Port Authority police and transported to an administrative office, where DeRosa and I found him ranting on about his civil rights.

  “I had no idea Dacks would kill Teddy,” my father said as we entered the room. “You will never prove it.”

  “You’re right. We’ll never prove that you put your son in a position that ultimately cost him his life. We’ll never prove that you chose to ignore warnings from your son that something was amiss concerning the unregulated transfer of DNA. Moreover, we will never prove that you called Dacks’s bluff, providing him with the motivation to kill your son and threaten your daughter.”

  My father took a step backward, as if twelve inches of distance would soften the blow.

  DeRosa took three long strides forward and stood face to face with him. “We can prove, however, with one hundred percent confidence, that you are not the biological father of Teddy or CeCe.”

  My father stumbled to regain balance, having had no idea we’d uncovered this familial detail, which he’d kept secret for twenty-eight years. DeRosa’s words carried the power of a shotgun, and I watched as my father gripped his chest.

  But Frank DeRosa was immune to drama, and he continued without allowing my father to catch his breath. “We can also prove that Teddy and I are twins. These facts, however, should not surprise you,” he said as my father searched vainly behind himself for a chair.

  The seasoned detective kept the pressure on, pulling up a chair of his own next to my father, who had finally located a seat to rest his broken ego.

  “I don’t care if your next job is hawking useless vitamins on QVC while you try to repair a reputation that I’m going to shred into pieces so infinitesimal you couldn’t glue them back together with a ten-gallon jug of glue.” DeRosa was speaking through gritted teeth. “You’re going to appear in court and give testimony that ensures a life sentence for Peter Dacks or I’ll find evidence to make you guilty of something. You are also going to answer any questions CeCe has concerning her life growing up with a self-centered bastard as a father figure.”

  DeRosa turned to me and then nodded.

  “Dad, what’s my real birthday?” I asked. I could see by his head scratching that it was not a date easily retrieved, since my actual birthday had never been celebrated.

  “It’s the last week of September,” he said. “I believe it is the twenty-seventh. You should ask your mother to be certain.”

  “I would love to, but Mom had another breakdown. She mentioned something disturbing as she faded.” I hesitated, hoping my father would voluntarily fill in the blanks, but he remained silent. “Mom said there was another baby. Is it possible that I was a twin, like Frank and Teddy, and you separated us?”

  Based on my father’s actions with Teddy and Frank, it seemed entirely (though horrifically) possible that my mother had given birth to two babies, and that I too had been separated from my own twin. I clasped my hands tightly not wanting to hear the answer.

  “You’re not a twin,” my father replied. “To my knowledge, you do not have any siblings.”

  I sighed and released my hands, rubbing them on the side of my jeans. “So what is Mom talking about? Don’t tell me Teddy and Frank were triplets?” I turned to DeRosa with a worried expression, wondering just how much more he could take.

  “No, that was not the case,” my father said. Then I watched as he took on a pained expression so aggravated in its intensity that it appeared to cause him physical discomfort. His facial muscles pulled downward, elongating his face like a mirror in a fun house. He rubbed his chin, drawing his hands down the length of jaw. When he spoke, the volume was low and hoarse. “Theodore and Franklin would have lingered in a rundown orphanage abroad. They would have been underfed and unloved. There’s a strong possibility that without proper socialization, they would have never developed to their potential. Bringing them to the United States was a wonderful gift and despite their separation, it saved them.”

  “But you purposely placed me at a disadvantage,” DeRosa said.

  “I did, but you prevailed, and I retain no guilt for my action. I kept regular tabs on you, and it was apparent within a few years that you would do well despite your surroundings. You’ll have to trust me when I say that if I saw a potential for irreparable damage, I would have ended the experiment and removed you from the home.”

  “So it was an experiment?” DeRosa asked.

  “Yes, although I do not expect someone outside the medical field to truly understand the importance of the study.”

  I rolled my eyes. Despite all that had happened, my father still struggled to fully accept the ethical implications of his actions. He insisted on playing God with people’s lives by staging environments, determining family units, and parceling out potentially dangerous drugs. There was more, however, and I could see by his strangled expression that he was weighing how to present his next admission.

  “Dad, is there another baby?”

  “There was … potential for another baby,” he replied.

  “Go on,” DeRosa said.

  My father straightened his back and found his voice as he slipped comfortably back into professional mode. He started to speak and I knew we were about to hear a lecture. I prepared myself for an explanation requiring a dictionary as my father began his academic ramble.

  “The study of epigenetics is meant to occur over generations,” he stated. “I was unable to study Frank’s and Teddy’s parents, or grandparents, for that matter. This prevented me from investigating the environmental impact of previous generations in order to make inferences on the byproduct, being the boys.”

  My father cleared his throat, and DeRosa called to an officer outside for a cup of water. After a long sip he continued.

  “In a long-term experiment, the researcher’s age is limiting. I couldn’t project forward, and I couldn’t control for things like love. I had no idea when Teddy or Frank would meet the right person and produce offspring within a time frame suitable for actual study. I took it upon myself to accelerate the study by securing fertilized ova.”

  “I’m lost,” I said, propping myself against the wall. “And I’m exhausted. Just say what you have to say.”

  “Constance, soon after your first ovulation, you had a minor office procedure. You may remember it.”

  I had a flashback so sharp it forced my eyes closed. I did indeed have a memory of a medical procedure when I was in middle school. I remember being embarrassed by my nakedness under a hospital gown, especially because the doctor in question was my father. He gave me a mild sedative and I remember staying home from school the next day.

  “Okay,” I folded my arms across my chest.

  “I extracted an egg from you,” he said, his eyes focused on the floor tiles. “Your mother was furious.”

  “Dad,” I screamed, “you violated me!” I started toward him, fists swinging. DeRosa caught my arm in mid punch as I screeched, “What happened to my egg?”

  “I was hoping to fertilize the egg with your brother’s sperm,” my father responded.

  My fists opened and flew to my face in horror. I cried the word no over and over until my mouth was dry and caked. The soles of my feet ached as I stamped my legs into the floor. Frank cradled me like a baby, whispering soothing words in my ear until I finally exhausted my rage.

  “Where’s this baby?” I s
obbed.

  “I can’t say there is a baby,” my father said as he rose to leave. He smoothed down the lapel of his sport coat and shook out the wrinkles in his pants. He reached into his pocket for a linen handkerchief, passing it over his face before continuing. “I realized the futility of the study as Frank matured into a successful young man despite his disadvantages. Eventually, I lost track of your genetic material. I have no idea what happened after that.”

  I was dumbfounded. I looked to Frank, but this strange turn of events was beyond his legal knowledge. A part of me might be stored somewhere in a canister of dry ice, but locating what I assumed was my personal property would be nearly impossible. I wanted to react, but to what? In the momentary lapse, my father made his way freely to the door. He started to leave the room, but DeRosa stopped him.

  “You will be appearing at the trial as a witness for the prosecution,” DeRosa said with his hand on the doorknob. “If your responses are scattered or somehow confusing to the jury, I will make the results of your experiment public. I’d like your word on that.”

  “You have my word.”

  forty

  My father’s courtroom cameo was scripted as tightly as a Shakespearean sonnet. Each word was chosen for purpose, leaving little room for tangents. The board of Sound View Laboratories forced him into retirement but still maintained complete control over his public discourse. In order to avoid additional negative exposure, the board ensured that his statements were reviewed and approved by a fleet of image-control experts. On the day of his testimony, my father’s “team” hustled him into the courtroom amid a sea of blue suits, making it nearly impossible for a reporter or camera to nab a sound bite.

  Dr. William Prentice appeared controlled on the witness stand, barely flinching when a professional headshot of Teddy was flashed on the screen. I found DeRosa in the crowd and was not surprised to see him fixated on Teddy’s image. He appeared self-conscious, as if everyone knew the two were actually twin brothers. In fact, this point was not revealed in the trial, since it had no bearing on Peter Dacks’s motive to kill my brother. Dacks killed Teddy because he was about to pull the plug on his diabolical plot to compile the world’s DNA. DeRosa’s association with the case was irrelevant.