Dead End Deal

by Allen Wyler

  Jon thought about that a moment. “Yes, but things happened so fast . . .”

  “Also a white guy?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “That a yes?”

  “Yes.”

  Fisher flipped the page, obviously sorting through a list of questions. “How tall are you?”

  “Five ten.”

  Fisher made a note. “Weight?”

  “One sixty-five. Why?”

  Fisher paused to jot this down too. “The whole thing was caught on a security cam, but the angle doesn’t give us much to go on for physical attributes, things like height and weight. So comparing him to you helps. You’d say, what, the Australian’s bigger than you?”

  He thought about that too, his finger absentmindedly finding its way under the dressing again. Stitches. Someone took the time to stitch his scalp with small, closely spaced, fine sutures—a plastic surgeon type closure. Who? Then another shock: what about other injuries? Like skull fractures? How long was he unconscious? Minutes? Days?

  Fisher seemed to be waiting for . . . What? Oh, yes, the question . . . “An inch maybe . . . maybe twenty pounds heavier than me. Muscle though, not fat. Definitely muscle.”

  Fisher scratched the side of his jaw, considering something. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to ask you a personal question.”

  “What?”

  “Dobbs is gay. Right?”

  Jon felt uncomfortable discussing Wayne’s personal life behind his back. Then again, if it helped the investigation . . . Besides, Wayne didn’t hide it. “Yes.”

  “And you?”

  There it was: guilt by association. Even though this wasn’t the first time the question had been asked, it still pissed him off. He resented the implication. Another jab of pain forced his eyes shut, tightening his jaw muscles, making it still worse. He squinted, gingerly fingering the bandage. His head felt swollen and ready to explode.

  Fisher asked, “Sorry, did you miss the question? Should I repeat it?”

  Fisher, he reminded himself, probably had good reason to ask. Still . . . “What’s the point? What difference does it make?”

  “Could be a huge. Ever hear of the Nuremberg Avengers?”

  The name sounded vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it, and it hurt too much to even try to think of the answer. “No. Why?”

  “You know about the doc who was blown away on the porch of an abortion clinic about a month ago, in San Francisco?”

  Now it clicked. “Oh man, they’re the ones?” Referring to last night.

  “Possibly. Your assailants left a note suggesting that’s the case.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.” His temple was screaming, making it hard now to even squint. “Besides, I have nothing to do with abortions and I don’t use fetal tissue.”

  Fisher shifted positions in the chair. “We’ll get to that. You haven’t answered my question.”

  What question? He thought back, but came up blank. “Remind me. I’m not doing so well at the moment.”

  Fisher looked straight into his eyes. “Are you gay?”

  Oh, that one. “Thought I answered it. I don’t see why that’s important.”

  “Well, it is. The militant pro-choicer doc who ran the abortion clinic was lesbian. Sort of makes me wonder why they came at you. Is this an anti-abortion thing or a hate crime? That’s why.”

  Made sense. “Okay, got it. No, I’m not gay.”

  “So, if assuming it was the Avengers, why come after you?”

  As if he was supposed to know. “Hey, don’t look at me like that. If I knew, I’d tell you.”

  The silence was interrupted only by rhythmic beeps of the cardiac monitors in the nursing station and the hollow metallic rattle of cart wheels rolling along the hall. After several moments Fisher added, “Unless, of course, they’re not Avengers.”

  Hard as he tried, Jon couldn’t stop remembering the moment Gabe went down. Over and over again, playing a visual loop he couldn’t ignore. Why would anyone kill this gentle man? What had he done to deserve being gunned down in . . . ?

  Fisher said, “Tell me again exactly what they said.”

  Jon raised the head of his bed in hope of alleviating the pounding ache in the center of his skull. Then suddenly remembered a point he forgot to mention the first time through the story. “He called me ‘Baby Killer.’”

  Fisher nodded slowly. “Baby killer? But you’re a neurosurgeon, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Fisher lowered his notepad. “That’s what I thought. I don’t get it, why call you that? What am I missing here?”

  More details started flooding back, Fisher’s questions jiggling scraps of memory into consciousness. “The only thing I can think of is they’re confusing my research . . .”

  Fisher readied himself to take a note. “Yeah? Go on.”

  “I work with stem cells. But not fetal stem cells.”

  Fisher set down his notepad, sat back, crossed his legs. “Back up. I need some background information. I have to confess, I’ve never understood what stem cells are.”

  Ritter searched for an easy way to explain the difficult concept to someone with a limited background in biology. “They’re primitive cells that have the potential to become any other cell in the body like heart, spleen, kidney, bone. They’re found at all ages: embryos, children, on up to adults. You have some in your bone marrow right now. But the ones I use are from mice. Not humans.”

  “Mice?”

  “Yeah, it’s a long story, but basically it’s a political solution. What we really want to do is use stem cells to replace dead neurons in dementia patients. To a large extent, a stem cell’s plasticity depends on where you get them. The ones from embryos have the greatest transformative potential. The ones from a fetus are more limited. Stem cells from adults are the most limited.

  “Scientists didn’t even know about these cells until 1971, when they found them in mice. Since then, they’ve been used to treat diseases. Cancer is one. Sometimes a cancer patient’s bone marrow can be destroyed by chemotherapy and radiation. The marrow can be replaced by injecting stem cells into the marrow. But here’s the problem: the most versatile stem cells come from embryonic and fetal tissue, and some religious groups object to using it and have managed to block their use. Politicians cave pretty quickly when it involves fetuses. We can grow embryonic stem cells in tissue culture but they’ve blocked this too. This has really thrown a monkey wrench in several life-saving applications—like growing cultured stem cells into specific organ tissues, a kidney for example.”

  Fisher seemed to be following. He said, “Interesting stuff. But you can’t grow a brain, can you?”

  Jon laughed. “No. It’s easy to grow mice stem cells into cells that appear to be neurons, but the problem is they don’t form connections—synapses—that transfer information from cell to cell. That’s what Wayne and I’ve been working on. Just recently we solved this problem with a special mixture of hormone-like chemicals called nerve growth factors that dictate how cells grow. We just recently proved it works in monkeys. So our next step is to do it with real patients.”

  Fisher thought about that a moment. “Clearly you have nothing to do with human fetal tissue, right. So why call you ‘baby killer’?”

  “Only thing I can think of is he had the wrong guy.”

  “Not if he called you by name, knew your phone number and car, and knew where to find you when you’d be alone. Obviously, they’ve been tracking you. What you’re working on, does it have anything to do with babies?”

  “No.” Ritter laughed at the absurdity. “We’re way on the other end of the spectrum. Sure, we use stem cells, but to treat Alzheimer’s. Our ultimate goal is to implant mice stem cells in human brains but we haven’t actually done that yet. That’s coming. So that’s how I know these guys are mistaken. That ‘baby killer’ thing is ridiculous. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Okay, so maybe they’re misinformed, I’ll grant you that, but the facts
are: these guys are dangerous and they targeted you. Until we can find out who they are and stop them, my advice is to do as they say and stop your work.”

  Jon clenched his jaw, driving another railroad spike through his temple. His right eye felt about to explode. He groaned.

  Fisher asked, “Say what?”

  “I can’t shut down my work.”

  “Why not?”

  Jon’s anger erupted. “They killed a man in cold blood for what? Nothing! Shot him down like he was nothing. I’m not going to allow . . .” Pain forced him to stop and focus on calming down. This was killing him. He muttered, “Besides, it’s not simply my decision. It’s Wayne’s too.”

  Fisher said, “Word of advice?”

  Jon’s anger started bubbling over. “Advice? I don’t want any goddamn advice. I want those bastards hunted down and buried in a maximum security hole forever. I want to see them fry.” The headache started sending flashes across his vision. He groped for the call light. “Aw shit!” He needed more codeine.

  Fisher said, “Hey look, I know you’re angry. For good reason, too. But you need to understand something. These assholes are certified fanatics. And fanatics don’t understand the concept of reasonable. That’s what makes them dangerous. Do not mess with them. Do what they say. In the meantime, we’ll find out who they are and eliminate the threat. Once we do that, you’re free to continue working. Okay?”

  That did it. Up on both elbows now, Jon raised his voice. “No, that’s not okay. What I didn’t mention is that NIH just gave us the green light to do our first patients. You know how long we’ve worked for this?” He didn’t wait for an answer because it wasn’t a question. “Ten years! Ten goddamn years! And you want me to throw that away?”

  The nurse hurried into the room, arms out, hands waving, “Whoa, calm down,” and shot Fisher a withering scowl.

  Jon continued, “They killed Gabe, goddamn it! Blew him away like he was nothing more than an inconvenience. Now you want me to turn around and walk away! That’s bullshit.”

  The nurse placed both hands on his shoulders, pushing him gently back against the pillows. “Please, Dr. Ritter, calm down.”

  More throbbing bore into him, taking away the urge to scream. He muttered, “I need another codeine. Make it two.”

  “I’ll get them, but you need to calm down.” She released him and pulled the blood pressure cuff from a wire basket on the wall, wrapping it around his arm.

  Jon settled into the bed while the nurse checked his pressure, the image of Gabe’s murder still flashing through his mind. Fisher stood facing the window. Right now, Jon told himself, the most important thing was to nail the sons of bitches who killed Gabriel. Taking out his frustration and anger on Fisher would accomplish nothing.

  The nurse ripped loose the Velcro, folded the cuff into a bundle, stuffed it back into the wall holder. “I’ll be right back with your meds.”

  Jon wanted to say something to Fisher, a fresh start to the conversation, but before the words came, Fisher asked, “Can we continue?”

  Jon liked the way the man said it, without a hint of accusation, as if he really did understand his anger. “Let me ask you something. The way you started out, you sounded like there might be some doubt it’s the Avengers. That true? Are you convinced it really was the Avengers?”

  Fisher seemed to weigh his answer and dropped back into the chair. “There’re things about the attack that don’t fit with the Avengers.”

  “Like?”

  “Getting that close to their victim. They’ve never done that before. The other murders were long-range assassinations with a rifle.”

  When Jon didn’t say anything, Fisher added, “And their note didn’t wash.”

  “Then why think it’s them? And if there’s a chance it isn’t, why tell me to stop working?”

  Fisher looked at his shoes a moment. “I assume you haven’t seen their website?”

  Website? Did assassins keep websites? “No.”

  “Well, they have one. They post potential targets on it. Pictures, personal information, the crimes they claim their targets are guilty of. I guess it’s supposed to be a warning of sorts, because when they hit someone a big red X appears over the picture.”

  He still didn’t get the point. “Yeah? So?”

  “Your profile was posted a week ago.”

  Jon was stunned. Took a moment for the implication to hit. “A week ago? Jesus! You’ve known about it for a week and didn’t say anything?”

  Fisher nodded but didn’t look up. “There’s a national task force assigned to them. It monitors the site twenty-four, seven.”

  The pressure in his head came back with a vengeance. “In other words, yes, you knew about it.”

  Fisher shrugged, finally looked him in the eye, but without conviction. “Hey, lighten up. There’re over fifty profiles up there.”

  “Why didn’t anyone warn me?” A fresh bolt of pain knocked him back onto the pillows.

  Fisher shrugged and glanced away. “For the reasons we just discussed, we didn’t consider you a high risk.”

  “I—” He became speechless, thinking, if he’d been warned, Gabe might still be alive. He yelled, “GODDAMNIT Get out of my sight.”

  Fisher set a business card on the bedside table, tapped it with a finger. “Here’s my contact information. You’re righteously angry. I completely get it. I feel for your loss. But when you calm down, consider two things: the best way to take down Lippmann’s killers is to help us. Also, you need to understand—and this is really important, so listen—the persons responsible for his death know a lot about you. For them to call your office and con you down to the garage indicates careful planning. Bottom line is they know a lot more about you than you know about them. Meaning you’re vulnerable. What I’m saying is, don’t do anything that’ll put you back in their crosshairs. Don’t tempt them.”

  Eyes closed, Jon tried to relax to relieve the pain. Fisher’s words made sense, but he didn’t want to hear anymore. The bastard knew but never warned him. “Get the hell out of my room.”

  6

  “HOW YOU FEELING?”

  A familiar voice jerked Jon out of a dark, drifting, codeine-enhanced state. Squinting, he made out fluorescent light reflecting off a patch of bald scalp. Wayne Dobbs. With a grunt, he rolled onto his left side, sort of, which was limited by the head of the bed being raised. “Probably about good as I look.” He fingered the dressing in the same absentminded manner that, as a kid, he’d played with a loose tooth: repeatedly testing the pain it caused. “How long you been here?” His head hurt less now, after a double dose of codeine.

  “Less than a minute. I was trying to decide if you were just deep in thought or dead. If you’re talking, I guess you’re not dead.”

  Jon laughed, which stirred up the pain. “Aw man, don’t make me do that.”

  “Open your eyes, this is an official consult. Here, look at my finger.” Wayne moved his vertical finger to the right then to the left, observing Jon’s eyes. Then he turned the finger horizontal and moved it up and down. Jon recognized these simple tests. “Good. Now the hard part. Where are you?”

  The question shocked him. This wasn’t a joke, Wayne really was checking for any brain damage. Am I seriously damaged? “University Hospital.”

  “What day is it?”

  He had to think about that one. The fact that he did was, in itself, startling. As soon as he said the answer, an anxious chill layered in his gut. Was he right?

  “Who’s the President?” Wayne asked.

  Jon wanted to ask if the previous answer was correct but didn’t want to appear uncertain, so dodged both issues with, “You know I never discuss politics.”

  With a frown, Wayne shook his head. “Well, tell me anyway. I’m serious.”

  Jon answered.

  With a nod of approval, Wayne smoothed a tastefully loud tie against a white French-cuffed shirt, a perfect Windsor knot concealing the collar button, a gold chain restraining th
e tie. He was of the few people Jon knew who could wear a double-breasted blazer without appearing overly dressed. “In case you’re worried, you passed.”

  Jon was relieved. “Thanks.”

  Wayne looked down at the floor, the smile gone. “Oh Jon, I’m so sorry about Gabe. What a wonderful man. I know how close you were. . . .”

  The back of Jon’s throat constricted. He swallowed, clearing it. “Thanks.”

  Wayne sighed and took the chair Fisher had used just minutes earlier. “Want to talk about it?”

  “Maybe another time, not now.” Pointing at his temple, he asked, “Anything to tell me about what happened here?”

  Wayne gave another sigh. “Sure. The neuro check was forreal. Fuller asked me for an official consult. Well, I’m glad you passed.

  “The asshole who hit you must’ve used something other than his fist because you came away with a small depressed skull fracture and a beauty of a stellate laceration. After Fuller elevated the fracture, DeVito did a plastic closure. DeVito says you should heal up with a minimal scar. Your post-op scan’s normal, by the way. No sign of any clots.”

  Jon fingered the dressing again. “Yeah, but this hurts like hell.”

  “Fuller says he’ll discharge you later today. I talked to Michael and we both want you to stay in the guest room until you feel you’re back on your feet again.”

  “Thanks. I don’t think I’d be very good company. I’ll be fine at home. Besides, I need to think about a few things.”

  “Good company isn’t the issue here. Besides, this is a time when you need friends around you. All this,” he spread his arms, meaning Jon’s situation, “on top of Emily’s death. I’m seriously worried about you. I mean that as a doctor, not just because I’m your friend.”

  “Thanks, but you haven’t heard the best part yet. This was no random incident and the FBI wants us to stop working until they catch the bastards who did this.”

  By the time Jon finished telling him everything, Wayne was pacing tight circles in the cramped room, ears bright red with anger. Wayne said, “Unfuckingbelievable.”