Most Wanted

Chapter Eleven

Christine left the hospital via the back roads, since Marcus always took the Parkway. She kept her face front and her hands on the steering wheel, but the last of her tears were running down her cheeks behind her sunglasses, in the time-honored tradition of women everywhere, who drive-while-crying. She had done it once in high school after she got dumped by Michael Rotenberg, and she had done it again in college, after she got an undeserved C in American Civilization. She knew Lauren had done it when she didn’t get into Penn, and she’d seen other women on the road, driving-while-crying, probably enough to make it its own acronym, DWC.

Christine felt the lowest she had ever felt in her life, but she still had her sense of humor, and it kept hysteria at bay to know that she was a cliché on wheels. The rush-hour traffic was stop-and-go, and she braked behind a tall truck. She avoided looking at the other drivers, who were texting or talking on the phone; she never texted while she drove, and she talked only hands-free, so she could be forgiven a crying jag after her husband had just told her he didn’t want their child. A serial killer’s child. Her child. Or all of the above.

Christine sniffled, reached in the console for the umpteenth Starbucks napkin, and blew her juicy nose into its recycled brown scratchiness. She tossed it used onto the passenger seat, where it joined a soggy pile of other used napkins, evidence that she was the ugliest crier of all ugly criers. She thought about calling Lauren, but the dashboard clock read 6:15, and she remembered that Lauren was going out to dinner with Josh and the kids, celebrating the last day of school. The thought made Christine reach for another napkin, since leaving teaching might’ve been the dumbest thing she ever did, after using a serial killer as a sperm donor.

The truck finally moved, the traffic got going, and she gave the car gas, noticing that at the exit ahead was a cluster of box stores, including her favorite food store, Timson’s. Her stomach growled in response, and she realized that she was starving, which was probably her favorite symptom of pregnancy so far. She’d always wondered if she’d have food cravings while she was pregnant, and it turned out that she did-she craved food. All food, any food, at any time.

She dried her eyes and headed for Timson’s, and in no time, pulled into the parking lot in front of the massive grocery store, with its characteristic façade of indeterminate beige stone, which, though it wasn’t her Timson’s, looked exactly the same as her Timson’s, and gave her comfort. She kept her sunglasses on, grabbed her purse and phone, and went inside the store, letting the air-conditioning soothe her jangled nerves. She glanced around in the artificial darkness, and the layout was the same, so the prepared foods were straight ahead.

She made a beeline for the glistening stainless-steel counters bubbling with cooked food, then grabbed the large-sized plastic clamshell from an upside-down stack and followed her nose to the spicy Indian food. She felt her mood improve as she shoveled goopy orange glop into her clamshell, then added a pile of French fries and a square of eggplant parmesan, wondering in which universe these foods went together. Answer: Pregnancy World.

She got a bottle of water, checked out, and carried her tray to one of the dining areas for grown-ups; she had learned to avoid the kid-friendly dining area, with the undersized chairs and tables and the television that showed The Lego Movie on a continuous loop, because she used to wonder if she would ever be lucky enough to be one of those mothers. Now that she was, it didn’t feel so lucky.

She sat down at a circular wooden table in the sunny eating area, which was filled with adults and children, but no matter. She’d realized long ago that the suburbs were about children, and it was part of the reason she felt so odd being childless; she didn’t fit in in their neighborhood without a kid to take to school, soccer practice, or the pediatrician. Between the children at home and the children at school, Christine lived a life surrounded by children, and she’d be damned if she was ending this pregnancy, no matter what Marcus had said.

Christine picked up her little plastic fork and dug into her Indian food, glancing up at a flat-screen TV on the wall, which was showing CNN on mute. She flashed on Trivi-Al at her good-bye party, but noticed that the TV program was showing political coverage, with the presidential election around the corner, in November. She wolfed down a forkful of food, which tasted hot and delicious, as she picked up her phone, logged on to Google, and typed in Zachary Jeffcoat, wondering if there had been any new developments. She clicked on the first link that popped onto the screen, which took her to the CNN article from yesterday. She scanned it quickly, but it hadn’t been changed. She navigated back to the Google page and clicked on the second link, which was from the Philadelphia Inquirer. There was no photo, and the story was only a paragraph long:

NURSE MURDERER CHARGED

By William Magni

Zachary Jeffcoat, 24, was arraigned today for the murder of Gail Robinbrecht, 31, a nurse at Chesterbrook Hospital. Federal and state authorities believe that Jeffcoat may be responsible for serial killings of other nurses in Maryland and Virginia. Jeffcoat is awaiting trial at SCI Graterford Prison in Collegeville, Pennsylvania, on a special hold to the prison, a maximum-security penitentiary.

Christine navigated back to the Google page and clicked on the third link, which was another Philadelphia-area newspaper that ran the same story verbatim. She kept researching, reading as she ate, but there was no further information about Jeffcoat. She clicked back to the front page of the Inquirer, and the lead stories were about the presidential election. She glanced back at the television, which was showing another set of talking heads, with closed captioning about the election. She watched TV as she ate, and there was a news story about a bombing in the Middle East, then another one in Kabul, and by the time she had finished her meal, the political commentators were back on, talking about the election. It looked like the news cycle had pushed the Jeffcoat story to the background.

Suddenly her phone rang, and the screen said it was Marcus calling. She thought about letting it go, but answered it. “Hello?”

“Hi, are you on your way home?” Marcus asked, but his tone was still too cool for Christine’s liking. It told her that he wasn’t about to apologize or back down, nor was he having any second thoughts. She should have expected as much, he wasn’t that kind of man. Her mouth went dry, so she picked up her water and took a sip.

“No, I’m grabbing something to eat.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I just got a call that I have to go back to Raleigh. There’s a problem at the site.”

“Oh.” Christine knew he meant the office complex his firm was building in North Carolina.

“I have to be there tomorrow morning, so I’m going to leave tonight. They got me on the last flight out. That okay with you?”

“Fine.” Christine heard herself sounding angry, but it couldn’t be helped.

“We both need to cool off.”

Christine snorted. “I don’t think I’ll be cooling off, Marcus.”

“We can talk about it when I come back.”

“I’ll look forward to that.” Christine took another sip of water. She could be sarcastic, too, when circumstances required. She knew it wasn’t a good thing, necessarily.

“I thought about what you said about the lawsuit.”

“And you decided I’m right?”

“No.” Marcus paused. “I called Gary. He agreed to meet with you tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.”

“I don’t want to meet with Gary.”

“I was going to go with you, but then I got the call. You can go alone, and I think you should. He can answer any questions you have.”

“I don’t have any questions.”

“Look, I spoke with him. He said that we don’t necessarily have to sue the clinic. He said he could explain it to you if you went in.” Marcus’s voice softened slightly. “I really wish you could go. Then, if you really don’t want to file a lawsuit against Families First, we won’t. Okay? We won’t sue Davidow for leverage against Homestead. But the least you can do is get the facts before you make your decision.”

Christine set down her water bottle. “Okay, I’ll go, but no promises.”

“Fine.” Marcus sighed, exasperated. “I’ll text you the address and let him know to expect you.”

“When are you leaving for Raleigh?” Christine decided not to remind him about the ultrasound. She didn’t want him there.

“I’m going to leave for the airport any minute. I let the dog out and fed the cat.”

“Thanks.” Christine swallowed hard. She knew Marcus had a soft heart, and she always thought he’d be a great father. Tears came to her eyes, and she was glad she’d kept her sunglasses on. People around her probably thought she was blind.

“Okay. Sleep tight. I’ll land too late to call you. I’d wake you up.”

“No worries, travel safe.”

“Love you,” Marcus said, after a moment, but it didn’t sound that way.

“Love you, too,” Christine said back, matching his tone. She hung up and pushed her tray away, her thoughts racing. She wanted to know if Jeffcoat was their donor as much as Marcus did, and she wondered what the lawyer would say about it tomorrow. She didn’t relish the meeting, but her thoughts strayed to Homestead and their donor, and she found herself thumbing through her phone to his profile. She had saved it to Dropbox, and she could access it through her phone. There had to be something, anything, in it, that would be a clue to his identity or suggest that he was somehow Zachary Jeffcoat.

She opened the file and skimmed through the interview notes, and after that was the self-reported section of the profile, where Donor 3319 had answered questions on a form. She read the first one:

Q: Describe your personality: funny, timid, brave, bold, serious, goal-oriented, curious, impulsive, etc.

A: I think of myself as a serious person, but that doesn’t mean I’m not fun to be with. I find fun in different places. I genuinely enjoy reading and learning new things. I love learning about different civilizations, their architecture, the government, and how they set up a system of laws.

Christine thought he didn’t sound like a person capable of killing anyone, much less more than one person. But then again, he could have been an excellent liar. She read the next question and answer:

Q: What are your interests and talents?

A: I love reading and research. I intend to become a research physician for that reason. I’m not crazy or boastful enough to say that I could cure cancer, but I do feel that I could best utilize my talents in advancing the cause of medicine and making people’s lives better. I know the medical world is fraught with political and insurance issues, but doctors heal, and I actually want to try to cure something in my lifetime. I want to make a difference.

Q: Where do you see yourself in five years?

A: Answer above. Except to add that I would like to have a family of my own someday. I have a girlfriend of one year, but she isn’t ready to start a family soon.

Christine paused a moment. She hadn’t seen any mention of a girlfriend in the articles about Zachary Jeffcoat, nor had they mentioned any family, but then again, the articles had been so short. She remembered she thought it showed maturity, but now she wondered if that was a lie. She doubted Homestead followed up on facts like that. She went back to the profile and resumed reading.

Q: Tell us how skilled you are in the following subjects: Math:

A: I love math and am excellent at it. I considered being a math major.

Q: Mechanical:

A: My manual dexterity is excellent and I’m good at engineering tasks like repairing things around my apartment. I consider myself handy.

Q: Athletic:

A: I am not athletic, I must admit. Because I’m tall, basketball coaches always used to approach me, but I am not interested. I don’t think I really like team play and am much more a loner. I’m an only child, and I like chess very much. I’m good at it because I think I am a strategic thinker. I noticed that the questionnaire doesn’t even ask about games like that, which I think is a deficiency with the questionnaire.

Christine remembered that Marcus had liked that answer because it sounded like his younger self. He’d played chess in college. She read the answers again and thought about them differently, trying to view them with a critical eye, but their donor didn’t sound like some kind of vicious criminal. He just sounded like a thoughtful, smart young man, with just a touch of superiority. She didn’t know if that sounded like a serial killer, but she knew it sounded like Marcus. She read on:

Q: Creative writing:

A: This is not something that interests me.

Q: Literature:

A: As above, I read to learn, so fiction and poetry do not interest me.

Q: Science:

A: Obviously this is my strong suit, and the memorization that will be required by medical school comes easily to me.

Q: Favorite book, movie, or album:

A: My favorite book is Cosmos by Carl Sagan. My favorite movie is Awakenings because it showed what good doctors can do in society, even though it had a sad ending. I’m not a big music person.

Christine reached for her water and downed the last of it. Her thoughts were all over the map, thinking of what Lucy had told them about the traits that made someone a serial killer, Marcus talking about the warrior gene, then what their donor had said in these answers. There was only one question left, and Christine used to think it was the most important question:

Q: Why do you want to become a donor?

A: As I said above, I really want to help people in this world, in any way I can. I want to help people who are infertile, or have illnesses, and that’s why I want to become a donor. This is an easy way to help people, and I don’t know if it’s okay to say this, but I could also use the money. I need money for med-school tuition and my parents are not in a position to help me financially.

Christine scrolled back to the Internet and clicked the link for the Philadelphia Inquirer. She glanced again at the reporter’s byline, one William Magni, and beside his name was an email address, a Twitter handle, and a phone number. On impulse, she navigated to her phone and pressed the reporter’s number in.

“Newsroom,” a woman answered.

Christine swallowed, nervous. “I’d like to speak to William Magni.”

“Who’s calling?”

Christine’s gaze fell on her cup. “Timson. Christine Timson.”

“Please hold.” There was a click on the line, and Christine felt her heart begin to pound. “Can I help you?”

“William Magni?”

“Yes.”

“I saw your story about Zachary Jeffcoat, that man who murdered the nurses?”

“Oh yes. What is it?” Magni sounded impatient.

“I think I was a neighbor of his and I’m trying to figure out if it’s the same person. Do you know where he’s from?”

“No, I got the story off the wire.”

Christine had no idea what that meant. “So who reported it originally?”

“A stringer for AP, probably.”

Christine knew that AP meant Associated Press. “What’s a stringer?”

“A freelancer. Anybody who wants to report a story. No journalistic credentials. A citizen journalist.” Magni snorted, enjoying his own inside joke. “In other words, somebody who thinks he can make a living from this job. Anybody can be anything these days. It’s not a coincidence that the Information Age is full of misinformation.”

Christine let it go. “Was Jeffcoat in medical school?”

“I don’t know. Like I said, I didn’t report the story.”

“Do you know if he had a girlfriend? The guy I know was in med school and had a girlfriend.”

“Sorry, I got nothin’.” Magni rustled some papers.

“Did Jeffcoat have a lawyer?”

“Again, don’t know. Try the public defender’s office.”

“How about a family? Do you know if they were at the arraignment?”

“No idea. I need to go.”

“One last question. Are you going to be following the story?”

“The guy’s in Graterford. There won’t be anything worth covering until trial, which will be right before the election. It won’t be me. It’s not my beat.”

“I know, sorry. Thank you for your time. Bye.”

Magni hung up, and so did Christine, lost in thought. She got her purse, rose, and bused her tray, trying to figure out what to do next.

But part of her already knew.