by Tiana Cole
It was a single sheet of paper; a photograph, and a pretty clear one. The setting looked similar to a loading dock of sorts, like it was possibly the back of the hospital where Derek’s lab was located. It was dark, but the photographer must have used a pretty high-tech lens with infrared capabilities in order to capture the details in the obvious dark.
The center subject of the photo was Derek, a happy grin on his face, wearing a lab coat like the dozens I’d seen in his lab and office. His hands were holding a box, the insulated kind that hospitals used to send live organs on ice, like when somebody in Indianapolis passed away and their still-healthy lungs were shipped to Seattle to an awaiting patient. The box even had “LIVE HUMAN ORGANS” stamped all over the sides of it in capital letters.
In this photo, which was printed on high-quality photo paper, the box in Derek’s hands was circled in Sharpie with an arrow pointing to the time-stamp: the date was listed as two months prior, before Derek and I had met, and the time was just past midnight.
I flipped the photo over. On the back was written, ‘Why is the good doctor receiving live human organs in the middle of the night?’
Why, indeed?
Derek
Twenty-four hours after Denise left my side, Logan and sat on our hands in the lab. We’d been staring at our cells without moving or speaking for a full hour. I’d had to dash out of the lab to see a few patients—unfortunately I couldn't stay in the lab all the time—and in minutes I would have to leave again to do a double shift in the clinic.
But for now, Logan and I took in the sight of our beautiful cells, not only healthy but somehow enriched by what I had injected them with. Not only that, but they sat in their Petri dishes almost alone as the cancer cells grew smaller hour by hour.
“Logan,” I whispered. “Have we done it?”
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I hope so.”
The alarm on my phone went off; duty called. With a reluctant sigh I dragged myself away from my experiment and trudged into my office. Over my shoulder I called instructions to Logan. “Don’t let anyone in here or even answer the phone unless it’s me. I don’t want anyone to know that we’re even here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you have to leave—do you have class?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, hell. Well, you should go to class. Just lock the place up and turn off all the lights except the lab table.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I guess I'll see you back up here later, after my clinic shift.”
Logan appeared behind me as I hefted by bag across my shoulder. “Dr. Johnson, don’t you think you should go home?”
I glanced behind Logan and through the door into the lab where sixteen Petri dishes had managed to eradicate cancer in a matter of three weeks, give or take.
“Nope.”
As I strode down the hall towards the elevator, I glanced at my phone. Denise hadn't texted me back since the day before when she’d said she was sick. I tried again:
Hey… are you feeling any better? I’d offer to help but I’m about to work at double at the clinic.
When she didn’t reply I sent another:
Maybe I can catch you tomorrow?
For the next fifteen minutes, as I sat in the taxi that took me from the hospital to the inner-city clinic, I stared at my phone awaiting Denise’s response… but she never answered.
Chapter 15
Denise
Things had not improved.
My stomach was not getting any better. The Pad Thai was short-lived; the little I ate didn't stay down.
The photograph of Derek was horrifying. I didn't know what to do with it except stare at it until I fell asleep on the couch.
I woke the next morning with several texts from Skip and Derek, both of which I couldn't answer until I wrapped my mind around what was happening. After shuffling around my apartment in the dawn light, I decided to confide in the one person who seemed to be able to stay out of everything—my photographer, Lucky.
We met in a coffee shop away from the office so nobody from the paper would spot us. If anyone did, I figured we’d just tell them we were planning another trip to Macon County. I paid for Lucky’s breakfast and sipped a mug of hot tea in hopes that it would stay down.
“You look like hell,” he commented pleasantly as he dug into his oatmeal. “What’s going on?”
“Well, everything!” I blurted, then proceeded to tell him just that: everything. Everything about Derek—although I left out the part where we slept together—and about Skip, the photos, and ending with the strange illness that had afflicted me that week. An illness I’d convinced myself was cancer, I should add. By the end, I was practically in tears. Throughout my story Lucky watched me calmly, eating his oatmeal and sipping his coffee; every few bites or so he would hold a spoonful to my mouth and make me swallow some food.
“So? What do you think?” I had to admit, the oatmeal tasted great, and was actually staying down.
Lucky chewed thoughtfully. “Does Derek do surgeries? I mean, would he be doing a lung transplant or something like that?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. And if he did, wouldn't some other hospital staff be tasked with receiving packages? I mean, that’s not his job.”
“You should try to find out if he did any such surgeries around the time the photo was taken. They keep records of that stuff.”
My head nodded slowly as I followed his reasoning. “Yeah. That sounds good. Keep talking.”
“Also, you should follow up on the pharma idea. Something like Derek may be sitting on, the drug companies would be all over that.”
“But Skip said…”
Lucky snorted. “Skip’s full of shit. Seriously, Denise. He doesn't know everything. You’re in too deep to see him clearly. He’s chasing a big story, but only the one he wants to tell. You can tell it Skip’s way or tell the truth.”
Anxiety gripped me, or maybe it was just nausea. Defying Skip wasn't high on my list of professional goals.
I pushed my tea away. “Ugh. My stomach hurts again.”
Lucky grinned and squeezed my arm. “Denise, have you considered that you may be pregnant?”
Oh.
Oh, God.
My mind flew through the dates: the last time I’d had a period, the days I’d slept with Derek, and my obvious symptoms.
Lucky continued with, “Don’t you think that’s more plausible than some mysterious cancer?”
I nodded slowly.
“I mean, sure, you caught something from Derek Johnson… but it wasn't cancer.” He followed this comment up with a rousing chuckle and knowing glance.
I sat up straight and threw my shoulders back, adding in a hair toss for good measure. “Lucky! How could you! I—”
He held a palm up in my face. “Save it. It’s all over your face and in between your words. You slept with him. Whatever. Now go take a pregnancy test and stop freaking out.”
With a frustrated grunt I gathered my things. “I’m sorry I called you today, Lucky.”
“Whatever. You are not. You’re just mad that I got your number.” He grasped my arm as I started to walk away. “Denise. Really. Dig around on what kind of interactions Derek’s had with pharma companies. I bet you’ll find something worth your time.”
I sighed and slid a glance his way. “Thanks, Lucky.”
He blew me a kiss and pulled out a newspaper.
***
Lucky had some good points, as annoyed as I was that he saw into my life so clearly. I’d been so overwhelmed with… well… everything that I had failed to see some things plainly.
For one, it didn't have to be a contest between Skip and Derek. They could both have secrets, and both have something true to offer. To further investigate anything about Derek—which, if I was honest, there were some compelling reasons to do—didn't mean I was betraying him in favor for Skip and his insanity. On the other hand, to write the truth about Derek didn't necessar
ily require me to push back in Skip’s face.
And the pregnancy! Gah. It probably was more likely than an aggressive and unheard-of cancer. With that thought in mind, I stepped off the street and into the closest drugstore to pick up a test. It wouldn't hurt to just pee on the stick and see what happened, right?
During my stop, I threw up in the drugstore’s bathroom. Lovely. Had I known that would happen, I would have bought the pregnancy test first.
As it was just barely past breakfast, I decided to sneak into the office and hide myself in one of the media rooms where I could avoid notice yet have access to all of the paper’s resources. I kept the pregnancy test hidden deep in my bag where I would avoid it until I arrived back at my apartment. Whatever I had picked up from Derek was my own business.
I managed to get into the room without anybody seeing me. After locking the door, I pulled out a ginger ale and a few crackers from the drugstore and opened up the media file on the computer. The newspaper owned a program that would literally search the internet and beyond for any media clip, video or sound byte which may contain anything on Derek.
The backlog of information on Derek was really divided into three topics: Maria’s death, his sudden inheritance, and his research.
I decided to read through the hardest information first.
For the next hour I scrolled through dozens of notices about his wife’s funeral, most of which barely mentioned him. Reading those words, especially all of the accolades lauded upon Maria’s character and career, pricked my heart. A marriage between two brilliant and loving people, ended too soon. Who knows what Derek and Maria would have achieved together?
When my sadness for Maria’s death reached its peak, I moved on to the next topic about Derek—the large amount of money left to him by, literally, a long-lost uncle. That whole story was fairly simple. Derek, already doing fine as a big-city doctor, was suddenly a billionaire. End of story. A few news outlets did a story on his great windfall; several of them asked him what he would do with the money, particularly whether or not he would keep working. Derek, in his understated, humble way, answered every interview in the same manner: yes, he would keep working since there was too much good to do in our country. The money from his uncle would be used charitably to help people. And, perhaps most importantly, Derek was quoted several times as saying, “I don’t take this gift lightly. For karma to decide that I deserve such an amazing gift is humbling. I would never take it for granted and will use it to pursue good for our world.”
Surely those weren't the words of a man that was also conducting illegal medical experiments on foisted human tissue?
Most of the news items related to Derek’s research were short interviews with him, all conducted not long after his wife’s death, in which reporters asked him if he would donate money to cancer research specifically. I noticed he avoided these questions rather smoothly since he understandably didn’t want to share his plans to open his own lab. In almost every situation he said something like, “The medical profession is filled with brilliant individuals who work every day towards a cure for diseases like Leukemia-A. I trust in their work, and if I found that any research facility was close to success, I would do what I could to enable that success.”
So, effectively, yes and no.
However, at the very bottom of the list was a different transcript of an interview taken two years after Maria’s death. I scrolled back through my conversations with Derek and recalled how soon after her death he’d set up the lab. The interview in question would have been just around the time Derek was furtively sneaking around getting the lab going. The journalist—from a local paper, although not ours—asked him why he didn't just donate a bit of his billions to pharmaceutical companies, which obviously had the staff and resources to work tirelessly towards a cure for Maria’s cancer.
Derek’s response, and I wish I’d have been there to see his face as he uttered the words, was, “Pharmaceutical companies represent literally everything that is wrong with our medical profession. Life-saving medicines are withheld from those who need them most in the name of profit. Profit, mind you, that’s probably donated to politicians who will help them dodge government regulations. Imagine how many people would be well if these medicines were made widely available to all sectors of society in all countries. Instead, they’re funneled through equally corrupt insurance companies who mark the price so high that only the wealthiest—who are ironically the only ones that can afford the best insurance plans—are able to get what they need. Let me be very clear on this: I would never, ever, get into bed with a pharmaceutical company. If I had the cures for every infectious disease in the world, I would work by myself to manufacture it before I shared it with one of them.”
Well, at least he didn't leave any room for discussion. His opinion on the matter was, as he said, very clear. And if I wasn't mistaken, this little sound clip was exactly what a pharmacy company would need to try to run him to the ground.
So maybe, just maybe, this wasn't as boring as Skip had said.
The photo of Derek holding that box of human organs burned in my bag. Eventually I would need to take it out and deal with it. In the meantime, though, I needed to get the interview transcript printed, copied, and in my bag, away from the office.
Derek
My clinic shift was a double that felt twice as long.
I mean, I’d called out the day before in order to babysit my cells, and the hours I’d spent in the lab had flown by. By contrast, the short twelve hours in the clinic felt like days. Between patients I checked my phone to see if Logan had any recent updates on our samples. Nothing. Despite the fact that I had asked him not to contact me indiscriminately, I felt the absence keenly. My mind was obsessed with what was going on in the lab.
On my short lunch break I called him. He had very little to report, which both relieved me and upset me. I was so anxious I wondered if my feelings were similar to that of a creative person—a song or screenplay writer; someone who birthed something into existence, then paused to watch it develop on its own. It wasn't a perfect comparison, but I did feel like a diva wanting to babysit the lab and call Logan to check on him constantly.
Just before I headed back to my shift my cell phone did ring, and I snatched it up without looking at the caller’s ID. I of course hoped it was Logan, or even Denise, who still hadn’t responded to my last text.
“Derek Johnson,” I greeted.
“Dr. Johnson, good afternoon.” The voice was vaguely familiar and a bit unsettling, but I played along.
“Hello. Who am I speaking with?”
He chuckled and I suddenly remembered. A shiver raked across my shoulders.
“What do you want?” I asked in annoyance.
“I already told you what we want, Dr. Johnson. We all want the same thing, don’t we? A way to eradicate Leukemia-A. You have the brainpower to make it happen, and we have the money to take it to the next level.”
“I have the money, too,” I reminded him. “And I don’t have an agenda. Or an ego.”
He didn't immediately respond, but I heard his breathing through the silence; insidious. Finally he spoke again. “Don’t think that we don’t have ways, Dr. Johnson. Ways of making you cooperate. Ways of getting our hands on your research.”
“You don’t know anything about my research,” I growled. The tone of my voice was betraying my worry. What did he know? What could he know?
“You should ask your journalist friend what she knows and what she’s sharing with the Tribune.”
The shiver turned into the full-blown shakes. How could he know about Denise? I injected as much confidence and scorn as I could into my voice. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The sly chuckle morphed into an all-out laugh. “Sure you don’t. I’m just reminding you that Denise Willard is an investigative journalist. She rakes guys like you over the coals for a living. Ask her what she’s written about you. I dare you.”
A knock banged
on the break room door. My shift was starting again.
“Well,” I began, trying to sound calm, “this has been a really awesome talk. Thanks, but I have to go.”
Before he could speak again, I ended the call. Immediately, before going back to the clinic, I texted Denise.
I really need to see you.
To my surprise, this time she answered right away.
I need to see you, too.
I’m done at the clinic at 9. Is that too late?
No. I'll be at my apartment.
She sent her address, and I grimly returned to my clinic shift.
Chapter 16
Denise
I felt like my bag was on fire with all of the hot information I had hidden there. Between the office and my place I checked my messenger bag a dozen times—flash drive… check. Printed information about Derek, particularly the transcript of the interview featuring his colorful feelings about the pharma industry, was tucked in a special section of my bag in case things disappeared from the server. The office was giving me a creepy enough feeling. Over the past few days I’d had glimmers of time when I didn't really recognize my job or the paper at all. Moments when I asked myself, ‘What am I even doing here?’
Getting through this story. That’s exactly what needed doing, and maybe after that my life would feel slightly normal again.
When I approached my apartment I was relieved to see nothing crammed into my doorframe; no new information ready to spill out into my hands. Likewise, when I unlocked the door and crept inside, the interior looked normal. I’d seen dozens of movies in which the girl arrives home to find her apartment ransacked in pursuit of some piece of treasured information, and my paranoia had reached the point where, honestly, such a thing wouldn't have surprised me at all. I slid into my apartment and locked the door behind me for good measure.