by D P Lyle
“What is it?” Sam asked.
“I’m afraid your friend Niki was telling the truth.”
“The lab has been up and running?”
Edgar nodded. “The cages and these bones say so. With just one unusual rabbit skull, it could be a disease, like a tumor. Or a freak of nature. But now, we have similar changes in two different species. This is no natural accident. This is man-made. These came from the lab.”
“You’re certain?”
“There can be no other explanation.”
“It didn’t look like it had been in mothballs for a year and a half,” Sam said. “Maybe a couple of months. I didn’t see a bunch of cobwebs or anything like that. Only a little dust on the equipment.”
Edgar’s shoulders slumped further, but he said nothing.
“If someone did crank it back up,” Sam said. “Who? Why?”
“I don’t know. But, the stolen journals are very bothersome. Someone besides Burt doesn’t want anyone to know what’s been going on there.”
Sam nodded. “That makes sense.”
“Another possibility could be that someone learned about whatever Burt has been up to and stole the journals to expose him. Who? I don’t know.”
“Maybe the someone who left Billy’s boot prints all over the lab and around Lloyd Varney’s body. And helped me escape tonight.”
“That would be a good bet.” Edgar looked at her. “It would be a gross understatement to say that Billy dislikes Burt. How sure are you that Billy isn’t guilty?”
“I’m sure. Well, as sure as I can be. I know it wasn’t Billy that ran over me that night at Lloyd’s store and it definitely wasn’t Billy that helped me out tonight. He’s chained to a hospital bed. I honestly believe Burt and Wade are trying to frame Billy.”
“Why?” Martha asked.
“Billy thinks it for his land. I think there’s more to it than that and tonight’s developments sure put a whole different spin on it.”
“Could Billy know what Burt has been up to at the lab?” Edgar asked. “Maybe he’s blackmailing Burt or something?”
Sam shook her head. “That’s not my read on Billy. But, you can bet I’m going to ask him anyway.”
Edgar sighed. “It’s a perplexing mystery.”
“What now?” Sam asked.
“I’d suggest we keep this between us for now.”
“Don’t worry,” Sam said. “I don’t want a B and E rap.”
Edgar gave her his half smile. “As I said, I’ll make a couple of calls tomorrow and see what I can find out.”
Alyss’ car came up the drive. Sam stood and walked to the door but stopped and turned to Edgar. “Billy Bear said he believes Burt has plans to expand the lab. You aware of anything like that?”
“He mentioned it a couple of times. I doubt the town would go for it though. Some people didn’t even want that small lab built.”
“Oh?”
“Afraid of anything foreign or high-tech. That is until I convinced the city council that nothing we planned for the lab would be dangerous or contaminate anything.” He looked down at the floor. “I hope I was telling them the truth.”
Chapter 40
Edgar Locke sat in a ladder-back chair in the breakfast nook. His second cup of coffee rested precariously near the edge of the round oak dining table, leaving just enough room to spread open the day’s Denver Post. One of the many concessions to his stroke induced withered left arm, he had to delay reading the paper until breakfast was completed and the table cleared. Hunched forward, reading glasses in place, he turned the pages with his only functional hand.
The doorbell rang and he heard Martha answer it. After a brief, muffled conversation, Martha came into the kitchen followed by Burt and Hollis. Edgar couldn’t hide his surprise. Burt had visited him on only two occasions since his stroke. Once a social visit while he was still in the hospital and again a month after he returned home to tell him the lab was to be closed down. His anxiety rose. This visit could only be about Sam’s break-in at the lab.
Regaining his composure, he said, “What a pleasant surprise. Please, come in.”
Martha offered Burt and Hollis coffee and then poured each of them a cup. “I’ll get back to my book,” she said. “If you need anything, let me know.” She left the kitchen.
Burt sat down across the table from Edgar, Hollis stood, leaning against the counter. Edgar knew that when it came to business Burt was not one for small talk and suspected today was no exception. Burt took a sip of coffee, pushed it aside, and propped one elbow on the table. “We visited Will Proctor this morning.”
Edgar looked at him, but offered no response, deciding it was better to find out what Burt knew and what he wanted before saying anything.
“He showed us those bones. What do you make of them?”
Edgar gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I don’t know. Strange for sure. Maybe someone’s exotic pet. Maybe a local species with a pituitary tumor.”
“You mean the thickening of the cortical bone? The enlarged sella?” Burt asked.
“Exactly.”
Burt’s gaze seemed to bore into him. “Any other possibilities come to mind?”
Edgar rubbed his chin with his good hand. “No.”
Burt leaned back in his chair. “Good. I couldn’t think of any other explanation either. I was afraid it might be some disease that could infect the livestock.”
If Edgar Locke had any remaining doubts about Burt’s involvement in whatever had been going on at the lab, any possibility that someone might be conducting experiments behind his back, they evaporated at that moment. After two decades of research in the field, Burt knew this was no infectious process, that hormonal changes were the only explanation. He was lying, fishing for information. He had reopened the lab and was now trying to determine if his little project, whatever it was, had been uncovered.
“I don’t think so,” Edgar said. “But Will Proctor would know better than I.”
“He’s confident it’s not anything to worry about,” Burt said.
“Then, I agree,” Edgar said.
Burt retrieved his coffee cup and took a sip. “Have you spoken with Morgan Russell recently?”
Morgan Russell, along with Jane Kinsey, had been Locke’s research assistant at the lab. “No. Not since he left for Johns Hopkins. Why?”
“Just curious about whatever happened to him.”
“I’ve spoken with Jane Kinsey a couple of times, but not Morgan.”
“Where is she now?” Burt asked.
“Cal Tech. Doing well, I hear.”
“But, you’ve heard nothing from Morgan?”
“No.”
Burt raised an eyebrow. “I thought he might have called. You and he were close.”
“Yes, we were. I guess he’s busy with whatever he’s doing and has forgotten about us.”
“Probably.” Burt stood and looked down at Edgar. “You haven’t spoken with anyone about the research we were doing, have you?”
“I don’t know anyone around here who would be interested, much less understand it.”
Burt smiled. “I guess we’d better get going.”
“So nice of you to visit,” Edgar said. He stood and followed them toward the front door. “Come back anytime.”
Burt stepped onto the porch and then turned back to Edgar. “One more thing. You don’t have any copies of our old research journals, do you?”
“No. As far as I know, there weren’t any copies. Just the ones at the lab and I assumed you would have them safely tucked away.”
Burt hesitated for a moment and then said, “Oh, yes, I have those. I just wanted to make sure we hadn’t misplaced any copies.”
After they left, Edgar returned to the table. Martha joined him. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
He saw the concern in her face. She always knew when he was troubled. He could never hide anything from her. Nor did he really want to. “Burt Eagan is up to some sort of illegal research.”
<
br /> “Really?”
“The rabbits, the mice, the cages at the lab. Everything says yes.”
“Well, it’s his lab. I guess he can do what he wants.”
“Not if what I suspect is true.”
Martha patiently waited for him to continue.
“We found bones from two species...rabbits, mice...that had been hormonally altered. Most likely by excess growth hormone from a tumorous or an enlarged and overactive pituitary gland.”
“You think they were causing these tumors to develop?”
“That could be one explanation.” Edgar took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “But, not the most likely one.”
“Oh?” He could see the growing concern behind her eyes.
“What if the animals were altered genetically and the hormonal changes and the enlargement of the pituitaries we saw were secondary?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Toward the end, before my stroke, we had discussed the possibility of looking at hormonal manipulations that might delay the changes that occur in aging tissues.”
“Yes, I remember you mentioning that.”
“Aging winds everything down, including our hormone levels. We postulated that if we could keep those levels up, perhaps we could slow the deterioration of certain tissues. Maybe lessen arthritis, heart disease, diabetes. Who knows? Anyway, one of the ideas we kicked around was using a viral vector to incorporate genetic material...basically altered DNA fragments...into the cells of the pituitary gland. Fragments that would boost the production of the pituitary hormones.”
“Like growth hormone,” Martha said.
He nodded and smiled. One of the many things he loved about her was her devotion to his work. She had always wanted to know what he was doing, prodding him for details. She kept his files straight and typed and reviewed his research papers and grant proposals. Over the past five decades, she had learned more about medical research than most practicing physicians.
“Exactly,” he said.
“But, you never started any of that.”
“No. Our discussions were entirely theoretical. These experiments would have required animal research and we were reluctant to enter that arena because of the expense and the regulations that would kick in.”
The furrows of her brow deepened. “Do you believe Burt hired someone to carry out this work?”
Edgar nodded. “And now we have the mysterious theft of the research journals. It’s almost as if someone wanted to hide what they had been doing. Someone besides Burt and Hollis.”
“Who?”
“Morgan was very interested in anything genetic. He was quite gifted in that area.”
“Morgan? We haven’t heard from him in over a year.”
“Burt asked if I had talked with him. Don’t you think that’s unusual?”
“Maybe Burt’s just curious about what Morgan’s been up to.”
“I got the impression that Burt knows what he’s been up to. The idea crossed my mind that Morgan might have come back here and these rabbits and mice are his.”
“He would have stopped by or called, don’t you think?”
“Maybe he wasn’t allowed to.”
“By whom?”
“Burt can be a very persuasive man.”
“You’ve been reading too many of those mysteries lately,” Martha chided him.
He laughed. “It does sound crazy, doesn’t it?”
“Very.” She picked up the dirty cups and carried them to the sink.
“I’m going to make a couple of phone calls anyway.”
“Of course you are,” Martha said. “I never considered that you wouldn’t.”
He retreated to the den where his desk, piled with papers and journals, sat along one wall. He looked up the number for Dr. Paul Krieger, Director of Genetic Research at Johns Hopkins. Morgan, equipped with a glowing letter of recommendation from Edgar, had signed on at Paul’s lab after leaving Colorado. He hoped Paul would be in on this Saturday as he often was.
The department secretary answered on the third ring. Dr. Krieger was lecturing, but would return around 4 p.m. Eastern time. Morgan Russell? He was no longer there. Left after six months. Got a job in another lab. Where? She had no idea.
After being assured that Dr. Krieger would call as soon as he returned, Edgar hung up and dialed Jane Kinsey’s number at Cal Tech. They had a pleasant 20-minute conversation, touching on how much she missed working with him and he with her, and how her current research endeavors were faring. Morgan? Jane had not heard from him since leaving Colorado.
Chapter 41
The Gold Creek Community Hospital, a single-level red brick structure, sat one block off Main Street and a half block from the church cemetery. With forty beds, a modest Emergency Department, a five bed ICU, and three surgical suites, it could handle all but the most complex medical problems. Those would be transferred to Montrose or in extreme situations air-lifted to Denver.
A young girl in a candy-striper’s uniform smiled when Sam walked up to the lobby reception desk. “Can I help you?” she said through a metallic orthodontic grin.
“Billy Wingo. What’s his room number?”
“He’s in 118. But, I don’t think he’s allowed visitors. Are you family?”
“A friend,” Sam said.
“Why don’t you go on back to the Nursing Station Two and ask if you can see him? It’s straight down the hall on the left.”
“Thanks.”
The nursing station proved to be a small rectangular area behind an L-shaped counter. Charts littered a central table, where two nurses sat sipping coffee and scribbling notes in the patient records.
“Excuse me,” Sam said.
Both of them looked up. The older of the two, a brunette with a hawkish nose and severe features, glared at Sam as if angered by the interruption. The other, a tall woman with disobedient red hair piled on top of her head and a friendly smile, said,” Yes?”
“I’d like to see Billy Wingo.”
“Billy can’t have visitors,” the brunette said.
Sam ignored her and looked at the redhead. “Could you tell him I’m here? I’m sure he would want to see me.”
The redhead stood and eyed Sam up and down. “That ain’t the problem. Chief Wade says no one can talk to him.”
“I know,” Sam said. “I’m helping Chief Wade with the investigation.”
“Who’d you say you were?”
“Sam Cody. I’m a cop. Visiting from California.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You’re the one that found Lloyd Varney’s body?”
Sam nodded. “Afraid so.”
She skirted the counter. “I’m Darla Esslinger.” She extended her hand and they shook.
Darla wore thick layers of blue eye shadow and a thicker coat of red lipstick, but underneath it all had an attractive face. Her handshake was firm.
“I really need to talk to Billy,” Sam said.
Darla glanced over her shoulder at the other nurse, who had returned to her charting. “Come on,” she said. She led Sam a short distance down the corridor and then stopped. “Do you think Billy did this? Killed those people?”
“No.”
“I thought you said you were working with Chief Wade?”
“Sort of. But that doesn’t mean I agree with him about Billy’s guilt or innocence.”
Darla smiled. “I’m a friend of Billy’s. Known him since the fourth grade. He’s a little rambunctious. Smokes a little weed. But who doesn’t?” Her eyebrows bounced mischievously. “Fights too much, too. But that’s not an unusual activity around here. But, kill someone? No way. And Lloyd Varney? Not a chance.”
“You seem sure of that.”
“Absolutely sure.” Darla cocked her head slightly and eyed Sam. “How well do you know Billy?”
“Not well.”
“You should. He’s one of the good guys. You know he was a Marine?”
Sam shook her head.
“Yeah. F
our years. Then, he went to Stanford. Full scholarship. Graduated with honors. Went on to get a Masters in Mathematics. Don’t fit his image, does it?” Not waiting for an answer, Darla continued. “Worked for one of those computer outfits in California. Then, his daddy died. Silicosis. From the mines. Just like his granddaddy. Anyway, Billy took it hard, came back here. Turned on and dropped out after that.”
“You’re right,” Sam said. “He surely doesn’t look the part.”
Darla smiled. “You going to help him?”
“If I can.”
Darla glanced up and down the hall. “Wait here.” She walked a few doors down and entered a room. A minute later, the door swung open and she motioned to Sam.
Sam walked in to see Billy lying in bed, the back cranked up 45 degrees. He looked pale and exhausted. A thick bandage, cross-hatched with tape, capped his left shoulder and covered part of his chest. His right wrist was cuffed to the metal bed rail.
“Welcome to the cell block,” he said.
Darla retreated to the door. “I’ll buzz your intercom if Wade or that freak Eloy show up.”
“Thanks,” Billy said.
Sam stood at the foot of his bed. Darla left, pulling the door closed behind her.
“So what’s up?” Billy asked.
“Did you break into Burt’s lab? Steal some journals?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“A good one. Did you?”
“No. Why would I?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking. Somebody did. Somebody wearing your boots.”
“It wasn’t me.”
Sam crossed her arms over her chest. “Did you know Burt had reopened his lab?”
“When?”
“I don’t know for sure, but did you know?”
“Of course not.”
“See Billy, the problem is that your boot prints have turned up everywhere. By Lloyd’s body. At Burt’s stables. The lab.”
Billy exhaled loudly. “I’ve got to get out of here.”