Dying Memories Page 14

  brainwashing

  immunology

  computer simulation

  nanotechnology

  Bill stopped after he wrote down ‘nanotechnology’, realizing that the word meant nothing more to him than any other science fiction gibberish. He still planned on talking to Dr. Henry Schlow, the MIT professor he caught entering ViGen who was supposed to be a leading expert in the field, and before he talked with Schlow he wanted to understand what it was. While it might be dangerous logging into his email, there was no harm in doing some web surfing. He powered on Jeremy’s computer and found a number of sites that offered simple but detailed descriptions of nanotechnology.

  It turned out that nanotechnology was the mind-blowing concept of building molecular-sized machines. The science was in its infancy, and most of what was described on the web-sites seemed to be pure theory and pie-in-the-sky stuff that was years from ever becoming reality, if ever. Bill focused on the web pages dealing with future applications in medicine, and some of it was truly bizarre, such as building molecular-sized robots to enter cells and repair damaged genes so that the ageing process could be reversed. Then there was stuff which could’ve come right out of comic books; things like adding scaffolding to bones to make them stronger or tiny motors to muscles to give people superhuman strength. Some of it, though, did seem plausible; such as building tiny robots—or nanorobots as the web-sites called them—to recognize cancer cells so that chemotherapy drugs could be delivered directly to those cells while leaving healthy cells alone. Thinking about what ViGen Corporation was claiming to be doing—building a super flu vaccine, Bill could see how that type of technology could be important. He knew that flu viruses were constantly mutating, with slightly new variations showing up every year, so the trick would be building nanorobots that were capable of learning and adapting so they could recognize when a new flu virus shows up, and then attack it. One of the sites talked about a similar application for an ‘intelligent’ nanorobot that would recognize dangerous pathogens in the body and destroy them.

  It would all make perfect sense for ViGen to be using this type of technology if they were building a super flu vaccine, but Bill doubted that was what they were really up to. A super flu vaccine was a smokescreen. Everything that had happened so far pointed towards this being a military operation with their real intention to be able to instantly brainwash people. Fuck if he knew how they did it, but that’s what they did with Emily, and the same must’ve been true with Karen. It also explained why the whole thing smelled so heavily of military and dirty government ops. They must’ve hired a top immunologist only to keep their cover, and when Tim Zhang realized that the flu vaccine work was only a front for what was really going on, they killed him. How Kent Forster fit in and why they wanted him dead was anyone’s guess, but it seemed a safe bet that Forster’s hedge fund was a shell company whose purpose was to funnel government money into ViGen.

  Bill hadn’t eaten anything in hours and realized he was hungry. He went to the kitchen and checked Jeremy’s refrigerator. It was mostly empty but there were some prepared frozen entrees stacked up in the freezer section, and he pulled out a macaroni and cheese entrée and stuck it in the microwave, and when it was done, brought it to a small table. It could’ve been reheated cardboard for all he cared or knew, his mind was racing with too many thoughts on what he needed to do next for him to notice how the food tasted. First on his agenda was finding Dr. Henry Schlow, next was figuring out how to get inside ViGen. He was also going to have to disguise himself. The TV channels that he watched showed his Tribune badge photo. It was taken five years ago and his hair was shorter then, but he looked pretty much the same.

  Augustine had jumped on the table and was cautiously nosing his way towards the macaroni and cheese. Bill noticed this and gave the cat a couple of spoonfuls, then finished off what he had before searching the apartment for items he could make use of. Jeremy was both taller and a few inches thicker in the waist, but Bill was able to find an old pair of worn corduroys that would suit his needs, as well as a dirty tee shirt, an even dirtier sweatshirt and an old winter parka that had seen better days. He also found a pair of shades and Jeremy’s prized NY Mets cap—at least his friend wasn’t a Yankees fan. He put these on, as well as the shades and the Mets cap, which he pulled down to almost his eyes. After zipping up the parka, and putting the collar up, he studied himself in the mirror. If someone looked at him straight on, they’d recognize him, but probably not if they only gave him a quick glance. He wished his stubble was thicker.

  Before he powered off Jeremy’s computer, he checked to see how he could get from Charlestown to Cambridge by public transportation. Then after bidding adieu to Augustine with a few more scratches under the cat’s chin, Bill grabbed his laptop, checked that the coast was clear in the hallway, and quickly left the apartment.

  Chapter 47

  Chuck Boxer stood in the hospital hallway listening as Karen Wilkerson’s doctor gave him a rundown of her fractured and broken bones, as well as her internal injuries. “She’s only been out from under anesthesia for forty-fives minutes,” the doctor informed Boxer. “Her spleen was ruptured in the attack. If we didn’t remove it when we did she’d be dead now.”

  “This was done by fists?” Boxer asked.

  “Fists and feet, yes. Although I’ve had car crash patients who’ve gone through windshields end up in better shape.”

  “She can talk?”

  “She can, but please limit yourself to no more than ten minutes,” he said. Shaking his head in wonderment, he added, “She’s very lucky. By all accounts she should be dead, or at the very least, in a vegetative state.”

  Boxer nodded his thanks and entered Karen Wilkerson’s room. She looked in rough shape, almost like a mummy that had been half unwrapped; her skull bandaged, a cast covering one arm from shoulder to fingers and more bandages around her middle. What could be seen of her face was a purplish mess. Her eyes were open, though, and watching him. The morphine drip explained their dull sheen. Boxer approached her and identified himself. “Ms. Wilkerson, are you up to talking?” he asked.

  Her chin moved up and down a fraction of an inch. Boxer asked if she could tell him what happened. The morphine made her voice flat and haltering, and she had to stop periodically to catch her breath, probably because of her broken ribs. She told Boxer how Bill Conway broke into Hartley’s townhouse at three in the morning, surprised them in the bedroom, then stabbed Joe to death before turning on her.

  “What were you doing while Conway was stabbing your boyfriend?”

  Karen stared fixedly at Boxer. “I can’t remember,” she said.

  “Understandable,” Boxer said. “You must’ve been in shock. How good a look did you get at Conway?”

  “I saw him as clear as you standing there right now,” she told him, her voice rising slightly in anger at the thought of Bill Conway, the emotion also tightening her lips.

  “Were the lights on or off?”

  She stared blankly as she tried to remember. “They must’ve been on,” she said, “I could see him so clearly.”

  Boxer made a note of that in his pad, asked, “Had he been threatening you lately?”

  She shook her head.

  “You two been in contact?”

  “No. Not since we broke up.”

  Boxer stood frowning. Like a lot of other things with this investigation, it didn’t add up. Why the fuck would Conway do something like that out of the blue? Especially with someone like Emily Chandler in the picture?

  “Why do you think he did it?” he asked.

  More of her dull morphine-saturated stare. Then, “Bill didn’t handle our breakup well. That’s all I can think of.”

  There was a knock on the door. Karen’s doctor stuck his head in to signal to Boxer that his ten minutes was up. Boxer thanked Karen for talking to him and offered her his condolences for her loss and for what happened to her.

  There were other things with her story that also ju
st didn’t seem to add up. Access was gained to the townhouse by breaking a glass panel in the front door which Boxer figured any dumb reporter could do easily enough, but what didn’t make sense was her just watching while Conway stabbed Hartley. The guy was stabbed fourteen times, which should’ve given her more than enough time to either run for help or gather her wits enough to try fighting Conway off to save her boyfriend. But she did neither. There were no defensive wounds or scraped skin found under her fingernails, and forensics showed she was beaten in the bedroom. Maybe she did run and he caught up to her and carried her back to the bedroom, but why do that? And the lights were off when she was found. So he turns the lights on, kills Hartley, beats her, then turns the lights off? Why? It didn’t make any sense, same as with Conway going back to Emily Chandler’s apartment after the killing. It had been bugging Boxer all day thinking about that, and the more he thought about it, Conway just didn’t seem capable of doing something like this. None of it fit with what he knew of the guy. There were a list of other things that were bugging him also. Too many coincidences, and Boxer hated coincidences. When he heard that Gail Hawes’ attorney was found dead from a massive coronary it screamed more than a simple coincidence. The toxicology report showed that there weren’t any drugs in the lawyer’s blood, but on Boxer’s request the coroner did find a small mark behind Roberson’s ear that could’ve been made from a needle. All of this gave Boxer a nagging headache.

  When Boxer joined the doctor out in the hallway he asked him whether there were any hypodermic needle marks found on Karen Wilkerson.

  “We’re doing a full toxicology workup. If she had any drugs in her system, we’ll know soon.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking.” Showing a pained grimace, Boxer slowly rubbed his hand along the back of his neck. “What I want to know is whether she has a mark showing she’s been recently injected with anything. I need you to check for that.”

  The doctor gave Boxer an apologetic smile. “My patient has bandages and casts over a good part of her body and head. I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

  Boxer bit his tongue to keep from telling him to take those damn bandages and casts off then, that otherwise he would get a court order if he had to, but he realized how nuts that would sound. “Check what you can, okay?” he asked grudgingly before leaving.

  Chapter 48

  Emily didn’t make it to her bedroom. It was as if she’d been punched in the stomach, and she just felt too weak in her legs to move. So instead she sat mostly numb in her kitchen torturing herself over what had happened.

  She had given herself so completely to Bill, and he had more than just broken her heart. She couldn’t understand how she could’ve been so wrong about him, and she kept thinking about what that detective had asked her; about why Bill chose to come back to her apartment covered in blood to clean off and change instead of going to his own apartment. Even if he was suffering from some sort of split from reality, as his later phone call to her indicated, after what she had told him about her father, his doing what he did was the same as telling her in some cruel and perverse way to fuck off.

  She couldn’t even remember him ever bringing a change of clothes to her apartment. Was it possible that he first went back to his own place to pick up clean clothes only so he could show up at her apartment all bloody like that? Was it something as sick as that?

  Emily struggled over those thoughts and also to understand why she waited as long as she did to call the police. The shock must’ve been so strong that she went into complete denial over what had happened. It had to have been something like that. In her mind’s eye she could still see Bill standing in her hallway dripping in blood, his eyes shining madly as he defiantly tells her what he did to his old girlfriend and her fiancée. At some subconscious level she must’ve realized there was something wrong with him from the start; that had to have been why she latched onto the very pink-faced man and all the sinister thoughts she had concerning him. She must’ve done that so she could keep deluding herself about Bill and whatever it was she had picked up on about him.

  Fuck, she was exhausted. She rubbed her eyes hard with her hand, her jaw muscles clenched tight as she fought to keep from sobbing again. Even when she told Bill more of what had happened with her father, she still didn’t tell him the whole story. That day when her dad robbed the gas station it was a lot worse than what she had told Bill. Her mom must’ve been looking out the window and saw him coming up the street and knew things were much worse with her dad than usual. Instead of hiding her in the closet like she usually did, she took the cover off the air vent and lifted the eight year-old version of Emily up so that she could hide there. Before putting the cover back over the vent she made Emily promise not to make a sound.

  The cover had slants that Emily could look through, and when her dad kicked down their apartment door he was covered in blood, just like Bill had been, and he had that same craziness shining in his eyes that she had seen earlier that morning with Bill. Her dad would’ve killed her if had found her, and after he killed her he would’ve killed her mom. Even at eight years old Emily knew that, and she lay petrified in fear and watched as he ransacked their apartment looking for her. When her mom tried to stop him he beat her unconscious and the only way Emily could keep from screaming was to shrink even deeper into herself. It was an eternity after that before the police came, and even more tortuous minutes later before her dad finally surrendered to them.

  That incident and all the violence she witnessed from her dad left her withdrawn and guarded. She had few friends growing up, and trusted no one. She could’ve easily ended up turning to drugs or promiscuity or other ways of inflicting damage to herself, but when she was thirteen her mom took her to an art museum that was having a Monet exhibit, and Emily stood transfixed in front of one of Monet’s water lily paintings, swallowed up by its beauty. Emily’s mom cried seeing this, realizing that something had finally broken through her daughter’s hard shell. After that, she regularly took Emily to art museums and brought home art books from the library. Fine art became Emily’s salvation, as did later classical music. She remained guarded with other people, but she could lose herself in her art books.

  Emily pushed herself to her feet, her legs shaky. She had a four-thirty appointment scheduled with her thesis advisor, and she had to do something to get out of the apartment and away from those memories of Bill that stood out so starkly in her mind. If she didn’t she’d suffer her own break from reality, just as Bill had. She wasn’t up to entering her bathroom yet, not after Bill had used it to wash off his victims’ blood and left it a gory mess. She was going to have to scrub the room with Lysol before she’d be able to use it again. Instead she washed off her face in the kitchen sink, and headed to her bedroom so she could change into clothes that she hadn’t been crying on.

  Chapter 49

  Riding the public bus went off without a hitch. While Bill needed to take two connecting busses, he was able to get seats near the back in both of them and hide himself with a newspaper. A few times while waiting for the busses he caught other passengers looking curiously in his direction, but he found if he stared back at them with an angry scowl they’d wilt quickly and look away.

  He now sat on the ground outside the back entrance of the building where Dr. Henry Schlow had his office. Schlow’s office hours were scheduled for between three and four-thirty, and the last time Bill compulsively checked his watch it was a quarter to five. He tried giving the impression that he was a panhandler, only occasionally craning his neck to search for Schlow. He hoped Schlow would be leaving by this entrance to access the small parking lot behind the building, but as the minutes ticked away his stomach tightened at the prospect of missing the MIT professor. If that happened, it would be another week before Schlow would have scheduled office hours again.

  Earlier before leaving Charlestown, Bill found a coffee shop several blocks from Jeremy’s apartment that provided a strong enough Wi-Fi signal that he could tap in
to it from outside. He was relieved to see that the Tribune hadn’t disabled his account yet, but equally disappointed to find that he had nothing new from his good pal, G. He sent Jack a long email that he had prepared before leaving Jeremy’s apartment explaining what was happening, and attached to the email the same investigative story that he had tried handing Jack earlier. He implored the city desk editor to search the Tribune offices for the DVD that he had dropped. After that Bill walked around the neighborhood looking for a hiding place to stash his laptop and chose a deserted utility shed behind a fire damaged building. While the building was padlocked and had signs posted out front that it was scheduled for demolition, the shed behind it was left unlocked. Inside it had a stale, musty smell indicating that it hadn’t been used in a while. Bill hid the laptop under some floorboards that he was able to pry loose, then stacked a pile of junk that had been left behind over the boards. Unless someone knew where the laptop was, they weren’t going to find it.

  He checked the time again and saw it was six minutes to five. Just as he was losing any hope of catching the MIT professor that day, Dr. Henry Schlow emerged from the building.

  Chapter 50

  Bill stayed as still as a stone on the ground as he watched Schlow waddle to his car. The MIT professor gave the impression of a large shaggy walrus. He was a big man with long unkempt hair and a thick mustache that covered his upper lip with the ends of it drooping well past his jowls, and he moved with the awkward gait of someone who carried far too much extra weight. Bill waited until Schlow opened the driver side door to a silver Range Rover and was working his way into the driver’s seat before he got to his feet and raced over Schlow to keep him from closing his door shut. The MIT professor, on finding the unexpected impediment, looked over with a puzzled detachment. Once he realized why his door wasn’t closing, his eyes narrowed as he took in Bill. At first he looked angry and befuddled, as if he didn’t believe what he was seeing, then recognition seeped in and fear showed on his large fleshy face.