by Tiana Cole
Denise rested her elbows on the table. “So why all the secrecy?”
“Because I’m not trained in epidemiology or oncology. Not board-certified. Honestly, I could lose my license for what I’m doing. I’m a rogue, rather than a trained physician carrying on approved research.”
“What do you tell your bosses about what’s happening up there?”
“I don’t tell them anything. Technically, they’re not my bosses. I operate as an independent physician, or I work for free at the clinic. Nobody’s going to bother me there.”
“The clinic. Tell me about that.”
I sighed as I composed my thoughts. “Maria’s cancer developed after she spent six months working in an inner-city clinic. Cancer has shown itself to be a disease that isn’t contagious. I told you about that when we first met. But I’m interested in a causal link between the poor conditions in the inner city and a new, rare form of cancer.”
Denise leaned back in her chair and regarded me carefully. “So you see poor patients in hope of finding someone else that has Maria’s cancer?”
I shrugged. “It’s a stretch, I know. But it’s a new take on cancer.”
“Derek, if people thought that you were blaming your wife’s cancer on the inner city population… if anyone made that jump, however unfounded…”
“Yes,” I interrupted. “I know. You asked about the secrecy. That’s why.”
Silence stretched between us for a few moments while Denise ran her fingers over her lips. “You’d be known as the doctor that’s sneaking through the inner-city population looking for someone to blame for your wife’s death.”
When she put it that way it sounded awful, but I knew she was right. I nodded in agreement. “Yes. So… you’re a reporter. How can you spin it to satisfy your editor?”
Her words sounded more confident than her expression looked. She snorted and said with confidence, “You leave him to me.”
Chapter 8
Denise
Derek drove me back to my place so I could change clothes before going into work. High on my list of ‘things I don’t need’ was Skip seeing me slink into work in the red dress I’d worn out the night before. I could hear him asking, “You slept with him?” I shuddered at the thought.
The car idled on the street in front of my building, traffic swerving around us like water breaking on a rock. We smiled at each other with the awkward glances of teenagers newly in love, and it was both disconcerting and thrilling.
He laid his hand over mine. “When can we see each other again?”
I hesitated before reminding him, “We’re going to the lab, right?”
“Yes, definitely,” he nodded. “When are you free?”
My mind rippled through my calendar. Lucky and I had to drive to Decatur the next day to see if Tubby was going to get arraigned—God, how I needed to close the door on that story. I needed about ten hours locked in my office, too. It would have to be Friday. I told Derek as much.
“Friday, sure,” he smiled. “You’ll meet me at the lab, then? After work?”
I laughed. “There really isn't an ‘after work’ for me, but sure. I can be there whatever time you’d like.”
Arrangements were made; all that remained was for Derek to kiss me lightly on the lips. “I really, really enjoyed last night,” he said. “Every part of it. Every part of you.”
My stomach did flips. The words were lovely, as was everything I’d met about this man so far. How could I deliver a story on him that Skip would buy? I pushed the thought out of my head. “Yes,” I smiled against his lips. “Friday, then.”
***
An hour later I walked into the office, showered and wearing my normal work-wear. As I threaded through the corridor between cubicles I texted Lucky:
Ready to see Tubby tomorrow? Meet early for the drive?
To my great relief, Skip was buried in a meeting when I walked by so I was able to slink into my office without making eye contact.
The first thing I did was dig deeper than a regular internet search to find anything on Derek’s wife, which he must have paid a hefty price to keep out of the papers. Derek on his own was just a doctor—obviously Chicago had a million of them. However, Derek was a recipient of a surprise trust fund that he’d used to buy a local hospital, therefore gaining some amount of notoriety.
It only took me a few minutes to find something.
Maria Johnson, prominent Chicago physician, died this morning at 4:40 am at Mercy Hospital. The influential and well-loved physician was a champion for the inner city, shunning the more lucrative path that doctors take in pursuit of an overhaul of public health in the poorest sectors of the city. Dr. Johnson developed a rare form of leukemia last January, to which she succumbed quickly. She is survived by her husband, Derek Johnson, a local physician and fellow at the University of Chicago. Chicago mourns the passing of a brilliant and respected local treasure.
Several minutes ticked by, during all of which I just stared at the photo on the computer screen. Derek’s wife was beautiful with large, compassionate brown eyes and dark blonde hair. Some further research yielded more information about her. She was a Chicago native in a city that adored its natives above all else. Although she broke tradition and went to medical school at Michigan, she was revered as a local favorite. Maria appeared to be a lovely woman, and although I felt oddly competitive with her, I was more overwhelmed with a sense of loss. It was freeing to understand what motivated Derek, what made him work odd hours unpaid. Surprisingly, it was very freeing to know that he wasn't a criminal.
My phone buzzed with Lucky’s text:
Yeah. Meet at the office at 7? Have you nailed the doctor yet?
I winced, mainly because I had nailed the doctor, although not in the way he suggested. It would be nice if the rest of the Trib happily accepted that Derek wasn't a criminal.
As if on cue, a shadow fell across my desk and I glanced up to see Skip filling my doorway. A predatory grin spread across his face. “There’s my girl,” he said, almost in a growl. “How was dinner with the good doctor last night?”
With a deep exhale I leaned back at my desk. “It went well.”
A white eyebrow arched. “Well? Can you expand on that?”
“I’m going to see the labs on Friday.”
Skip threw his head back and guffawed. “That’s what I wanted to hear. He’s going to let you inside to look around, is he?”
I nodded.
“Nice.” Skip laid his index finger alongside his nose and continued, “I want you to sniff him out good, Willard. Look between the lines while you’re in that lab. He’s got to be hiding something. You find out what it is.”
My eyes rolled to the ceiling. “I know, boss.”
He turned to leave, but paused to ask, “What’s he like? Dr. Do-Gooder.”
I felt a yawning cavern of danger open up before me. There was a hand to be played, and slowly. Impossible to be too dismissive of Derek or too supportive. The best way to keep Skip guessing was to play the middle of the road.
My shoulders lifted in a shrug. “I don’t know. He’s hard to read. Doesn’t immediately seem like a criminal, but then again, none of them do, you know?”
Skip nodded. “So a good player, then?”
“Yep.” I joined him in his nod. “That’s it. Probably hiding something, but I don’t know what.”
“Does he know you’re a reporter?”
A lump slid down my throat as I gulped. “Yes. I think so,” I answered cautiously. “I’m pretty easy to Google. But he wouldn't assume that I was doing a hard story on him.”
“Sure, sure. Well…” He slapped his palms together. “Great work so far. When are you seeing him again?”
“Friday,” I said hurriedly. The stalling time would be really helpful. “Lucky and I have to go to Decatur tomorrow for the City Council arraignment.”
“Right. Let’s meet back here after your tour of the labs Friday night. All right?”
I no
dded and started to say goodbye, but Skip was already out of my doorway and sidling down the hallway to insert himself into somebody else’s work. After he left I realized that I’d been holding my muscles tense, ready for a confrontation. Even as I relaxed I knew that I hadn't avoided the confrontation as much as I’d postponed it.
Derek
I was distracted.
Distracted at the lab, distracted in my private office, and distracted at the clinic.
For the most part, I was pleased that I’d shared my heart with Denise the way I had, but I wondered if it was too late. Sometimes I got so involved in my work, so hyper focused on the samples and the cells, that I had trouble relating to actual people. In the five years since Maria’s death, I think I had probably lost a little bit of humanity. Somehow, Denise pulled it out of me.
The day after she spent the night, I drove straight to the lab and stared at the cells for what seemed like hours. Like Logan said, I couldn't expect anything to happen so quickly, but the fact that the cells hadn't self-destructed gave me hope. Hope led me to cancel a patient appointment and drive straight to the lab where I stared at the cell samples for an hour or more. While they looked relatively healthy, they weren't doing anything yet that indicated which way it would go.
Sometimes, when I pondered my work late at night, I could admit to myself that I was obsessed with finding a cure. I was consumed with it, and I knew it. What’s more, the work had made me morbid and self-focused; I saw myself on a doomed quest, barreling towards an uncertain end.
God. Again I was thankful that I’d met Denise and that we’d spent the night together. What a gift that was to bring me back to semi-real existence.
Logan shooed me from the lab so I could see the rest of my patient list that day. At the end of the list I texted Denise:
Enjoyed last night. Looking forward to seeing you again.
She never answered me, and in my morbid state I wondered if I’d dreamed our night together.
Chapter 9
Denise
I stared at Derek’s text two days after our date. Had it really only been a day?
My phone’s screen glowed in the dark of the car. Lucky drove and I stared into space. The dark, flat Illinois farmland shot by outside; I pressed my forehead to the cool glass of the passenger window.
Lucky cleared his throat. “It’s not your fault.”
No, it wasn't. I was a journalist, not a lawyer. Not a politician. Not a miracle worker.
“Denise?”
I sighed and turned towards him. “No. No, I know it isn't, Lucky.”
“You’ve had stories tank before. I don’t understand why this has made you so blue.”
Lucky and I had left Chicago early, as was our plan, our custom. Donuts and coffee. The crappy car the paper kept on retainer for us to leave the city. Our favorite podcast. Our plan of action, which generally involved sitting across the street from City Hall on the same park bench. Tubby’s arraignment was scheduled for ten o’clock, and Lucky and I would gladly follow him from our place to the courthouse to watch the proceedings and take pictures.
However, things went sideways from the second we arrived.
First of all, there was no press corps. The streets of Decatur, Illinois, never overloaded with activity, were dead. Lucky and I drove down the streets of a normal Tuesday morning; certainly not the type of day during which a county official was going to take a step towards arrest and incarceration. That warranted a few reporters, at least.
But the little Trib car puttered down the street, alone.
“Where is everyone?” I asked Lucky.
“Did anyone call you?” He asked, knowing I had connections. I was friends with the lawyers and judges in the smaller municipalities, and nobody had called to let me know that anything had changed with the proceedings. So Lucky and I had sat, and sat, and sat. When nobody came, we finally strolled down to the courthouse where we found that Tubby’s arraignment had been cancelled.
Who cancels a planned arrest?
None of the city officials were forthcoming on the details of what had happened, and my photographer and I spent the rest of the day pounding pavement and hanging around City Hall like amateurs. Nobody would tell us anything.
Skip was furious.
When I called to tell him we’d probably have the pull the story on Tubby’s arrest, he was understandably livid. I’d held the phone away from my ear while he yelled about the big hole in Thursday’s edition that would need to be filled, as he put it, “As soon as fucking possible, Denise, do you hear me?”
So when Lucky asked me why, after having dozens of stories pulled, I was so bothered by Decatur falling flat, all I could answer was, “Because I have to find a new story.”
The car went dark and silent again. “What about the doctor?“ Lucky asked. “Isn’t that happening?”
“Yes,” I sighed. “The doctor is happening.”
After our fruitless day hanging around the government offices, Skip had called me back.
“Willard, you know you’ll just have to bump up your date with the doctor. Friday is too late. I need something faster.”
“Skip, I can’t just force him to see me. He has his own schedule and his own life.”
He snorted derisively. “Sure he does. And he won’t call a halt on all of it to see a pretty girl like you?”
“Ugh, Skip. It’s not like that.”
Actually, it was very much like that, but that wasn't any of Skip’s business.
“Willard, I've never ever seen you back down from a story like this. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing, hell. You’ve never let someone’s schedule stop you from pushing your way into a scoop.”
Time. Time was what I needed for Derek. The very last thing I had, and Skip was trying to take it from me. He left me with that order: to get the doctor to open up the lab early for me. His mood had plunged me into a discouraged quandary, staring silently out the window as Lucky and I made our way back to Chicago. And then, after that, Derek’s text.
I didn't have the heart to answer.
When Lucky and I returned to the office it was late; too late to feel obligated to work. I didn't even go upstairs, but went straight to the train. In my apartment, I toyed with the article I’d started on Derek, trying to find the best way to both write the truth and satisfy Skip.
In a semi-secret lab uptown, an affluent and brilliant doctor works around the clock testing samples, but to what end? With so many resources, what can he possibly be interested in finding?
Ugh. That sounded awful. The truth was that anything I wrote with a tiny bit of spin would feel like a betrayal to Derek. As the moon rose and set again, I sat at my desk and worked, writing the story Skip wanted. It was… mostly true, with a bit of spin and flair sprinkled in. It felt terrible to write it, and I was only able to get about half of the word count done. The rest I would have to write after I saw the lab.
For the next two days I managed to avoid Skip. After writing basically all night long, I stayed home on Wednesday, but I didn't waste the time. On the contrary, I spent it on the phone, calling all over Decatur to chase down the story I’d lost the day before. Maybe if I was able to revive the story of the crooked County Commissioner, I could buy myself some time to figure out what to do with Derek.
My phone calls paid off, and I had some time set up with a local lawyer south of town on Thursday. I put the half-story about Derek on my flash drive, as well as my notes on the Decatur scandal. I wasn't able to drive that far out of town without checking in at the Trib for my expenses, so early Thursday morning I packed my messenger bag and took the train to work. Lucky had class so I would go alone, without pictures, which was fine because we had loads on file that we could revive.
The office was mostly quiet, and I crept through the serpentine halls to the expense office to sign out. I started towards the garage when I remembered my gas mileage notebook up in my office. With a vibrant round of cur
sing, I wound my way up the stairs to my office, praying that Skip wasn't in yet.
The hall was dark. I darted into my office, clumping my messenger bag on the desk. I quickly riffled through the drawers to locate the little notebook. It was nowhere to be seen.
“Well, dammit,” I muttered, turning my messenger bag over to search through its contents. Various pens and accoutrements flooded the wood. My hands flew across the contents until it landed on the mileage notebook. It had been there all along.
The bag was nearly repacked when I heard a footstep on the stairs. Hurriedly I pulled the bag up against my hip and clicked off the light, walking tiptoe down the planked hallway and through the stairwell door before I could see who it was. That early in the morning, it pretty much had to be Skip, but I’d worked hard to avoid him… and I’d succeeded.
Derek
“Dr. Johnson, don’t you think you’re asking too much of the samples? It’s only been, what, a few days? Five? Six at most?”
Logan was right, yet I couldn't help but stare at the Petri dishes, practically willing them to do something useful. The poor kid had probably been there around the clock while I was wining and dining a pretty reporter.
A pretty reporter who had still not answered my text.
“What do you think, Logan? Allow me to attempt to be a good teacher for a minute instead of a crazed, obsessed madman. Are we getting anywhere?”
After removing the magnifying goggles, Logan took his laser pointed and flickered it across the backlit table. “Well, a few of these samples in the back look altered, but I can’t get close enough to see exactly what’s happening. What’s more, it’s too soon for me to actually manipulate the samples to see if the healthy cells that have been injected with your cure medium are working against the cancer cells. Where did you say these cancer cells came from?”