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CH008

I
n the BioGen
animal lab, Tom Weller was going down the line of cages with Josh Winkler, who was dispensing doses of gene-laced virus to the rats. It was their daily routine. Tom’s cell phone rang.

Josh gave him a look. Josh was his senior. Josh could take calls at work, but Tom couldn’t. Weller stripped off one rubber glove and pulled the phone from his pocket.

“Hello?”

“Tom.”

It was his mother. “Hi, Mom. I’m at work now.”

Josh gave him another look.

“Can I call you back?”

“Your dad had a car accident last night,” she said. “And…he died.”

“What?”
He felt suddenly dizzy. Tom leaned against the rat cages, took a shallow breath. Now Josh was giving him a concerned look. “What happened?”

“His car hit an overpass around midnight,” his mother said. “They took him to Long Beach Memorial Hospital, but he died early this morning.”

“Oh God. Are you at home?” Tom said. “You want me to come over? Does Rachel know?”

“I just got off the phone.”

“Okay, I’ll come over,” he said.

“Tom, I hate to ask you this,” she said, “but…”

“You want me to tell Lisa?”

“I’m sorry. I can’t seem to reach her.” Lisa was the black sheep of the family. The youngest child, just turned twenty. Lisa hadn’t talked to her mother in years. “Do you know where she is these days, Tom?”

“I think so,” he said. “She called a few weeks ago.”

“To ask for money?”

“No, just to give me her address. She’s in Torrance.”

“I can’t reach her,” his mother said.

“I’ll go,” he said.

“Tell her the funeral is Thursday, if she wants to come.”

“I’ll tell her.”

He flipped the phone shut and turned to Josh. Josh was looking concerned and sympathetic. “What was it?”

“My father died.”

“I’m really sorry…”

“Car crash, last night. I need to go tell my sister.”

“You have to leave now?”

“I’ll stop by the office on my way out and send Sandy in.”

“Sandy can’t do this. He doesn’t know the routine—”

“Josh,” he said, “I have to go.”

Traffic was heavy
on the 405. It took almost an hour before he found himself in front of a ratty apartment building on South Acre in Torrance, pushing the buzzer for apartment 38. The building stood close to the freeway; the roar of traffic was constant.

He knew Lisa worked nights, but it was now ten o’clock in the morning. She might be awake. Sure enough, the buzzer sounded, and he opened the door. The lobby smelled strongly of cat piss. The elevator didn’t work, so he took the stairs to the third floor, stepping around plastic sacks of garbage. A dog had broken one sack open, and the contents spilled down a couple of steps.

He stopped in front of apartment 38, pushed the doorbell. “Just a fucking minute,” his sister called. He waited. Eventually, she opened the door.

She was wearing a bathrobe. Her short black hair was pulled back. She looked upset. “The bitch called,” she said.

“Mom?”

“She woke me up, the bitch.” She turned, went back into the apartment. He followed her. “I thought you were the liquor delivery.”

The apartment was a mess. Lisa padded into the kitchen, and poked around the pans and dishes stacked in the sink, found a coffee cup. She rinsed it out. “You want coffee?”

He shook his head. “Shit, Lise,” he said. “This place is a pigsty.”

“I work nights, you know that.”

She had never cared about her surroundings. Even as a child, her room was always a mess. She just didn’t seem to notice. Now Tom looked through the greasy drapes of the kitchen window at the traffic crawling past on the 405. “So. How’s work going?”

“It’s House of Pancakes. How do you think it’s going? Same every fucking night.”

“What did Mom say?”

“She wanted to know if I was coming to the funeral.”

“What’d you say?”

“I told her to fuck off. Why should I go? He wasn’t my father.”

Tom sighed. This was a long-standing argument within the family. Lisa believed she was not John Weller’s daughter. “You don’t think so, either,” she said to Tom.

“Yeah, I do.”

“You just say whatever Mom wants you to say.” She fished out a cigarette butt from a heaping ashtray, and bent over the stove to light it from the burner. “Was he drunk when he crashed?”

“I don’t know.”

“I bet he was shitfaced. Or on those steroids he used, for his bodybuilding.”

Tom’s father had been a bodybuilder. He took it up later in life, and even competed in amateur contests. “Dad didn’t use steroids.”

“Oh sure, Tom. I used to look in his bathroom. He had needles.”

“Okay, so you didn’t like him.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said. “He wasn’t my father. I don’t care about any of it.”

“Mom always said that he was your father, that you were just saying it, because you didn’t like him.”

“Well, guess what? We can settle it, once and for all.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, a paternity test.”

“Lisa,” he said. “Don’t start this.”

“I’m not starting. I’m finishing.”

“Don’t. Promise me you won’t do this. Come on. Dad’s dead, Mom’s upset, promise me.”

“You are a chickenshit pussy, you know that?” That was when he saw she was near tears.

He put his arms around her, and she began to cry. He just held her, feeling her body shake. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

After her brother
had gone, she heated a cup of coffee in the microwave, then sat down at the kitchenette table by the phone. She dialed Information. She got the number for the hospital. A moment later, she heard the receptionist say, “Long Beach Memorial.”

“I want to talk to the morgue,” she said.

“I’m sorry. The morgue is at the County Coroner’s Office. Would you like that number?”

“Someone in my family just died at your hospital. Where would his body be now?”

“One moment please, I will connect you to pathology.”

Four days later,
her mother called back. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, going down to the hospital and asking for blood from your father.”

“He’s not my father.”

“Lisa. Don’t you ever get tired of this game?”

“No, and he’s not my father, because the genetic tests came back negative. It says right here”—she reached for the printed sheet—“that there is less than one chance in 2.9 million that John J. Weller is my father.”

“What genetic test?”

“I had a genetic test done.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“No, Mom. You’re the one who’s full of shit. John Weller’s not my father, and the test proves it.
I always knew it.
”

“We’ll see about that,” her mother said, and hung up.

About half an hour
after that, her brother, Tom, called. “Hey, Lise.” Real casual, laid-back.

“Just got a call from Mom.”

“Yeah?”

“She said something about a test?”

“Yeah. I did a test, Tommy. And guess what?”

“I heard. Who did this test, Lise?”

“A lab here in Long Beach.”

“What’s it called?”

“BioRad Testing.”

“Uh-huh,” her brother said. “You know, these labs that advertise on the Internet aren’t very reliable. You know that, don’t you?”

“They guaranteed it.”

“Mom’s all upset.”

“Too bad,” she said.

“You know she’ll do her own test now? And there’s going to be lawsuits? Because you’re accusing her of infidelity.”

“Gee, Tommy, I don’t really give a damn. You know that?”

“Lise, I think this is causing a lot of needless trouble around Dad’s death.”

“Your dad,” she said.
“Not mine.”

CH009

K
evin McCormick,
chief administrator of Long Beach Memorial, looked up at the chubby figure coming into his office, and said, “How the hell did this happen?” He pushed a sheaf of papers across his desk.

Marty Roberts, the chief of pathology, glanced quickly through the document. “I have no idea,” he said.

“The wife of the deceased, Mr. John J. Weller, is suing us for unauthorized release of tissue to the daughter.”

“What’s the legal situation?” Marty Roberts said.

“Unclear,” McCormick said. “Legal says the daughter is a family member and has a clear right to be given tissues to test for diseases that may affect her. Problem is, she did a paternity test and it came back negative. So she’s
not
his daughter. Arguably that makes our release of tissues unauthorized.”

“We couldn’t have known that at the time—”

“Of course not. But we’re talking about the law. The only important question is, can the family sue? The answer is yes, they have grounds to bring a suit, and they are.”

“Where’s the body now?” Marty said.

“Buried. Eight days ago.”

“I see.” Marty flipped through the pages. “And they are asking for…”

“Besides unspecified damages, they’re asking for blood and tissue samples to conduct further testing,” McCormick said. “Do we have blood or tissue samples from the deceased?”

“I’d have to check,” Marty said. “But I’d presume that we do, yes.”

“We do?”

“Sure. We keep a lot of tissue these days, Kevin. I mean, everybody that comes into the hospital, we collect as much as we possibly can legally…”

“That’s the wrong answer,” McCormick said, glowering.

“Okay. What’s the right answer?”

“That we don’t have any tissues from this guy.”

“But they’ll know that we do. At the very least, we did a tox screen on the guy because of the accident, so we have his blood—”

“That sample was lost.”

“Okay. It was lost. But what good does that do? They can always dig up the body and get all the tissues they want.”

“Correct.”

“So?”

“So let them do that. That’s Legal’s advice. Exhumation takes time, permits, and money. We’re guessing they won’t have the time or the money—and this thing will go away.”

“Okay,” Marty said. “And I am here because?”

“Because I need you to go back to pathology and confirm for me that, unfortunately, we have no more samples from the deceased, and that everything not given to the daughter has been lost or misplaced.”

“Got it.”

“Call me within the hour,” McCormick said, and turned away.

Marty Roberts entered
the basement pathology lab. His diener, Raza Rashad, a handsome, dark-eyed man of twenty-seven, was scrubbing the stainless steel tables for the next post. If truth be told, Raza really ran the path lab. Marty felt himself burdened by a heavy administrative load, managing the senior pathologists, the residents, the medical student rotations, and all the rest. He’d come to rely on Raza, who was highly intelligent and ambitious.

“Hey, Raza. You remember that forty-six-year-old white guy with crush injuries, a week back? Drove himself into an overpass?”

“Yeah. I remember. Heller, or Weller.”

“The daughter asked for blood?”

“Yeah. We gave her blood.”

“Well, she ran a paternity test, and it came back negative. Guy was not her father.”

Raza stared blankly. “That right?”

“Yeah. Now the mother’s all upset. Wants more tissues. What’ve we got?”

“I’d have to check. Probably the usual. All major organs.”

Marty said, “Any chance that material got misplaced? So we couldn’t find it?”

Raza nodded slowly, staring at Marty. “Maybe so. Always possible it could be mislabeled. Then it would be hard to find.”

“Might take months?”

“Or years. Maybe never.”

“That’d be a shame,” Marty said. “Now, what about the blood from the tox screen?”

Raza frowned. “Lab keeps that. We wouldn’t have access to their storage facility.”

“So they still have that blood sample?”

“Yeah. They do.”

“And we have no access?”

Raza smiled. “It might take me a couple of days.”

“Okay. Do it.”

Marty Roberts went to the phone and dialed the administrator’s office. When McCormick came on the line, he said, “I have some bad news, Kevin. Unfortunately, all the tissues have been lost or misplaced.”

“Sorry to hear that,” McCormick said, and hung up.

“Marty,” Raza said, coming into the office, “is there a problem with this Weller guy?”

“No,” Marty said. “Not anymore. And I told you before—don’t call me Marty. My name is Dr. Roberts.”

CH010

A
t the
Radial Genomics lab in La Jolla, Charlie Huggins twisted his flat-panel screen around to show Henry Kendall the headline:
TALKING APE CLAIMED FRAUD
. “What’d I tell you?” Charlie said. “A week later, and we learn the story’s a fake.”

“Okay, okay. I was wrong,” Henry said. “I admit it, I was worried about nothing.”

“Very worried…”

“It’s in the past. Can we talk about something important?”

“What’s that?”

“The novelty-seeking gene. Our grant application was denied.” He began typing at the keyboard. “Once again, we’ve been screwed—by your personal favorite, the Pope of Dopamine, Dr. Robert A. Bellarmino of the NIH.”

For the last
ten years, brain studies had increasingly focused on a neurochemical called dopamine. Levels of dopamine seemed to be important in maintaining health as well as in diseases such as Parkinsonism and schizophrenia. From work in Charlie Huggins’s lab, it appeared that dopamine receptors in the brain were controlled by the gene
D
4
DR
, among others. Charlie’s lab stood at the forefront of this research, until a rival scientist named Robert Bellarmino from the National Institutes of Health began referring to
D
4
DR
as the “novelty gene,” the gene that supposedly controlled the urge to take risks, seek new sex partners, or engage in thrill-seeking behavior.

As Bellarmino explained it, the fact that dopamine levels were higher in men than women was the reason for the greater recklessness of men, and their attraction to everything from mountain climbing to infidelity.

Bellarmino was an evangelical Christian and a leading researcher at the NIH. Politically skilled, he was the very model of an up-to-date scientist, neatly blending a modest scientific talent with true media savvy. His laboratory was the first to hire its own publicity firm, and as a result, his ideas invariably got plenty of press coverage. (Which in turn attracted the brightest and most ambitious postdocs, who did brilliant work for him, thus adding to his prestige.)

In the case of
D
4
DR
, Bellarmino was able to tailor his comments to the beliefs of his audience, either speaking enthusiastically about the new gene to progressive groups, or disparaging it to conservatives. He was colorful, future-oriented, and uninhibited in his predictions. He went so far as to suggest that there might one day be a vaccine to prevent infidelity.

The absurdity of such comments so annoyed Charlie and Henry that six months before, they had applied for a grant to test the prevalence of the “novelty gene.”

Their proposal was simplicity itself. They would send research teams to amusement parks to draw blood samples from individuals who rode roller coasters time and again during the day. In theory these “repeat coasters” would be more likely to carry the gene.

The only problem with applying to the NSF was that their proposal would be read by anonymous reviewers. And one of the reviewers was likely to be Robert Bellarmino. And Bellarmino had a reputation for what was politely termed “appropriation.”

“Anyway,” Henry said, “the NSF turned us down. The reviewers didn’t think our idea was worthy. One said it was too ‘jokey.’”

“Uh-huh,” Charlie said. “What does this have to do with Robbin’ Rob?”

“Remember where we proposed to conduct our study?”

“Of course,” Charlie said. “At two of the biggest amusement parks
in the world, in two different countries. Sandusky in the U.S., and Blackpool in England.”

“Well, guess who’s out of town?” Henry said.

He hit his e-mail button.

“I called his office, and guess what? Bellarmino is going to Sandusky, Ohio—and then to Blackpool, England.”

“That bastard,” Charlie said. “If you’re going to steal somebody else’s research proposal, you should at least have the courtesy to change it a little.”

“Bellarmino obviously doesn’t care if we know he stole it,” Henry said. “Doesn’t that piss you off? What do you say we go for it? Put him up for ethical violations?”

“I’d like nothing better,” Charlie said, “but, no. If we formally charge misconduct, it means a lot of time and a lot of paperwork. Our grants could dry up. And in the end, the complaint goes nowhere. Rob’s a major player at NIH. He’s got huge research facilities and he dispenses millions in grants. He holds prayer breakfasts with congressmen. He’s a scientist who believes in God. They love him on the Hill. He’d never be charged with misconduct. Even if we caught him buggering a lab assistant, he wouldn’t be charged.”

“So we just let him do it?”

“It’s not a perfect world,” Charlie said. “We have plenty to do. Walk away.”