Replaceable: An Alan Lamb Thriller (9 page)

“Funny you should say that,” Bruno said. “That’s what my therapist always says. That, and to live in the present. Because we can’t change the past and we can’t predict the future.”

“Sounds like good advice.”

“Typical psycho babble. But she’s nice though, my therapist. Hot, too. Like a nine. Pretty cliché, huh? Having the hots for my therapist?”

“If it wasn’t common, it wouldn’t be a cliché.”

“I appreciate you trying to cheer me up. Did you work out your business with the boss man?”

“I did.”

“He’s a good man,” Bruno said. “I hate the smell of his fucking cigars, but he’s still a good man. One thing though.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t get yourself in a position where you owe him any favors.”

“What makes you say that?”

Alan discovered that Bruno was shrewder than he had given him credit for.

Bruno smiled and said, “You already owe him, don’t you? Well, never mind then. It’s too late now.”

Chapter 10

Alan didn’t read
much these days, but back in high school he had been an avid reader. He had spent summers cooped up in his room reading for hours. Some of his favorite books had been the James Bond series by Ian Fleming. It was only now that he remembered a passage from
Goldfinger
: “Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.”

This came to mind as he was poring over another case file Gant had left on his desk.

One, two, three, four…Augusta, Peoria, Cheyenne, and Council Bluffs.

All of them possessing similarities that couldn’t possibly be chalked up to coincidence.

No apparent connection between any of the suspects.
Or victims,
Alan thought,
depending on how you chose to look at it.

He had sat down at his desk at 6:45 that morning to find a fresh case waiting for him with a sticky note stuck to the manila folder, one sentence written on it in Gant’s barely legible scrawl.

Come see me.

Only Alan hadn’t. Not yet. He wanted to peruse the contents of the folder first, and what he discovered inside of it drove a white hot spike into his stomach.

This case was different than the rest. There were similarities, but the differentiating factor was that there had been a fatality, making it a homicide.

Doris Browning, a thirty-three year old mother of two, had been driving along I-29 on her way to work. As she was passing a stalled car parked on the shoulder of the road, the car exploded. The blast had enough force to blow out all of the windows of Browning’s car before incinerating her almost instantly. Along with Browning’s remains, a charred and partially melted child’s carseat had been pulled from the back seat of the car. Fortunately, it had been empty. Doris Browning had dropped her three year old daughter off at daycare only twenty minutes prior to that.

The stalled car, what investigators now believed to be what was known as a Trojan Horse, had been a dark green ’01 Chevy Impala. It had been equipped with a platter bomb, which, from the scant amount of evidence pulled from the scene, had most likely been remotely detonated. Meaning that someone had been monitoring the stalled car and waiting for someone to drive past it. For the time being, it looked as though Doris Browning had been a victim of opportunity rather than an intended target.

Alan, somewhat morbidly, wondered if Browning had been unlucky in her life. She had definitely suffered from a serious case of bad luck on that particular morning.

Despite the significant damage sustained to the suspect vehicle, investigators found a bent and misshapen license plate thirty feet from the blast area. Based on the plates, it was determined that the owner of the vehicle was one Gerard P. Wilson of Bonner Springs, Kansas.

Gerard Wilson owned a car dealership called Wilson’s Chevrolet. When investigators had descended upon his dealership, they discovered Wilson bound to the leather-backed executive chair in his office. He was taken into custody, claiming to have no involvement in the planting of a bomb in his own vehicle, or the detonation of the device. Forensics had been able to lift a set of prints from the Impala’s damaged license plate, which had matched those obtained directly from Wilson.

With a few minor discrepancies.

DNA evidence had also been obtained from the scene in the form of a soda can that had survived the blast. This hadn’t been an accident. The soda can had been located inside a metal lunchbox. The lunchbox, which depicted Spider-man swinging merrily over a backdrop of the skyscrapers of New York, belonged to Wilson’s five year old son, Dylan, who had just started Kindergarten. Analysis of the DNA hadn’t been completed yet, but Alan had a pretty good idea of what the results would be.

Lucy wandered into the office around quarter after seven.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” she said as she sat down at her desk.

“Then I look how I feel,” Alan said.

Lucy’s eyes found the open folder on Alan’s desk.

“Another one? Same as the others?”

“Yes and no.” He handed her the folder. “Take a look. I have to see Gant.” As he was leaving the office, he paused and added, “Do me a favor, run a check with VICAP and see if they come back with anything similar to the cases we’re dealing with. Robberies and homicides especially. Anything noted about discrepancies in fingerprints and DNA.”

“I’m on it,” Lucy said, her fingers already beginning to flutter swiftly over her keyboard.

He didn’t expect VICAP to come back with anything related to the cases they were working, but he didn’t think it could hurt to check. You never knew when you might catch a lucky break.

When Alan reached Gant’s office, Gant frowned when Alan appeared in his doorway. He was talking on the phone. Alan took a seat and waited.

“I know,” Gant said into the phone and hung it up. To Alan he said, “Tell me you’ve got something.”

Alan debated telling Gant about Marvin’s theory that the crimes were being committed by human clones and decided against it. Alan still thought it sounded like a plot you would find in a cheap science fiction novel, and he could hardly tell Gant that despite how ridiculous it sounded, he was putting government resources into validating such an absurd theory.

“We’re working on a few leads,” Alan said.

“Anything promising?”

Alan shrugged. “Too early to tell.”

“That was our good friend Deputy Director Strickland on the phone. The man’s not as patient as I am. In fact, he’s a total asshole. At least give me something I can use to keep the hounds at bay.”

“We’re checking with VICAP now,” Alan said. “Given the similarities in all of the cases, our guess is that it’s being orchestrated by the same individual.”

“I’ve already made that deductive leap and I’m not the one actively investigating this. Did you follow-up on my actor idea?”

“We’re still considering it a viable option.” It wasn’t a total lie, but Alan thought the prospect of the orchestrator of the crimes using actors who bore strikingly similar characteristics to the actual suspects seemed about as plausible as a secret organization mass producing human clones with the express purpose of using them to commit crimes. “We’ll catch a break,” Alan said. “We have to.”

“Just do me a favor and catch one sooner rather than later, would you?”

“Did you run the check through VICAP like I asked you to?” Alan asked when he was back in his office.

“Of course.”

“Anything.”

“Nothing back yet,” Lucy said. “I wouldn’t expect to hear anything back for twenty-four hours at the earliest.” She picked up the case folder that Alan had handed her earlier. “This is a homicide.”

“I know.”

“Things are escalating.”

“I know.”

“I like Marvin a lot. He’s really smart. But his theory…well, it’s really out there. I mean, human cloning? It’s almost as bad as calling it…”

“Supernatural?”

“I wasn’t going to say that,” Lucy said.

“The game is afoot,” Alan muttered to himself.

“Sherlock Holmes? You know Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed in all of that stuff, don’t you?”

“What stuff?”

“The supernatural. He believed in fairies and psychic phenomenon.”

“I would believe in fairies, too,” Alan said, “if it meant we could catch a break on this thing.”

“Well, they’re all linked. We know that much. Even if the crimes themselves are changing, several of the same factors keep repeating. The prime suspects are always caught and have no recollection of doing what they’re accused of doing.”

“Or at least claim not to,” Alan said.

“And then there’s the fingerprints and the DNA. They always find traces at the crime scenes. They always nearly match up, but not quite.”

“Soda cans,” Alan said.

“Huh?”

“The soda cans. They’ve found one at every crime scene. Always intact and they’re always able to collect a DNA sample from it. That can’t be a coincidence.”

Lucy said, “Lots of people drink soda, Alan. It’s one of the most popular drinks after water and coffee…and tea.”

“I’m not questioning that. But what are the chances they would find one at each of the crime scenes and it would be the only thing with the suspect’s DNA on it? At least with the irregular DNA. Same goes for the fingerprints. Let’s say for a minute that Marvin’s right, that someone is cloning humans in order to have them carry out these crimes. He said it would take millions of dollars in equipment and materials, and the technology they would use to do it more advanced than anything Marvin knows about. So why leave fingerprints at the scene?”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re saying.”

“Why make such a simple mistake? Not just once, but each and every time. They didn’t just find an irregular set of prints or DNA at one or two of them, but
all
of them.”

Lucy’s eyes widened as though a lightbulb had just gone off in her head. “You’re saying they did it on purpose?”

“It’s like they’re leaving us a trail of breadcrumbs to follow.”

“You think they want to get caught?”

Alan shook his head. “No, I don’t think they want to get caught, but I don’t think they want the trail to go cold either. They’re giving us clues because someone is playing a game, and a game isn’t any fun if you don’t have anyone to play it with.”

“They want to make sure we keep playing the game,” Lucy said. “That makes sense. Let us know that they’re smarter than we are.”

“But they’re not giving us all the pieces. They’re baiting us with just enough to keep us running in circles.”

“What do we do then?”

“We find better breadcrumbs.”

Chapter 11

Later that day
on his way out of the office, Alan stopped off on the eighth floor to speak with Marvin Davis. He had received an email from Marvin earlier saying that the DNA results from Gerard Wilson had come back.

Outside the crime lab, Alan listened to Marvin tell him exactly what he had expected to hear: that the samples were almost identical, except for a few slight deviations. Alan didn’t make any attempt to mask his disappointment. The results didn’t surprise him, but he had hoped for something more. Something that would make the trail of breadcrumbs make sense.

“I’ve spent some time studying the samples more closely,” Marvin said. “Operating under the assumption that my theory is correct, I was looking for anything in the crime scene samples that might indicate that cloning has taken place.”

“Is that possible?”

“For the most part, this is virgin territory. All I have to go on is research data for animals such as Dolly the Sheep. Obviously, we’re talking about humans and not animals, but it was a starting point. Most of the advances in cloning have been accomplished through a process called somatic-cell nuclear transfer or SCNT. Basically, somatic cells are taken from the organism to be cloned and a nucleus is inserted into an egg cytoplasm. This is introduced to an electrical current which stimulates the embryo into development. Once you have a successfully developed embryo, it is placed in a surrogate recipient.”

“Like the mother’s womb?” Alan asked, doing his best to keep up.

“Yes. But in this case, I would doubt they’re using another animal for gestation purposes. They would probably do it artificially. Through some form of surrogate chamber perhaps.”

“A machine?”

“Correct. Research shows that the cloned animal isn’t completely identical however. There is mitochondrial DNA left behind. The massive amount of failures in the process are partially due to these incompatibilities. I would guess that at some point along the way, they found a way to minimize the failure rate. My hypothesis was that we could discern if the cells were cloned judging by these inconsistencies in the mitochondrial DNA.”

“Did you find anything?”

Marvin allowed himself the beginnings of a smile. “I did. I found numerous inconsistencies between the host DNA and that taken from the crime scene. I found this in the comparison of all the samples. I also found another interesting disparity.”

“Just keep it simple, Marvin,” Alan said. “So far I’m keeping up, but I feel like my mental train might jump the tracks at any moment.”

Marvin nodded. “There were certain pathologies in the samples from the crime scene samples that aren’t present in the directly acquired DNA. The pathologies showed signs of accelerated aging.”

“Which would fit the scenario that they are being brought to adulthood in some artificial way,” Alan said.

“That’s one explanation. In the case of Dolly, there were claims that these same pathologies were present. Since cloning hasn’t ever been done on a mass scale, there isn’t sufficient data to say if this is the rule rather than the exception, but speculation was that these pathologies were related to a shortening of the telomeres, DNA-protein complexes that protect the end of linear chromosomes. It was believed to be a side effect related to the cloning process itself. We’re assuming that whoever is doing this has also developed a way to expedite the aging process significantly in order to bring an embryo to adulthood in a rapidly accelerated matter. Because of this assumption, we can’t predict whether it’s a deficiency in the cloning process itself or if it has something to do with whatever procedure they use to initiate the accelerated growth. But there’s an icing on the cake.”

“Which is?”

“Remember that discrepancy I showed you in the Carville samples? It appears in every sample collected from the soda cans.”

“Okay.”

“I think it’s a marker.”

“A marker?”

“Yes. A unique identifier. Purposely placed in the suspect DNA to establish a differentiation from the host and its clone.”

“What’s your guess?”

“My guess?”

“How sure of this thing are you?”

Marvin cocked his head and thought about it. Much like Alan, he wasn’t a risk taker. Speculation was one thing. Putting a number on it was another. Any scientist that Alan had ever met was reluctant to put too much faith in a theory if there wasn’t ample data to back up the claim.

“Overlooking the fact that technology like this doesn’t exist, at least not publically, I would say somewhere around seventy-five percent.”

Seventy-five percent,
Alan thought.
Higher than I thought
.

But it wasn’t bulletproof.

“I’d like it if the odds were better,” Alan said.

“I feel exactly the opposite.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because it would be one hell of a lot less frightening,” Marvin said.

Back at the Patriot Inn, Alan headed straight to the second floor to Guy Bernard’s office. Guy had left him a message earlier saying he had information regarding the task Alan had set him on.

Alan knocked on the door to Room 255 and when it opened he was greeted by Bruno. He stepped aside to allow Alan to enter.

“Just the man I wanted to see,” Guy said as he swiveled around in his chair to face them. An unlit cigar was clamped between his teeth. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No thanks.”

“A man who doesn’t mix business with pleasure,” Guy said. “I can respect that, but it can make Alan a dull boy. Bruno, do me a favor would you. Go for a walk.”

Bruno nodded and exited the room, closing the door behind him.

Guy turned to face his laptop, clicked the mouse a few times, and the laser printer perched on the corner of the desk started to make a low whine as it began spitting out pages.

“He’s still broken up about that fight the other day,” Guy said over the sound of the printer. “In his mind, it’s a huge setback to his therapy.”

“Yeah, he told me about it,” Alan said, sitting down at the edge of the bed.

Most of the bed was being used as a makeshift desk in which Guy had lined up dozens of neatly arranged case folders.

“Don’t mind the mess. I’m in the process of doing some spring cleaning. Never saw a point in wasting time coming up with a good filing system and now I’m paying the price for it. Did Bruno tell you about his therapist? Barbara something. Says he’s falling madly in love with her.”

“That was the conclusion I came to.”

“Yeah, well, I hope he doesn’t get his heart broken.” There was a surprising amount of sympathy in Guy’s voice. “Any mistakes he made in the past, I’d say he’s paid his dues. He deserves to find love. Just like the rest of us.”

“What about you? How are things with the wife? Any headway?”

Guy grew introspective for a moment and then said, “She’s got me coming and going. That’s the thing about women. They like to keep you in a state of perpetual confusion. It’s how they hold onto the power. One minute Sheila’s making it sound like we’re getting back together, but as soon as I act like that’s the case, she says she’s not ready to make any decisions. Always one step forward, two steps back, if you know what I mean.”

“That’s why I avoid it altogether,” Alan said. “That, and I’m not very good at it. I’m socially inept in that category.”

“Maybe you just haven’t found the right one.”

“Sounds like something my mother would have said.”

“When it comes to love, we’re full of the same tired old sayings. But that’s mostly because it’s true. You’re fooling yourself if you think you can avoid it. Sooner or later, Cupid’s arrow will hit the bullseye and there’ll be nothing you can do about it. You’ll be a fool like the rest of us.”

“We’ll see.”

“Anyway, enough out of the Lonely Hearts Club.”

Guy turned and snatched the stack of papers from the printer. “This is what you really came for.” He handed the pages to Alan. “You asked me to find out if there had been any reports of stolen equipment from biotech facilities within the past year. I found two. One is a company called Allied Genetics Corporation. I spoke to the public relations rep over there. Talkative lady. Said they had some samples go missing around eight months ago. Monetarily, it didn’t amount to much. They reported it to authorities, but nothing ever came of it. She said it happens more often than a person might think.

“The other company, a place called Sagent BioGen, was less forthcoming. I found them through a police report filed with the San Francisco PD. Something like ten million dollars worth of equipment and supplies stolen. I got the impression they tried to sweep it all under the rug. Turns out, they only reported the theft because the insurance companies require it in order to make a pay out on a claim. Otherwise, I think they would have kept it hush-hush. Company loses that much in equipment, why keep it quiet?”

“So they don’t attract unwanted attention to themselves.”

“Exactly. That sent the red flags flying. So I called and talked to the CEO. Darius Jones. He wouldn’t give me squat. All he would say was that the proper authorities had been notified, and he left it at that. At least he tried to.”

“Tried to?”

“If I let everybody off the hook that easy, I wouldn’t be where I am now,” Guy said. “Hey, follow me out so I can smoke while we talk.”

Guy led them out of the room. He lit up his cigar when they were outside and leaned against the railing as he exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. “Nobody wants to give information freely. If they do, then it isn’t the kind of information you need. You have to apply pressure.”

“Pressure?”

“Yeah. Turn the screws.”

Alan was curious. “And how does one go about doing that?”

“It varies. Hypothetically speaking, one might take the liberty of hacking into Mr. Jone’s email and social media accounts. Twitter. Facebook. Gmail. That’s where you start digging, and you keep digging until you find the right kind of dirt. And believe me, there’s always dirt. It’s just a matter of finding it. For argument’s sake, let’s say we found a bunch of racy email threads in Jone’s Gmail account. Some juicy stuff. And the emails weren’t from his wife. Turns out that our tightlipped Mr. Jones has a little side thing going with his secretary. A Mrs. Wanda Blum. Also married.”

“So you came by this information illegally,” Alan said without making judgments.

“See, this is what I was talking about when I mentioned your delicate moral sensibilities.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“Good man,” Guy said. “Equipped with this information, I once again spoke to our Mr. Jones and, surprisingly, he was more forthcoming. Apparently, they’re into some heavy shit involving cloning and stem cell research. He made it a point to keep reminding me that none of their research was illegal.
Per se
. His exact words. ‘We don’t do anything illegal
per se
.’ But the stuff they’re working on might not be condoned by the scientific community at large. You can Google them and you won’t find diddly squat. They keep it under wraps. My hunch is that scrutiny is like acid to them. They don’t need anybody poking around in their business. But I got him to lay it all out for me.

“Six months ago they had a bunch of equipment and other supplies go missing. Thing was, there wasn’t any sign of breaking and entering. I asked about video surveillance and he said they didn’t have anything. They use remote DVR, so the video footage isn’t even kept on site. It’s captured and then saved remotely on hard drives at another facility.”

“So they should have footage from the night it happened.”

“They should have, but when they went to view it, it was gone. Same night the equipment was stolen, someone sent a virus over the network and infected the DVR system at the remote location. Corrupted the hard drives and wiped them clean. Even took out the redundant back-up systems. Their security technology is state of the art. The company has billions in assets. They aren’t dicking around. Whoever did it was highly sophisticated and would have to have had detailed knowledge of Sagent’s security systems. Internally, everything in the facility works on proximity sensors. Employees only have access to what they need to. There was no sign of tampering with any of the sensor locks.”

“An inside job,” Alan said.

“That’s what I figured.”

“An employee.”

“Exactly, or an
ex
-employee.

“Did you have him give you info on employees that had resigned or been terminated?”

Guy smiled, tapping ash from his cigar and watching it plummet to the parking lot below. “I’m one step ahead of you. Not only did I get a list, but I also ran background checks on all of them. They had a total of three employees that left the company within the last year. Two resigned and one was terminated. One of the employees resigned because they went to work for another research company, the other one was a female that was pregnant and quit so she could be a stay at home mom.”

“And the terminated employee?”

“You sure you don’t want a drink?”

“I’m sure.”

“C’mon, live a little. You should have one. Because I think I just found you your lucky break.”