And the same last note:DNA? A vs. B.
She read about Krutzer, Theodore, next. His pattern was very similar to the others’ with only a few noticeable differences:Unlike Whitherson’s family, Teddy’s seems positively unbelievable. His father and mother have not only accepted their son’s homosexuality, they seem to encourage it. His father invites Teddy’s boyfriend to the house on weekends. They go fishing together.
And then further:Another cured patient. It’s too good to be true. Krutzer’s illness had never been acute, nothing worse than a bout with hepatitis and a few skin rashes. And now he’s cured. Harvey made a suggestion today which I think is valid. The conversation between Harvey, Eric, and me went something like this.
Harvey: You do all the testing on Krutzer, Bruce. Don’t let anyone else but yourself touch this case. You do the tests in the lab yourself.
Eric: Why?
Harvey: Independent research. If different people handle different cases, then one man cannot be accused of tampering with the results. I suggest you try to bring in Markey on this one.
Me: Okay, I’ll give him a call. I doubt he’ll be interested.
Harvey: At least we can say we offered him the opportunity.
Eric: I’m not sure why we have to do this. We don’t have time to play lab technicians.
Harvey: It’s too important, Eric. We can’t let there be any holes in our research for our enemies to exploit.
The rest of the files read similarly, each with its own unique twists and turns. Nothing odd about that. What was odd, however, was that they all ended with the same strange note:DNA? A vs. B.
Jennifer was about to reach for the last file when she remembered the small tubular containers. She glanced at them, stacked on the edge of the couch. Each one had a patient’s name taped to the outside. She pried open the one that read “Trian, Scott.” Inside were two small test tubes labeled A and B.
What the . . . ?
She pulled the small test tubes—more like vials really—out of the snug holders. Blood. They were blood samples. She examined the other containers. All were the same. A patient’s name taped to the outside, two test tubes labeled A and B both filled with blood on the inside.
What for?
Then she noticed the small white envelope.
It had fallen under the couch and only a corner of it was visible. Jennifer reached down and picked up the envelope. Plain white. No return address, no markings. The kind of envelope you’d buy at a five-and-ten. Bruce had written “Susan” across the front in his familiar scrawl. Jennifer turned the envelope over. When she read what Bruce had written across the back seal, she felt her stomach drop into her feet. In small, plain block letters, it said:TO BE OPENED UPON MY DEATH
“NEED some help?”
Max Bernstein looked up at Sara. “Yeah, come on in. Where’s Michael?”
“Being treated,” Sara replied. “Are those the patient files?”
Max nodded, a fresh pencil in his mouth. “This sucker just gets weirder and weirder.”
Sara sat down, unsnapped her brace and rubbed her leg. “I’m listening.”
“Okay,” Max began. “Here are the medical files for all the victims. Let’s start with Trian. He was one of the first patients, admitted almost three years ago. Whitherson came in about the same time. Same with Martino, the intravenous drug abuser.”
“And Bradley?”
“That’s just it. Bradley is the oddball out. He was in here less than a year. He was in the middle of treatment. He was doing well, but he had not yet turned HIV negative. It doesn’t fit. Did Harvey fill you in on our talk?”
“Yes.”
“Did he tell you about his theory about someone trying to destroy the clinic?”
Sara nodded. “It made sense to Michael and me.”
“Made sense to me too, but there are so many holes. Take Bradley Jenkins, for example. Let’s assume that these conspiracy guys are out to get rid of the cured AIDS patients—the proof, to use Harvey’s word. Then why kill Bradley Jenkins? He was a new patient at the clinic. And why move his body behind a gay bar? And another thing. If you’re out to do serious damage to a place and you don’t care about killing a few people in the process, why pussyfoot around? Why not go all out? Why not burn down the Pavilion? Why not just kill Harvey and Eric and destroy their records?”
“I see your point.”
“I don’t know, Sara. Something just doesn’t fit. Why did the killer make the murders so obvious?”
“He’s a psycho.”
“A psycho who has penetrated the inner sanctum of this hospital? I don’t think so.”
“Maybe he wanted to distract everyone by making them think he was just targeting the gay community,” Sara said.
“How so?”
“His first two victims were blatant homosexuals killed in a gruesome manner,” Sara explained. “The press was bound to pick it up. The killer knew that. He also knew that the world would immediately assume the murders were the work of a psychotic homophobe. No one looked deeper than that pat explanation at first. The world searched for the Gay Slasher, a man who murders homosexuals randomly, not a calculating killer intent on exterminating patients at a confidential clinic.”
“But the press didn’t go after the story that much until . . .”
“Until they killed the son of a famous senator,” Sara finished. “Which explains why he killed Bradley. It attracted media attention. Everyone finally focused in on the Gay Slasher.”
Max scratched his face, thinking. “I see what you’re saying, but it still doesn’t jibe. Why did the killer move Bradley’s body behind the gay bar?”
“So the world would know he was gay,” Sara tried. “The killer wanted everyone to think he was the Gay Slasher, a man who terrorized the gay community. Trian and Whitherson were known homosexuals. Bradley’s sexual preference, on the other hand, was a well-kept secret. What better way to reveal the truth than to dump Bradley’s body behind a gay bar in the Village?”
“Okay,” he said, “that’s theory one. I’m not sure I buy it, but let’s move on.”
“I don’t completely buy it either,” Sara said, “but let me throw something else out at you. Could the killer just have been after Bradley?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, could the killer have murdered Trian and Whitherson to make it look like a serial killer when the real target was Bradley all along? Could someone have been out to destroy Senator Jenkins by—”
“Forget it. I thought about that already. It makes no sense. Why kill Ricky Martino after the fact? Why break into the lab? And what about the clinic connection? Are you just going to write that off as a coincidence? And what about Grey’s supposed suicide—”
“Enough already,” she interrupted. “I get the point. Forget I mentioned it.”
“Sorry.” He stacked the files and pushed them away. “Nervous about tonight’s press conference?”
“Terrified. But I’m a lot more afraid of this disease.”
Max nodded. “Michael’s strong, Sara. Harvey will cure him.”
HARVEY Riker picked up his private line. “Hello?”
“Hello, handsome,” Cassandra said. “I’d like to rip your clothes off.”
“I’m sorry. You must have the wrong number.”
“All the better,” she replied.
“How did your meeting go with Northeastern Air?”
“It’s not over yet. How’s your day been?”
He considered telling Cassandra about Michael’s condition but quickly dismissed the thought. It was not his place to say anything. “Not good. We lost a patient last night. Murdered, we think.”
“Another one?”
“Yes.”
Cassandra hesitated. “Do you really think that Reverend Sanders is connected to this?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“And my father?”
Harvey weighed his words carefully. “It seems strange to me that
the same day your father denied knowing Sanders personally, you hear them arguing in his study. Why did he lie to us? What was he trying to hide?”
Harvey’s intercom buzzed before she could answer. “Hold on a second, Cassandra.” He pressed the intercom button. “Hello?”
“Dr. Riker?”
“Yes,” Harvey replied.
“There’s a call for you on line seven.”
“I’m in the middle of something here. Is it important?”
There was a small pause. “It’s Dr. Raymond Markey.”
Harvey felt afraid. The Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services never called unless it was bad news. “Hold on a second.” He pressed a button. “I’ll call you back, Cassandra.” He pushed another button. “Dr. Markey?”
“Hello, Dr. Riker. How are you this morning?”
“Not very well.”
“Oh?”
“Another one of our patients died last night. He may have been murdered.”
“Murdered?” Markey repeated. “My God, Riker, how many does that make?”
Harvey caught himself just before saying the number four. “Uh, three.”
“What was the latest victim’s name?”
“Martino.”
“Martino, Martino . . . ah, here it is. Riccardo Martino? Intravenous drug abuser?”
“That’s him.”
“So let’s see. The other two were Trian and Whitherson. Both gay. Multiple stab wounds. The same with Martino?”
“No.”
“Then what killed him?”
“An injection of cyanide.”
“My God, how awful. Terrible thing.”
“Yes, it is. I’m really beginning to worry about the safety of my other patients.”
“Yes, well, I wouldn’t worry about that too much. I’m sure this is all nothing more than a terrible coincidence.”
A terrible coincidence? “With all due respect, sir, three patients all from the same clinic have been killed.”
“Yes, but you’re forgetting one important factor: Bradley Jenkins, the senator’s son, was also found stabbed to death. According to the police, he was murdered by the same man who killed Trian and Whitherson—this so-called Gay Slasher. And Jenkins was not a patient at the clinic. I have your patient list right in front of me and his name is not on it.”
Harvey froze, trapped. For some reason he was sure that Raymond Markey was smiling on the other end of the phone. “Well, yes, but—”
“So there is nothing to worry about. Now, if Jenkins had been a patient at the clinic, well, then we’d have quite a problem on our hands. Your reports would be inaccurate. And if that were the case, then everything in the reports could be questioned. We’d have to assume other discrepancies exist. All your studies would have to be reexamined and all your findings would be considered tainted. You could lose your grant.”
Harvey felt something in his gut tighten. The show tonight. The report on the clinic, on the murders . . .
. . . on Bradley Jenkins.
Lieutenant Bernstein’s voice came back to him.
“What exactly is Parker going to cover?” Max had asked Sara. “The AIDS cure? The Gay Slasher connection? Senator Jenkins’ kid being treated at the clinic?”
And Sara’s answer. “All of it.”
Raymond Markey did not speak for a few moments, allowing his words to float about, settle, and then burrow into the surroundings.
The son of a bitch already knows about Jenkins, Harvey thought. But how? And why didn’t I think of this before? What the hell is going on here?
At last Raymond Markey broke the silence. “But of course,” he said, “we both know that Bradley Jenkins was not a patient at the clinic, so you have nothing to worry about. The deaths are nothing but an awful coincidence. Good-bye, Dr. Riker.”
RAYMOND Markey put down the phone. In front of his desk Reverend Sanders sat smiling. Such an eerie smile, Raymond thought. So genuinely jolly, friendly, gentle. Not sinister at all. What a mask it was. Incredible really—as incredible as the man himself. Markey knew Sanders’ history. Poor boy from the South. Father was a farmer who ran moonshine across state lines. Mother was a drunk. Sanders had conned, clawed, and blackmailed his way out of poverty, stampeding over anything that got in his way. He was shrewd. He knew how to manipulate people and consolidate a power base. His influence had started with the poor and uneducated and now stretched into some of Washington’s most powerful circles.
Including mine, Markey thought.
“Done,” Markey said, standing. He adjusted his red tie in the reflection of a picture frame. Raymond Markey always wore red ties. They had become something of a trademark over the years. Red ties and thick glasses.
“Good,” Sanders said. “Has your source come up with anything new?”
“Nothing. Just what we already know. A camera crew has been hanging out at the clinic, but everything is being kept hush-hush.”
The reverend shook his head seriously. “Not a good sign. They might go public with Michael Silverman’s illness.”
“You don’t think my call will stop them?” Markey asked.
Sanders thought a moment. “I don’t think Riker would dare publicize Jenkins’ connection to the murders,” he said. “But if they’ve decided to go public with Michael Silverman, I don’t see how your conversation with Riker is going to dissuade them.”
“Maybe we should forget this whole thing,” Raymond said tentatively. “It may have gone too far already.”
Sanders looked at him with burning eyes. “Are you trying to back out, Raymond?”
“No, it’s just—”
“Do I have to remind you why you agreed to help me in my holy mission? You were the one who never trusted Riker, disliked him personally and professionally. And I have that videotape right—”
“No!” Markey shouted. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, his breathing shallow. His voice grew calmer. “I’m still behind you one hundred percent, but you have to admit the conspiracy is cracking.”
Sanders’ smile returned. “Conspiracy is such an ugly word,” he said. “I see it as more of a holy mission. The Lord is behind us in our crusade to do His work.”
Straight from his TV show, Markey thought in disgust. Sanders’ “holy mission” was to tell the world that Armageddon was upon them. And what better proof of the oncoming apocalypse than the AIDS epidemic.
After all, Reverend Sanders would shout into the microphone, AIDS is the modern equivalent of the plagues of Egypt. It strikes down the immoral without mercy. Yes, my friends, God is preparing for the final battle. For Armageddon. God has sent down a clear sign that we cannot ignore. God has sent down this incurable plague to rid the planet of the perverted, hedonistic scum. And soon the final battle between good and evil will be upon us, amen, praise the Lord. Who will be ready? Who will bask in the light of God, and who will join the AIDS carriers in the fires of hell? We must arm ourselves for this battle, my friends, and we need your help to do it. Now is the time for those with untainted souls to give and give generously.
Then Sanders would show a few slides of how God’s plague could ravage and pillage a human body into scraps of useless tissue and marrow. His mesmerized, horrified followers would stare at the screen in terror while the contribution baskets were passed among them. From the pulpit Sanders would watch the baskets fill and then overflow with green.
Ah, but if AIDS were somehow cured, if the Lord’s plague were somehow lifted . . . well, that could throw a real socket wrench into Reverend Sanders’ interpretation of the Gospel.
Strange thing was, Raymond was convinced that Sanders really believed most of it. Oh, he knew how to fake a miracle and he sure liked siphoning off a lot of money, but he honestly felt that he was doing God’s work here. When Sanders compared AIDS with biblical plagues, he saw a direct correlation. Why, he once asked Raymond, was it so hard to believe that God could function in the twentieth century just as well as he had in biblical times? Did people
think God had lost his power over the centuries?
“The point remains,” Markey said. “We’re losing the base of our support.”
“You’re wrong, Raymond. They are still with us.”
“How can you say that? Senator Jenkins—”
“Stephen is grieving right now,” Sanders interrupted. “It must have been a terrible blow to find his son was an immoral pervert. He will rejoin us when he comes to his senses.”
Raymond looked at him incredulously. “You can’t be serious. You know what he did. He sold us out.”
“Yes, I know. And I don’t like it. But he is still a powerful senator and we need him. I want you to call him, Raymond. Tell him I expect to see him at our next meeting.”
“And when is that going to be?”
Ernest Sanders shrugged. “Depends,” he said. “If Michael Silverman goes public with his illness, then I want you to call an emergency meeting right away. All of us.”
“All of us? But Silverman is John Lowell’s son-in-law.”
Sanders chuckled lightly. “Don’t worry about Dr. Lowell. I’ll take care of him.” He stood, put on his coat, and walked to the door. “After all,” he reminded Markey, “John Lowell is one of us.”
HARVEY stormed into Michael’s room, his eyes wide with panic. “Sara, thank God I found you.”
She was sitting on the side of Michael’s bed. Sara and Michael had been going over his press statement. They had decided to make it as brief as possible. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
“Where is Donald Parker?” Harvey asked.
“He should be here in a few moments. What’s going on?”
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