by Tiana Cole
“Here you go,” Lucky said, but in an amicable tone. “Crash time. Do you mind if I leave before you start lamenting? The lament before this one lasted a really long time and I have class tonight.”
“You can go,” I replied, my voice muffled both by my position and by a small moan. From my desk I could hear Lucky shuffling around, hefting his bag over his shoulder and gathering his things.
“Will you be okay?” he asked, his voice coming from the doorway.
I moaned in response.
“I feel like you need a hobby, Denise,” Lucky said after a brief sigh. “I mean, this is all you do, and whenever we finish a big story like this you, like, get all depressed or something. It’s not healthy. Go out tonight with some friends. Have a nice meal. Go see a movie. Okay?”
After barely lifting my head from the desk, I flashed Lucky a halfhearted smile. “Sure, kid. Go on, now. Learn smart things, okay?”
He smiled and disappeared into the stream of foot traffic that defined the Tribune offices. People were seldom sitting still the place; they were too busy walking or running from one office to the next. Even at night the place was buzzing. Journalists didn't rest, ever.
Unless they were between stories.
I groaned again. Lucky was right. This always happened to me after we finished a long, investigative piece like the Decatur story. Sackville was about to be arraigned, probably Tubby as well, and the lawyers could take over. Five months of work would hopefully yield a couple of bad men stripped of their offices and hopefully put away. It was, to be honest and hopefully not too melodramatic, what I lived for.
Well, I would start with a nap. It was nearing five o’clock and God knew I had put enough hours in. I would gather my bag, take the El to my apartment, and sleep until I felt like getting up. Maybe I would feel better after that.
It was amazing that the idea of a nap filled me with a sense of purpose, but there it was. I was on my feet and moving towards my door within a second. My messenger bag bounced at my hip as I closed the glass door to my office behind me.
Approximately twenty paces to the elevator. I would not look to the right or the left to see what my coworkers were busy at. Keep walking, that’s the thing. No need getting my head turned or being jealous.
I was almost at the elevator when I heard a voice.
“Willard? That you?” The booming baritone belonged to Skip Jones, my editor. He wasn't the big boss at the Trib, but he was my direct supervisor. His open office door was directly to my left.
“Yeah, boss?”
“Come here. I think I have something for you.”
A delicious chill went up my spine.
Derek
My phone shrieked with its obnoxious ring, followed by a voicemail notification, followed by a text. Absent of the noise, it barely registered in my mind. After all, my hands were covered in gloves to my elbows, and my safety goggles were more mask than eyewear, so, really, I had no means available for me to even answer that call. With a happy sigh I resumed my work, lifting plasma samples with the bulb syringe and neatly dropping a precise measurement into a Petri dish.
This round of samples from the outset had been more promising than the last, well, dozen at least. People who weren't in the medical field, and some who unfortunately were, had no idea how many different types of cell mutations were possible in the human body. The different combinations were practically endless. Often they spent themselves before I even got my hands on them. The set of cells in front of me had arrived only hours ago, and I’d cleared my schedule to spend the evening with them.
The door to my lab jiggled. Someone was trying to come in.
I ignored the noise for as long as possible and returned to the task of distributing cell samples into the dishes. If I could finish that step, I could pull myself away from the table and join the land of the living, if only for a few minutes.
The door jiggled again. With a grunt I leaned away from the backlit lab table and craned my neck around the shelves.
A lanky, goofy-looking kid grinned through the Plexiglas at me. I held my syringe aloft to show him what I doing, and the reason for my not rushing to the door to let him in. He smiled knowingly and took a step backwards to wait.
Now that was a sign of a good doctor.
It required another twenty minutes of focused concentration to get the rest of the cells distributed, during which my phone shrieked again with more notifications. I shook my head, distracted. Next time I would put it away; leave it in my car, even.
After stripping off my safety materials I ambled to the door to see if Logan was still waiting in the hallway. I unlocked the door and pulled it open. My grad student was basically curled on the floor, nearly asleep.
“Logan, get up, will you? People will think I neglect you.”
I nudged the kid with my toe and he shifted with a groan. But he did unfold his long body and pull himself to his feet.
“First of all, nobody ever comes up to the 8th floor, Derek. Everyone pretty much thinks it’s all storage.”
“Let them think that. All the better.” I edged back into the lab, allowing him to follow before I locked the door behind him.
“Second of all, nobody cares about what either of us does with our research time,” I reminded him. “I mean, I could literally be creating a new super virus up here and nobody would care.” Logan snorted although it wasn't funny.
I turned and met his eyes, letting my gaze rest on him for several long, silent, uncomfortable minutes. It was a specialty of mine, the ability to remain so silent and still that it made people fidget. Once I thought Logan was sufficiently discomfited, I cleared my throat. “Well,” I said, “let’s just be glad that’s not the case.”
He expunged a massive breath as if he’d been holding it. “Yes, Dr. Johnson.”
I stepped away from him towards my lab table. “And let’s be honest, kid; I doubt you’re up to creating a super virus.”
Of course, I was joking, but the tables were turned. Logan didn't find it funny. Such was my life with people.
“Yes, Dr. Johnson,” he said, with proper dejection.
To make up for my gaffe I showed him my new samples. “Check them out. I just got them all in their dishes. I’m going to add the elements after they sit under the lights for another ten minutes or so.”
Logan took up my magnifying goggles—or the chief reason Logan and I were still single—and surveyed the sample set. “It looks like you haven’t lost any of them, Dr. Johnson.”
He was right. At first glance, all of the cells looked intact. With any luck, once I put them through the tests, it would only be a few days before I saw results.
Results. Wasn’t that why I did what I did with my time? The hours, the work in desperate clinics full of sick people, the calls to Africa to get fresh samples? Other doctors I knew had wives and families; they even played golf and attended charity dinners. God knows I didn't need the money—my grandfather’s surprise nest egg had seen to that—and people often asked what kept me so focused and driven.
The answer wasn't easy. I mean, I had an easy answer, but sometimes it was more complex than the platitude I handed people when they asked about my research.
Research was a game, and like a teenage boy, I was obsessed. Like my 14-year-old nephew, who could literally stare at a screen for hours, I would stay by the cells all night if I could. I would babysit them, coax them, and try to talk them into mutating so I could guess their secret.
So I could win the game.
People, if they knew that side of me, were often put off by my intensity. I’d been lucky to find a grad student with the same talent for focus.
I smiled at Logan, who was smiling at my cell samples.
“Come on, guys,” he whispered. “Mutate.”
Chapter 2
Denise
Skip was my boss. Working for him was a bit like walking down a dark Chicago street alone—probably not safe, but thrilling all the same. Together, we were a for
ce of risk and danger that few of our competitors could manage. He was innovative and bold, coming up with crazy ideas for a story; I was an adrenaline junkie that was basically in love with research and the hunt.
You wouldn't know to look at him. He really came across as the whitest of white men, with silver hair and a wardrobe that boasts probably a hundred bowties with matching pocket squares. For a gritty white-collar crime editor, he really looked like someone’s rich uncle.
I wished he was my rich uncle, to be honest.
That day in his office I could tell he had something good. His lips curled over his teeth like a vampire; his hands clasped on his desktop and he was almost shaking with excitement. He was so jittery I thought he’d had too much coffee.
When I was comfortably seated and Skip had dragged out the suspense for as long as possible, he finally said, “Are you finished down in Macon County?”
I shrugged. “Sure. I think so. There will be a few days down there for the arraignment hearing once they make the arrest.”
His eyebrows flew upward. “You’re sure they’re going to?”
“My contact at the police department says so.”
Skip nodded slowly. “Good, good. Did you and your kid turn the copy in?
“It’s over in Layout.”
A long sigh smelling of tobacco blew across the desk. “You’re one of my best, Denise. I appreciate your work ethic.”
With a snort I responded, “You mean my refusal to go home?”
He laughed and it sounded scratchy, like rough sheets of sandpaper rubbing together. Sometimes Skip creeped me the hell out.
“So I've got this doctor,” he began. With wrinkled fingers he plucked a sheet of paper from his desk. “Derek Johnson. Serious do-gooder on paper: Chicago undergrad, Harvard MD, worked in Diagnostics for a while, now splits his time between private practice, low-cost clinics, trips to Africa, and his own private lab.”
“How does he have time for anything else?”
Skip let the slip of paper fall from his fingers. “There isn't anything else. No family. No extended family. His parents died when he was in college, his grandfather died last year and left him a massive inheritance. Lots of zeroes, Denise. Lots.”
“He sounds boring,” I shrugged, “except that he works his ass off when he doesn't have to.”
Skip raised his eyebrow at me. “You’re telling me that if someone croaked and left you millions you’d give up sniffing around the Cook County offices looking for wrongdoing?”
He had a fair point, and I hated to concede it, so I just smiled.
“I was saying… Dr. Johnson is not boring,” he continued. “In fact, our sniffers see all kinds of packages and live cultures arriving in his lab from various places. His private lab. On the top floor of a hospital where nobody goes.”
“So?”
Skip threw up his hands. “So, Willard, none of this guy’s work is documented. What’s he studying? Where’s he getting damn live cells? You don’t just buy that crap off the internet! Who’s his research for? Who’s funding it?”
The story started to take root. Fancy doctor using his money and his smarts to run an illegal lab. It could be interesting.
“What do you think he’s up to? Rather, what do you hope he’s up to, Skip?”
That creepy, malicious grin appeared again. “I hope he’s running illegal experiments. You know, illegal drugs. Stem cells. Super bacteria or whatever the hell everyone is worried about. Better yet, Denise, a lab-engineered virus that will be released in the projects, wiping out the poorest sector of the cities so the government can eliminate the welfare program.”
Well, that was just horrifying. “You’re a sick bastard, Skip. Do you really think he’s into something illegal?”
He nodded. “I think he’s studying something he doesn't want people to know about. Our guy that watches the hospital—”
I interrupted with, “Why do you have a guy watching the hospital?”
Skip waggled a wrinkled finger. “I can’t tell you all my secrets, gorgeous. Anyway, our guy says Dr. Johnson’s shipments always come in at night, late, when nobody’s around to see what he’s getting. Some of them are live cultures from a Cryo lab in Atlanta.”
“Frozen tissue?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I chewed my lip and thought about Dr. Derek Johnson and his money, his knowledge, and his easy access to stuff he probably shouldn't have access to. “Okay, let’s go see what he’s up to.”
“Yes! That’s what I want to hear!” Skip roared with excitement. “How can we get into that lab? I’m sure you can’t just walk in.”
“I'll have to pretend to be a patient, I guess. How do I get an appointment with him?”
“We’ll get a schedule of when he works at the clinic. You’ll have to show up there asking to see him specifically. Get him talking about his research. Tell him your mom has a rare disease, see where the conversation goes. You know how to do it.”
“I only have one shot at seeing him this way. It won’t take him long to realize I’m not sick.”
“I have every confidence in you, Denise. By the time he realizes you’re perfectly healthy, he’ll have fallen in love with you. I’m counting on that.”
It was nine o’clock before I got home, and I was thrilled to be on a new hunt. All of the dreary depression I’d tangled with that afternoon was gone. Even after all of the scheming I’d done with Skip, I was on my computer for several more hours in my apartment, researching lab experiments and what motivated doctors to get involved with them. Johnson didn't need the money, so what would his angle be?
I decided I should just call him and try to interview him. The worst possible result was him saying no, and it wasn't like I hadn't heard that before. In fact, I actually snatched up the phone to give it a try when I noticed the time—eleven o’clock. First thing in the morning, I would call him.
Around midnight, when I fell into bed, I realized I’d meant to come home early and take a nap.
***
The next morning I sat at my desk with fresh coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other. After kicking the door to my office closed I used my hands-free phone to call the office of Dr. Derek Johnson.
Of course, some secretary answered.
“Dr. Johnson’s office.”
“Yes, good morning. This is Denise Willard from a local Chicago paper. I’ve heard some wonderful things about Dr. Johnson’s research and was hoping I could speak to him about it?”
She grumbled, but my eager attitude seemed to soften her up. “Well, he doesn't have any patients yet. I'll patch you through.”
“Thank you!”
After a brief silence, a deep rumbling voice picked up. “Derek Johnson.”
I cleared my throat. “Dr. Johnson, good morning. My name is Denise Willard and I write for the Chicago Tribune. I am very interested in the research you’re doing and would love to meet you to talk about it.”
“My research?”
“Yes. You have a private lab, correct? The paper is working hard trying to report on innovative trends in medicine, and you seem to be a pioneer, if my information is correct. Would you care to discuss some of your projects with me?”
His voice was sharp. “What do you know about any of this? And how do you know?”
I hedged. “Are you saying you’re not well-known? Aren’t you a household name?” Skip always says to turn a question back on the subject. Derek Johnson wanted to grill me, but I was very good at avoiding questions.
“You’re not answering my question. How do you, a journalist, someone with no experience in the medical field, know anything about my research?”
“And you’re not answering mine. I’m asking to know about your research and you won’t answer me.”
The phone clicked.
“That seemed to go well.” Lucky was standing in the doorway, wearing the rattiest ensemble a local twenty-something could conjure. He pushed himself off the doorjamb fell into my office
chair in a heap.
“You smell like the thrift store where you bought that Nirvana shirt,” I told him, wrinkling my nose.
He plucked it away from his skinny frame. “It was only a dollar. The Trib doesn't pay much, you know.”
With a snort I nodded. “Yeah, I know.”
“So, is that a new story?” He jerked his chin at my phone.
I filled him in on the good doctor over the rest of my breakfast, which he helped himself to.
“Why don’t you just make an appointment to go see him?” Lucky asked when I finished the quick rundown.
“That was the original plan, but I thought I’d try the direct approach first.”
A few minutes of internet research yielded just what we needed: Dr. Johnson had his own walk-in clinic. It was only once a week for a few hours, and as if my life wasn't lucky enough, it was that afternoon.
“Did he see you, or did you just talk to him?” Lucky rose from the chair and pulled his bag tight around him so he could roam the office in search of other work to do.
“No, he didn‘t see me,” I answered as I rose as well. If I was going to be ill I would need some help in the makeup department; I was much too robust to be sick. “So he’ll have no idea it’s me when I show up there this afternoon.”
Derek
My cells were still together. The testing process, to this point, had not caused them to rupture. The night before I’d slept with my head slumped over my arms on the lab table, as if my mere presence would protect the cells from bursting with the small additions Logan and I had piped into the Petri dishes. Eventually the sun rose; with a few glances I saw that the cells were good. It was difficult to pull myself from the dishes and go through the motions of regular life. Were it up to me I would skip all of my clinic hours and my patient appointments to spend the day babysitting my cells.
When I arrived at my clinic that afternoon, the lobby was already sprinkled with a few waiting patients. I didn't mind the clinic; unlike many doctors, I actually believed in serving the people and using my skills and education to generally improve people’s health if I could.