The Gender Experiment: (A Thriller)

by L. J. Sellers

  Bailey grabbed her shoulder bag and walked out. Carson Obstetrics was her next stop. They might even tell her where to find Dr. Metzler.

  The clinic receptionist scowled at Bailey’s badge. “I can take you to the director, but I’m sure she won’t tell you anything. We have to protect our patients’ confidentiality.” The blonde bun on the top of the girl’s head was so tight Bailey was surprised she could think straight.

  “Just show me the way.”

  The girl glanced at the waiting room, which was nearly empty, then rounded the tall counter and walked down the center hall. Bailey followed her to an office in the back. The receptionist introduced her as “someone from the FBI” and left.

  “Special Agent Andra Bailey.”

  “Clinic Director Karen Thayer.” The woman was tall and thin with an oversized head and sleek black hair. “How can I help you?”

  “Tell me where to locate Dr. Charles Metzler.”

  “He retired two years ago.”

  “I know, but I’m sure you have an address for him.”

  “I don’t.” The director stayed on her feet, indicating the meeting would be over before it started.

  Turn on the charm or try to intimidate her? “I understand your position, but four people have been murdered, including a receptionist who worked here for twenty-some years. In addition, a young woman has been abducted. Your cooperation is essential to preventing more deaths.”

  The director blanched and clenched her teeth. “I don’t see how this clinic is involved. My understanding is that Bonnie’s death was a burglary that got violent.”

  “The three other dead people are all twenty years old, and their mothers were patients of the clinic when they were born. I need to talk to Dr. Metzler, and I need to see the files from 1995 and ’96.”

  Thayer’s eyes flashed with shock, and she finally sat down. “I can’t give you the files without a court order, but I’ll see if I can find Charles’ address.” The director began a computer search.

  Bailey stayed on her feet. “Were you at the clinic in 1995?”

  “No, I took the job five years ago.”

  “Are you military?”

  “Yes.” The director peered around the monitor, her face hardened. “Why?”

  “The clinic is operated by Fort Carson’s hospital, and I’m wondering about the staff.”

  “Most of us have a connection to the army, and Dr. Metzler was a career officer.” She sounded defensive.

  “Is there anyone else still working here that was on staff back then?”

  The director shook her head. “No, Bonnie was the longest-term employee, then Dr. Metzler. Dr. Novak worked here in ’95, but he left five years ago for his own part-time private practice.”

  Bailey made a mental note of the name. She would locate and question Novak as well.

  “Got it.” The director scribbled on the back of a business card and handed it to Bailey. “This is the last known address we have for Charles. But he could have moved to Florida for all I know.”

  Bailey thanked her and walked out, wondering how Jake Wilson had managed to download clinic files without getting caught. Sneaky. The reporter might prove to be useful.

  Outside, a brisk wind made her hurry to her car. Thick gray clouds had formed, and she recognized the threat of snow, one of the main reasons she’d been happy to move away from Colorado after college. Her training made her automatically scan the parking lot, rooftops, and businesses across the street. If someone was tailing her, they were very good at staying concealed. Inside the car, she cranked up the heater and keyed the doctor’s address into her phone. The map showed a location south of town, near the Cheyenne Mountain State Park. The Broadmoor Bluffs neighborhood was clearly new since she’d visited the wilderness area as a kid.

  Dr. Metzler’s house, assuming he still lived there, was the smallest along the bluff, an impressive two-story stone structure with ornate, tiered landscaping. The driveway sloped at a sharp incline, so she parked on the street and climbed out. The clang of a garage door opening made her look up. Bailey jogged to the bottom of the driveway to block the person exiting. An older man in a golf cart rolled downhill toward her. Bailey held out her badge.

  The driver hit reverse and backed up. He was avoiding her! Bailey sprinted up the concrete slope and ducked inside the garage before the door came down. The man jumped out of his cart—which was parked next to a Mercedes—and shouted, “You’re trespassing!”

  “Special Agent Bailey with the FBI.” She walked toward him, still holding her badge. “Dr. Charles Metzler?”

  He nodded.

  “You can talk to me here or take a handcuffed ride to the Denver field office for a session in our interrogation room.”

  The doctor clenched his jaw and swallowed hard. “What is this about?” Metzler was her height, with short steel-gray hair, a weak chin, and a potbelly.

  “A drug called ImmuNatal.” She gestured toward the house. “Let’s go get comfortable.”

  “I have nothing to say. Those patient files are confidential.”

  Bailey stepped toward him and took out handcuffs. “Four people are dead, and you’re a material witness. Turn around so I can cuff you. You don’t want me to take you down on the cement floor.” She looked him over, unimpressed. Metzler was in his sixties and soft everywhere. Golf wasn’t real exercise.

  His mouth dropped open. “Who’s dead?”

  “Bonnie Yost for starters. You worked with her for two decades, correct?”

  He nodded again. “How did she die?”

  “She was murdered, and you might be next if you don’t help me.” Bailey grabbed his arm. “Let’s go inside, and I’ll ask the questions.”

  The doctor’s shoulders slumped, and he dropped his golf bag on the floor. “This secret has been a burden for two decades, and I think… I think I’m relieved to finally let it out.”

  Chapter 30

  Saturday, Oct. 15, 2:30 p.m.

  Seth Wozac made a new bandage out of toilet paper, then pulled off the bloody gauze the hospital had applied. A real, sterile pad would have been better but he didn’t have one and neither did his friend. Seth glanced at the clock. Ray had gone out to score some crank and should have been back already. Seth pressed his makeshift bandage against the incision and duct-taped it into place. Ray didn’t keep medical supplies around—which was just stupid. Seth had everything he needed in his apartment, but he couldn’t go back there. He couldn’t stay here either. This shithole was depressing and only a few blocks from his place. The crazy killer might find him here. But he didn’t want to leave town or go into hiding. He didn’t run from things. Not anymore.

  The pain in his gut overwhelmed him for a moment, so he lay down on the couch. Ray’s dog took that as a sign and padded over for attention. The pit bull was ugly, and Seth didn’t want anything to do with it. But a dog had just saved his life, so he petted the poor thing. “That’s it. Go away now.”

  The rage surfaced again, more intense this time, almost blinding. Some asshole military doctor had done this to his body on purpose! Some fucked-up experiment, for what? Seth had lived a tortured life, feeling betrayed by his body and hormones and never knowing why. At least now he understood why he’d sometimes been turned on by other men. The fucking uterus in his body! Now that it was gone, those feelings would go away, and he could try to have a normal life.

  But first, he had to burn something. The rage would keep growing and only a fire could soothe it. He had tried to keep his therapy burns small and controlled. Trashcan fires were safe, so he usually stuck to them, but he’d once torched a shed on an abandoned lot. God, that had been beautiful. Almost orgasmic. This fire would be even more special. A celebration! Bigger than any of the others. Too bad he couldn’t burn down the damn clinic where a military fuckwad had given his mother a pill that ruined his life.

  Seth sat up, the pain displaced by the sudden joy in his heart. Why not set fire to the clinic? It needed to go. How many oth
er freaky babies had been conceived there? How many other tortured, ruined lives? They all needed revenge, and he would get it for them. Hell, it wasn’t even revenge. It would be justice. The evil place would no longer exist, and the world would be better for it.

  The door opened, and Ray rushed in. “Sorry it took so long, but we’re set. I owe the dude another fifty, but I got enough to keep us flying for a couple days.”

  Sweet! Time to rev up, then make some Molotov cocktails.

  Chapter 31

  Saturday, Oct. 15, 3:45 p.m.

  Bailey sat on the edge of an oversized chair and waited for the doctor to settle into the couch across from her. Her body wanted to lean back and rest while Metzler told his story, but her mind was too keyed up. Adrenaline had started flowing the moment the doctor indicated he would tell her everything. As much as she wanted to know about the experimental drug and the gender mixed-up offspring, she had to ask about the missing woman first—in case she was still alive.

  “Do you know where Taylor Lopez is?”

  “Who?” The doctor looked confused.

  “She’s one of the babies you delivered back then, and now she’s missing. Abducted. Where is she being held?”

  Metzler blinked, and his old-man lips trembled.

  Repulsed, Bailey leaned forward. “This is critical. Do you want another death on your hands?”

  “I don’t know anything about an abduction.” His eyes pleaded with her to believe him. “I only know that I was paid good money to test an experimental drug on a large group of pregnant women. One time, long ago.”

  “Who paid you? And who developed the drug?”

  “I assume it was a military researcher, but I don’t know who or even why.” The doctor’s hands shook as he brought them to his face in distress. “I was devastated when so many of those babies were born with abnormalities. I tried to question my commander, but he threatened to have me court-martialed. They knew things about me.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “Yes, but in the military it’s not called that.”

  “Your commander gave you the drug? And the orders for the research?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ahmed Rashaud.” Metzler paused. “But the captain died three years ago, and he was just the middleman.”

  Bailey made a mental note of the name, but her excitement faded. Blaming a dead person was easy and not helpful. But the age of perpetrators was a concern. What if the researcher who developed the drug and/or the experiment had died too? Still, someone was protecting the secrecy of the project by killing certain subjects. That person had also likely kidnapped or killed Lopez. Bailey took out her phone, tapped the microphone icon, and started recording. “Just taking notes,” she said with a half smile.

  “Who else is dead?” The doctor’s voice quivered.

  “Three of the children you delivered. All male, or at least they identified as male. Do you know why they were targeted?” Wilson could have been wrong about the pyromania reason.

  “No. I’ve tried not to think about those babies. I still don’t even know what the drug was really for.” The doctor shuddered. “They told me it was an immune system booster, but I knew that was a lie when the second hermaphrodite was born.”

  Hermaphrodite was an outdated term, but the doctor was old-school.

  “If the intersex issue was a side effect,” Bailey countered, “what was the drug’s real focus? Something hormonal?”

  “I don’t know. Pharmaceuticals can do bizarre and unexpected things to the body, especially in utero.”

  The primary reason the FDA regulated clinical trials. But ImmuNatal had clearly never been sanctioned. Had they even tested the drug in animals first? And who were they? “Was Captain Rashaud at Fort Carson?”

  “Yes. And I think the ImmuNatal development took place there.”

  “At the base hospital?”

  Metzler pressed his lips together for a long moment.

  Bailey wanted to slap him. Instead, she waited him out.

  “No, but once when we were having drinks, another doctor on staff mentioned an underground research facility. When I probed for details, he buttoned up.”

  “Any names associated with the facility?”

  Dr. Metzler shook his head. “I wasn’t privy to classified information.”

  “So you gave pregnant women a drug you knew nothing about? Just following orders?” She was feeling something unexpected. Disgust? Because the doctor was immoral? Or just weak? “How much was your bonus pay for the experiment?”

  He stood. “It doesn’t matter now.”

  Bailey jumped up. “You’re not going anywhere. I need a written statement from you. And I want details. How was ImmuNatal administered? How many patients took it? Did you report their names to your boss? Their babies’ names?” She stepped forward and locked eyes with him. She could outstare anyone and often got what she wanted simply by making the other person squirm. “If you cooperate, I may be able to keep you from being prosecuted.”

  Metzler glanced away. “Let me get some paper to write on.”

  She followed him down a hallway with dim recessed lighting. He turned at the second door. “Do you mind? I need to use the restroom.” The doctor went in and turned the lock.

  He was stalling and probably regretted his confession. She’d seen a shift in his eyes when she asked for written details. Did the bathroom exit into a master suite… one that opened to an attached outdoor patio? Bailey rushed through the kitchen and out a sliding glass door. She didn’t see the doctor, but the yard had staggered sections that followed the shape of the house. She crossed the flagstone, then a stretch of grass, and rounded a corner to the left. Another small patio with a hammock nestled against a master bedroom. Metzler wasn’t in that yard either. She’d probably overreacted. Her heart settled down, and she strode calmly into the house, stopping in the kitchen for a glass of filtered water. She could feel her skin drying out from the plane ride, lack of sleep, and too much coffee.

  Bailey took a seat at the kitchen table, expecting the doctor to join her there to write his statement. A glance out the picture window revealed the first few snowflakes coming down. Oh hell. Searching for the entrance to an underground facility would be challenging enough. Snow would make it impossible.

  The house was eerily quiet. Did anyone else live here? The neighborhood was hushed too, with only the sound of the wind rattling the dead leaves in the tall aspen trees.

  A gunshot blasted through the silence. Fuck! Bailey bolted to her feet and down the main hall. The bathroom door was still locked. “Dr. Metzler!” She knew in her gut he’d killed himself. A career military man, he probably wore a gun on his body somewhere, or kept several in the house. Why hadn’t she seen this coming? Loyalty and honor were everything in the armed forces. Just because the doctor had cleared his conscience to make himself feel better, didn’t mean he would testify against superior military officers.

  Metzler might not be dead. And it was only a bathroom door. Good thing she’d worn sturdy ankle boots in preparation for Denver weather. Bailey brought up her right leg in a tight bend, then extended it with all her body weight. Her foot slammed near the doorknob, and the force splintered the wood around the locking mechanism. She slammed the door again in the same spot, and it popped open.

  Metzler was on the floor, slumped against the glass shower. Blood ran down the back of his head and dripped on the white-tile floor. The coward had put a handgun in this mouth and blown out his brain. At least she’d recorded his confession in her phone. She worried about the audibility of the volume, but bureau tech people could do amazing things to enhance recordings. The bigger concern was how to handle this.

  Her boss would want to be the first to know. Bailey opened her phone’s short contact list and pressed the first number. No name attached. The director of the Critical Response Team didn’t answer. Maybe that was for the best. Lennard’s idea of how to proceed might slow Bailey
down. She left a message: “It’s Bailey, and we have a situation. A retired military doctor just confessed to his part in a secret medical experiment twenty years ago. Then he went into his bathroom and killed himself. I’m looking at his body right now. Please send a Denver agent to handle this. I don’t want to get trapped here talking to the local police. I’ll file a report as soon as I can.”

  She signed off, knowing Lennard would call back soon, demanding more information. Bailey started for the front door then stopped cold. What if the doctor was more involved than he’d admitted, and Taylor Lopez was being held here? Bailey turned back. She had to at least check closets for secret doors and scan for breaks in the floor that might indicate a trap door. It wasn’t logical that Lopez would be here, unless this house was a temporary holding place before she was transferred to another facility. Maybe that explained the doctor’s suicide. Plea deals were never offered for kidnapping.

  After a fast but thorough search, Bailey called her boss again and left a second message, asking that the field agent take the doctor’s home apart to search for the missing woman. It needed to be done—just in case—but not by Bailey. Instead she would take Metzler’s computer and scan it for contact names.

  Someone knew where the underground research facility was, and she was determined to find it. If Taylor Lopez was alive, that had to be where they were holding her. If they were also conducting medical experiments, the girl was likely being treated like a guinea pig. Bailey didn’t feel Lopez’s pain, but she understood it was imperative to stop whatever the hell was still going on.

  Chapter 32

  Saturday afternoon, Stratton Research Center

  Taylor paced the room, hating its white walls and fake plants. It was the same size as her studio apartment, but without windows it seemed much smaller. Just knowing she was underground made her feel edgy. How did people work down here, day after day? It wasn’t natural. And what the hell did they want with her anyway? More medical experiments was what she feared. They might give her untested drugs to see what effect they had. Would she develop painful lesions or grow testicles? How long would this last? The thought of waking up every day in this room for years—or decades—horrified her. Why hadn’t she just ignored those bodies and minded her own business? That was how she’d lived her whole life up to that point—head down, no eye contact, no attention drawn. It had worked for her. Mostly. But then she’d decided to look at Adrian Warsaw and see beyond his drowned corpse.