Mortal Fear

CHAPTER 16

The buzzer sounded and Jason ran downstairs to see Shirley smiling at him through the glass side panel of his front door. He stepped back to let her in, admiring her usual impeccable dress. Tonight she was wearing a black leather miniskirt and a long, red suede jacket.

“Has Curran called?” she asked as they walked upstairs.

“Not yet,” Jason said, carefully double-locking his apartment door.

“Now fill me in,” Shirley said, slipping out of her jacket. Underneath she was wearing a soft cashmere sweater. She sat on the edge of Jason’s sofa, her hands clasped in her lap, and waited.

“You’re not going to like this,” Jason said, sitting next to her.

“I’ve tried to prepare myself. Shoot.”

“First let me give you a little background. If you don’t understand the current research on aging, what I’m about to say may not make much sense.

“In the last few years, scientists like Hayes have spent a lot of time trying to slow the aging process. Most of their work has focused on cells in cell cultures, although some work has been done with rats and mice. Most of the researchers have concluded that aging is a natural process with a genetic basis regulated by neuroendocrine, immune, and humoral factors.”

“You’ve lost me already,” Shirley admitted, lifting her hands in mock surrender.

“How about a drink, then?” Jason suggested, getting to his feet.

“What are you having?”

“A beer. But I have wine, hard stuff, you name it.”

“A beer might be nice.”

Jason went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and took out two cold Coors.

“You doctors are all the same,” Shirley complained, taking a sip. “You make everything sound complicated.”

“It is complicated,” Jason said, sitting back down. “Molecular genetics concerns the fundamental basis of life. Research in this area is scary, not just because scientists might accidentally create a new and deadly bacterium or virus. It is just as scary if it goes right, because we are playing with life itself. Hayes’s tragedy was not that he failed; the problem was that he succeeded.”

“What did he discover?”

“In a moment,” Jason said, taking a long drink of beer and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Let me put the story another way. We all reach puberty at about the same time, and if disease or accident doesn’t intervene, we all age and die in about the same life-span.”

Shirley nodded.

“Okay,” Jason said, leaning toward her. “This happens because our bodies are genetically programmed to follow an internal timetable. As we develop, different genes are turned on while others are turned off. This is what fascinated Hayes. He had been studying the ways humoral signals from the brain control growth and sexual maturation. By isolating one after another of these humoral proteins, he discovered what they did to peripheral tissues. He was hoping to find out what caused cells to either start dividing or stop dividing.”

“That much I do understand,” Shirley said. “It’s one of the reasons we hired him. We hoped he’d make a breakthrough in cancer treatment.”

“Now let me digress a moment,” Jason said. “There was another researcher by the name of Denckla, who was experimenting on ways to retard the aging process. He took out the pituitary glands of rats, and after replacing the necessary hormones, found that the rats had an increased life-span.”

Jason stopped and looked expectantly at Shirley.

“Am I supposed to say something?” she asked.

“Doesn’t Denckla’s experiment suggest something to you?”

“Why don’t you just tell me.”

“Denckla deduced that not only does the pituitary secrete the hormones for growth and puberty, but it also secretes the hormone for aging. Denckla called it the death hormone.”

Shirley laughed nervously. “That sounds cheerful.”

“Well, I believe that while Hayes was researching growth factors, he stumbled onto Denckla’s postulated death hormone,” Jason said. “That was what he meant by an ironic discovery. While looking for growth stimulators, he finds a hormone that causes rapid aging and death.”

“What would happen if this hormone were given to someone?” Shirley asked.

“If it were given in isolation, probably not much. The subject might experience some symptoms of aging, but the hormone would probably be metabolized and its effect limited. But Hayes wasn’t studying the hormone in isolation. He realized that in the same way the secretion of the sex and growth hormone is triggered, there had to be a releasing factor for the death hormone. He was immediately drawn to the life cycle of salmon, which die within hours of spawning. I believe he collected salmon heads and isolated the death hormone’s releasing factor from the brains. This was the free-lance work I think he did at Gene, Inc. Once he had isolated the releasing factor, he had Helene reproduce it in quantity by recombinant DNA techniques at his GHP lab.”

“Why would Hayes want to produce it?”

“I believe he hoped to develop a monoclonal antibody that would prevent the secretion of the death hormone and halt the aging process.” All at once Jason realized what Hayes meant about his discovery becoming a beauty aid. It would preserve youthful good looks, like Carol’s.

“What would happen if the releasing factor were given to someone?”

“It would turn on the death gene, releasing the aging hormone just the way it is in salmon — with pretty much the same results. The subject would age and die in three or four weeks. And nobody would know why. And this brings me to the worst thing of all. I believe someone obtained the artificially created hormone Helene was producing at our lab and started giving it to our patients. Whoever it is must be insane — but that’s what I think has been happening. Hayes caught on — probably when he visited his son — and was given the aging factor himself. If he hadn’t died that night, I think he’d have been killed some other way.” Jason shuddered.

“How did you find out?” Shirley whispered.

“I followed Hayes’s experimental trail. When Helene was murdered I guessed that Hayes had been telling the truth both about his discovery and the fact that someone wanted him dead.”

“But Helene was raped by an unknown intruder.”

“Sure. But only to mislead the police as to the motive for her murder. I always felt she knew more than she was telling about Hayes’s work. When I learned that she’d been having an affair with him, I was sure.”

“But who would want to kill our patients?” Shirley asked desperately.

“A sociopath. The same kind of nut who puts cyanide in Tylenol. Tonight at the clinic I had the computer print out survival curves and death curves. The results were incredible. There’s been a significant increase in the death rate at GHP for patients over fifty who are chronically ill or who have high-risk lifestyles.” Suddenly Jason stopped. “Damn!”

“What’s the matter?” Shirley asked, looking about nervously, as if the danger were just around the corner.

“I forgot something. I printed the curves month by month — I didn’t look at them doctor by doctor.”

“You think a physician’s behind this?” Shirley asked incredulously.

“Must be. A doctor-or maybe a nurse. The releasing factor would be a polypeptide protein. It would have to be injected. If it was administered orally, the gastric juices would degrade it.”

“Oh, my God.” Shirley dropped her head into her hands. “And I thought we had troubles before.” She took a breath and looked up. “Isn’t there a chance you could be wrong, Jason? Maybe the computer made a mistake. God knows, data processing breaks down often enough….”

Jason put his hand on her shoulder. He knew that her hard-won empire was about to come crashing down. “I’m not wrong,” he said gently. “I also did something else tonight. I saw Hayes’s son at Hartford.”

“And…?”

“It’s a horror. All the kids on his ward must have been given the releasing factor. Apparently it acts more slowly on prepubescent subjects, so the boys are still alive. There must be some kind of hormonal competition with growth hormone. But they all look one hundred years old.”

Shirley shuddered.

“That’s why I wanted to know the name of the current medical director.”

“You think Peterson’s responsible?”

“He’d have to be a prime suspect.”

“Maybe we should go to the clinic and double-check the computer. We could even rerun your survival curves by doctor.”

Before Jason could answer, the door buzzer shattered the silence and made them both jump. Jason got to his feet, his heart pounding.

Shirley dropped her drink on the table. “Who could that be?”

“I don’t know.” Jason had told Carol not to leave her apartment, and Curran would have called before coming over.

“What should we do?” Shirley asked urgently.

“I’m going downstairs and have a look.”

“Is that such a good idea?”

“Got a better one?”

Shirley shook her head. “Just don’t open the door.”

“What do you think I am — crazy? Oh — and one thing I didn’t tell you. Someone tried to kill me.”

“No! Where?”

“In a remote country inn east of Seattle.”

He unlocked his apartment door. “Maybe you’d better not go down,” Shirley said hurriedly.

“I’ve got to find out who it is.” Jason went out to the railed landing and looked down at the front door. He could see a figure through one of the glass panels.

“Be careful,” Shirley said.

Jason silently started down the stairs. The closer he got, the bigger the shadow of the individual in the foyer became. He was facing the nameplates and angrily hitting the buzzer. Suddenly he whirled around and pressed his face to the glass. For a moment, Jason’s and the stranger’s faces were only inches apart. There was no mistaking the massive face and tiny, closely set eyes. Their visitor was Bruno, the body-builder. Jason turned and fled back upstairs as the door rattled furiously behind him.

“Who is it?”

“A muscle-bound thug I know,” Jason told her, double-locking his door, “and the only person who knew I went to Seattle.” That point had just occurred to him with terrifying force. He ran into the den and snatched up the phone. “Damn!” he said after a minute. He dropped the receiver and tried the one in the bedroom. Again, there was no dial tone. “The phones are dead,” he said with disbelief to Shirley, who had followed him, sensing his panic.

“What are we going to do?”

“We’re leaving. I’m not getting trapped here.” Rummaging in the hall closet, he found the key to the gate separating his building from the narrow alley that ran out to West Cedar Street. He opened the bedroom window, climbed onto the fire escape, and helped Shirley out after him. Single file, they descended to the small garden where the leafless white birches stood out like ghosts in the dark. Once in the alley, they ran to the gate, where Jason frantically fumbled to insert the key. When they emerged onto the narrow street, it was quiet and empty, the gloom pierced at intervals by the soft Beacon Hill gas lamps. Not a soul was stirring.

“Let’s go!” Jason said, and started down West Cedar to Charles.

“My car is back on Louisburg Square,” Shirley panted, struggling to match Jason’s pace.

“So is mine. But obviously we can’t go back. I have a friend whose car I can take.”

On Charles Street there were a few pedestrians outside the 7-Eleven. Jason thought about calling the police from the store, but now that he was out of his apartment he felt less trapped. Besides, he wanted to check the GHP computer again before he spoke with Curran.

They walked down Chestnut Street, lined with its old Federal buildings. There were several people walking dogs, which made Jason feel safer. Just before Brimmer Street, Jason turned into a parking garage where he gave the attendant ten dollars and asked for the car that belonged to a friend. Luckily, the man recognized Jason and brought out a blue BMW.

“I think it would be a good idea to go to my place,” Shirley said, sliding into the front seat. “We can call Curran from there and let him know where you are.”

“First I want to go back to the clinic.”

With almost no traffic, they reached the hospital in less than ten minutes. “I’ll only be a minute,” Jason said, pulling up to the entrance. “Do you want to come in or wait here?”

“Don’t be silly,” Shirley said, opening her side of the car. “I want to see these graphs myself.”

They waved ID cards at the security guard and took the elevator, even though they were going up only one floor.

The cleaning service had left the clinic in pristine condition — magazines in racks, wastepaper baskets empty, and the floor glistening with fresh wax. Jason went directly into his office, sat down at his desk, and booted up his computer terminal.

“I’ll call Curran,” Shirley said, going out to the secretaries’ station.

Jason gave a wave to indicate he’d heard her. He was already engrossed in data on the computer. First he called up the various clinic physicians’ identification numbers. He was particularly interested in Peterson’s. When he had all the numbers, he instructed the computer to separate the GHP patient population by doctor and then start drawing death curves on each group for the past two months, months that had shown the greatest changes when all the patients had been listed. He expected Peterson’s patients to show either a higher or lower death rate, believing that a psychopath would experiment either significantly more or less with his own patients.

Shirley came back into the office and stood watching him enter the data.

“Your friend Curran’s not back yet,” she said. “He called in to the station and said he might be tied up a couple more hours.”

Jason nodded. He was more interested in the emerging curves. It took about fifteen minutes to produce all the graphs. Jason separated the continuous sheets and lined them up.

“They all look the same,” Shirley said, leaning on his shoulder.

“Just about,” Jason admitted. “Even Peterson’s. It doesn’t rule out his involvement, but it doesn’t help us either.” Jason eyed the computer, trying to think of any other data that might be useful. He drew a blank.

“Well, that’s all the bright ideas for the moment. The police will have to take over from here.”

“Let’s go, then,” Shirley said. “You look exhausted.”

“I am,” Jason admitted. Pushing himself out of the chair was an effort.

“Are these the graphs you produced earlier?” Shirley asked, pointing to the stack of printouts by the terminal.

Jason nodded.

“How about bringing them along? I’d like you to explain them to me.”

Jason stuffed the papers into a large manila envelope.

“I gave Curran’s office my phone number,” Shirley said. “I think that’s the best place to wait. Have you had a chance to eat anything?”

“Some dreadful airplane food, but that seems like days ago.”

“I have a little leftover cold chicken.”

“Sounds great.”

When they got to the car, Jason asked Shirley if she’d mind driving so he could relax and think a little.

“Not at all,” she said, taking his keys.

Jason climbed into the passenger side, tossing the envelope into the back seat. He fastened his seat belt, leaned back, and closed his eyes. He let his mind play over the various ways the clinic patients might have been given the releasing factor. Since it couldn’t be administered orally, he wondered how the criminal could have injected the patients undergoing executive physicals. Blood was drawn for lab workups, but vacuum tubes provided no way to inject a substance. For inpatients it was a different story — they were always getting injections and intravenous fluids.

He had reached no plausible conclusion when Shirley drew up before her house. Jason staggered and almost fell as he got out of the car. The short rest had exaggerated his fatigue. He reached into the back seat for the envelope.

“Make yourself at home,” Shirley said, leading him into the living room.

“First let’s make sure Curran hasn’t called.”

“I’ll check my service in a moment. Why don’t you make yourself a drink while I rustle up that chicken.”

Too tired to argue, Jason went over to the bar and poured some Dewar’s over ice, then retreated to the couch. While he waited for Shirley, he again pondered the ways the releasing factor might have been administered. There weren’t many possibilities. If it wasn’t injected, it had to be through rectal suppositories or some other direct contact with a mucous membrane. Most of the patients having a complete executive physical got a barium enema, and Jason wondered if that was the answer.

He began sipping his Scotch as Shirley came in with a cold chicken and salad.

“Can I make you a drink?” Jason asked. Shirley put the tray down on the coffee table. “Why not?” Then she added, “Don’t move. I’ll get it.”

Jason watched her add a drop of vermouth to her vodka, and that was when he thought of eyedrops. All patients having executive physicals had complete eye exams, including eyedrops to dilate their pupils. If someone wished to introduce the death gene’s releasing factor, the mucous membrane in the eye would absorb it perfectly. Even better, since the releasing factor could be secretly introduced to the regular eye medication, the fatal drops could be administered unwittingly by any innocent doctor or technician.

Jason felt his head begin to pound. Finding a plausible explanation of what might what have been the key to it all made the possibility of a psychopathic mass murderer suddenly real. Shirley returned from the bar, swirling her drink. For the moment, Jason decided to spare her this newest revelation.

“Any message from Curran?” he asked instead.

“Not yet,” Shirley said, looking at him oddly. For a moment he wondered if she could read his mind.

“I have a question,” she said hesitantly. “Isn’t this supposed releasing factor for the death hormone part of a natural process?”

“Yes,” Jason said. “That’s why pathology hasn’t been much help. All the victims, including Hayes, died of what are called natural causes. The releasing factor merely takes the gene activated at puberty and turns it on full force.”

“You mean we start aging at puberty?” Shirley asked with dismay.

“That’s the current theory,” said Jason. “But obviously it is gradual, picking up speed only in later life, as the levels of growth hormone and sex hormones fall. The releasing factor apparently switches on the death hormone gene all at once, and in an adult without high titers of growth hormone to counter it, it causes rapid aging just like the salmon. My guess is about three weeks. The limiting factor seems to be the cardiovascular system. That’s what apparently gives out first and causes death. But it could be other organ systems, as well.”

“But aging is a natural process,” she repeated.

“Aging is a part of life,” agreed Jason. “Evolutionarily it is as important as growth. Yes, it is a natural process.” Jason laughed hollowly. “Hayes certainly was right when he described his discovery as ironic. With all the work being done to slow aging down, his work on growth resulted in a way to speed it up.”

“If aging and death have an evolutionary value,” Shirley persisted, “perhaps they have a social one as well.”

Jason looked at her with a growing sense of alarm. He wished he weren’t so tired. His brain was sending danger signals he felt too exhausted to decode. Taking his silence as assent, Shirley continued. “Let me put it another way. Medicine in general is faced with the challenge of providing quality care at low cost. But because of increasing life-spans, hospitals are swamped with an elderly population that they keep alive at an enormous price, draining not just their economic resources, but the energy of the medical personnel as well. GHP, for example, did very well when it first started, because the bulk of the subscribers were young and healthy. Now, twenty years later, they are all older and require a great deal more health care. If aging were speeded up in certain circumstances, it might be best for both the patients and the hospitals.

“The important point,” emphasized Shirley, “is that the old and infirm should age and die rapidly to avoid suffering as well as to avoid the over-utilization of expensive medical care.”

As Jason’s numb brain began to understand Shirley’s reasoning, he felt himself becoming paralyzed with horror. Although he wanted to shout that what she was implying was legalized murder, he found himself sitting dumbly on the edge of the couch like a bird confronted by a poisonous snake and frozen with fear.

“Jason, do you have any idea how much it costs to keep people alive during their last months of life in a hospital?” Shirley said, again mistaking his silence for acquiescence. “Do you? If medicine didn’t spend so much on the dying, it could do so much more to help the living. If GHP wasn’t swamped with mid-. die-aged patients destined to be ill because of their unhealthy lifestyles, think what we could do for the young. And aren’t patients who fail to take care of themselves, like heavy smokers and drinkers, or people who use drugs, voluntarily speeding up their own demise? Is it so wrong to hasten their deaths so they don’t burden the rest of society?”

Jason’s mouth finally opened in protest, but he couldn’t find the words to refute her. All he could do was shake his head in disbelief.

“I can’t believe you won’t accept the fact that medicine can no longer survive under the crushing burden of the chronic health problems presented by physically unfit people-those very patients who have spent thirty or forty years abusing the bodies God gave them.”

“That’s not for me or you to decide,” Jason shouted at last.

“Even if the aging process is simply speeded up by a natural substance?”

“That’s murder!” Jason stumbled to his feet. Shirley rose too, moving swiftly to the double doors leading to the dining room. “Come in, Mr. Díaz,” she said, flinging them open. “I’ve done what I could.”

Jason’s mouth went dry as he turned to face the man he’d last seen at the Salmon Inn. Juan’s darkly handsome face was alive with anticipation. He was carrying a small, German-made automatic muzzled with a cigar-sized silencer.

Jason backed up clumsily until his back struck the far wall. His eyes went from the gun to the killer’s strikingly handsome face, to Shirley, who eyed him as calmly as if she were in a board meeting.

“No tablecloth this time,” Diaz said, grinning to show movie-star-perfect white teeth. He advanced on Jason, putting the muzzle of the gun six inches from Jason’s head. “Good-bye,” he said with a friendly flick of his head.