False Prophet (35 page)

“It must be true.” Marge winked. “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

Decker looked out the window and thought: It’s good to get out of the squad room. The day was hot and clear, the freeways relatively empty. The drive was long but scenic, the unmarked trailblazing through winding canyons shaded with copses of eucalyptus, leafy maples, and gnarled California oak that shimmered in the heat. Clusters of black birds dotted the aqua summer sky.

The Plymouth was making good time until it hit Hermosa Beach at Pacific Coast Highway. Traffic immediately jammed with stalled cars and reckless motorbikes weaving in and out of lanes. The right sides of the streets were marked for bike paths and were filled with latex-coated cyclists. The sidewalks were clogged with flower-shirted tourists weighed down by cameras around their necks, and pedestrians in skin tones ranging from deep tan to lobster red. Whizzing past the walkers were the skateboarders and the Rollerbladers dressed in Day-Glo surfing shorts and muscle shirts. Gull cries and bird songs competed for air space with boom boxes or the rowdy shouts of party animals stuffed onto balconies of apartment buildings.

On the right, PCH looked down upon several streets stacked with multifamily dwellings. The buildings had been erected without much thought to architectural conformity, although most were made of stucco and wood and had lots of windows. Beyond the houses was an expanse of steely-blue undulating with the rhythmic flows of whitecaps.

With the car stopped at a congested intersection, Marge’s eyes drifted from the ocean to the street scene. “Ah, to be young, single… and
white
. This place is Wonder bread.”

Decker squinted out the window. “I think I see a couple of blacks.”

“Nah, they’re not real
blacks
, more like… chocolate-dipped surfers.”

“I hear rap music.”

Marge waved him off. “Rap has been coopted by whites, Pete. Look at Vanilla Ice and his Xeroxes.” She laughed. “Everyone wanting what the other guy has — whites putting shit in their hair to get dreadlocks, blacks putting shit in their hair to turn it straight. No pleasing the human race.”

“It’s what makes us creative,” Decker said. “Turning the restlessness into art. Hey, Margie, how ’bout us writing a policeman’s rap:

“A cop’s lot in life is no easy shakes
.
Criminals and felons and all sorts of fakes
Gettin in my face every night and every day
,
Stalkin and waitin just to blow me away—”

“Keep your badge and gun, Sergeant.”

Decker’s expression was deadpan. “I’m wounded.”

Compulsively neat with a wide sweeping view of the ocean, the office looked more suited for a CEO than for a doctor. The walls were wainscoted — peach and hunter-green chintz print above the chair railing, deep-walnut paneling below. Reed’s desk was an old-fashioned mahogany partner’s desk, the legs carved into lions. But from the way it was positioned and the diplomas on the wall, it was clear the desk was used only by one person who demanded lots of space.

Decker made himself comfortable in one leather wing chair opposite the desk; Marge took the matching seat. Reed had seated himself erect in his desk chair, hands folded and resting on the desk, his lab coat sparkling white and stiffly starched. A man used to order. Decker bet he got anxious if things didn’t go as planned.

And he was anxious now. The straight-featured, bronzed face was knitted at the brow, the chestnut eyes dancing instead of focusing. Though his fingers were constrained, he was rocking his hands on the desktop. His mocha-colored hair was thin and combed to one side, a small strand resting on his forehead. Reed glanced at his clasped hands, then looked up.

“How can I help you?” Before they could answer, Reed went on, “Perhaps I should say, how can
you
help
me
? First, Lilah, now this terrible… I’m…”

Reed’s voice held the remnants of a refined British accent.

Decker said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“I’m…
devastated
!” Reed said. “Simply…”

“Were you and your brother close?” Marge asked.

“Close?” Reed tapped his folded hands on the desk. “I wouldn’t say close… but I was closer to him than I was to anyone else on the maternal side of my family. We had our professions in common; we used to meet for lunch and at staff meetings. We attended some of the same hospitals. We weren’t exceptionally close, but Kingston was still… I just can’t believe…”

He took a deep breath, got up and walked over to the water machine. “Can I offer you two any coffee or tea?”

“We’re fine, Dr. Reed.”

Reed played with a paper cup, then filled it with water and drank. “I… I don’t know anything about…” He crumpled the corrugated container and threw it into the garbage. “I don’t know how I could possibly help you. With Lilah as well. I’m… I’m not at all close to her. I don’t…”

He sank back into his desk chair.

“When was the last time you saw your brother?” Decker asked.

“Saw him?” Again Reed folded his hands. “I don’t remember. A few weeks ago. My girl would know. She makes my appointments. Kingston and I never met spontaneously. It was always… arranged. Either he’d call or I’d call. That sort of thing — Can I turn the recorder off? It’s making me feel quite uneasy.”

Decker turned off the machine, then pulled out his notebook and held it up. “You don’t mind this?”

“Not at all,” Reed said. “The recorder is just so… dehumanizing.”

“Indeed it is,” Decker said. “Were you in contact with Kingston after Lilah was attacked?”

“Contact?” Reed bit his lip. “I don’t… oh, he… called me, of course. He was very upset. I was upset as well. I’m not close to my sister, but… I felt
terrible
!”

“Did you visit Lilah in the hospital?” Marge asked.

Reed looked down. “No, I… didn’t. And I suppose that seems a bit callous. I did call. We spoke very briefly. I asked her if she needed anything and she said no, Mother and Freddy had everything under control. Which was the way it usually was when I spoke to Lilah. She has always… shut me out so…” He exhaled. “So, I suppose I stopped trying. Not that my life… has been empty without her, without any of them. My family is… very difficult. I do much better when there’s minimal contact.”

“But you had contact with Kingston,” Marge said.

“Yes, professional mostly. But personal as well.”

“Do you happen to know if you talked to him just prior to Lilah’s attack?” Decker asked.

“Perhaps.”

Decker waited for more, but Reed wasn’t forthcoming. “Did Kingston sound unusual?”

“In… what way?”

Decker shrugged. “Agitated, depressed, more cheerful than usual.”

“Kingston was never
cheerful
,” Reed said. “He was a very
driven
man.”

“Did he seem unusually
driven
lately?”

“I… yes, to me, King did seem more driven of late.” Reed sighed. “He called me about a week… before Lilah was attacked. He needed money.”

“Why?” Marge said. “Didn’t he have a thriving practice?”

“Several of them in fact,” Decker added.

“You know about his place in Burbank?” Marge asked.

Reed looked up sharply. “Yes, of course. Not that I approved… not that I disapproved… of abortion, that is. Just… he was making money, but that was only part of it.”

“Part of what?” Decker added.

“Of why he had his place in Burbank,” Reed said.

“It was the fetuses,” Marge said.

Reed grimaced. “So you know everything.”

“It was a guess,” Marge said.

A damn-good educated one, Decker thought as he wrote in his notebook.

“What was he doing with the fetuses?” Marge said.

Reed blew out air. “What he was doing wasn’t legal.”

“Go on,” Decker said.

“He was doing research using embryonic tissue. Research has been King’s passion since medical school… since we were young children actually. King always wanted to be a
scientist
, but Mother wanted him to be a doctor. She wanted
all
of us to become physicians.”

“So I’ve noticed,” said Marge.

“Mother was quite explicit about her wishes. And Mother has a way of getting what she wants. Not that I’m sorry I went to medical school. But afterward I wasn’t about to devote my life to Mother’s needs. She’s an incurable hypochondriac and now poor Frederick bears the brunt of her neurosis. I’ve often urged him to
break
from her, but…” He bit his lip. “Where was I?”

“Kingston wanting to become a scientist,” Decker said.

“Yes, Kingston was very adaptable. So he selected medicine as his science of choice and forged ahead with his research. Nothing could dissuade him from that.”

Decker said, “I’m not familiar with Kingston’s professional history. Was he affiliated with any research institution, any university?”

Reed shook his head. “No. He dropped out of academia early on — too petty, too controlled by rules and regulations, too much game playing to get proper funding.”

“Your brother wasn’t much of a game player, was he, Doctor?” Decker said.

“If you knew my mother, you would understand why,” Reed said. “We were all pawns in Mother’s games — constantly competing against each other for Mother’s attention. Kingston had no tolerance for compromise. Even as a student, he used to complain how regimented the hospitals and medical schools were. He always said he was never going to rely on grants for his research. So he… he went into private practice and funded his own research.”

Reed took a breath.

“It took
everything
out of him. He never married, never… never bothered with social niceties. My wife and I… we tried to… I don’t know, make him realize there was another world outside, but he… research was his life.”

“Even if it meant bending a few rules and working illegally on aborted fetal tissue,” Decker said.

“Yes.” Reed nodded. “Yes, he bent rules — broke rules. But that was King. Once he had a bug in his brain, he was unstoppable.”

“What was he doing with the tissue?” Marge asked.

“Specifically?”

“Yes,” Marge said.

“He was grinding it up, running the cells through a French press to shear them open, precipitating the DNA, and protein-purifying the enzymes in an attempt to locate and isolate embryonic enzymes that might be distinctively beneficial to host-rejection of implant patients.”

“I had to ask,” Marge said.

“Fetal tissue — especially at the early stages of development — is nonspecific,” Reed said. “The cells have the remarkable ability to grow anywhere without being rejected… am I making myself… perhaps I should give you an example.”

“A short one, please, Doctor,” Decker said.

“Yes, of course.” Reed cleared his throat. “Let us say you need a kidney and I have a kidney to donate. But that doesn’t necessarily mean your body will take my kidney.”

“It has to be compatible,” Marge said.

“Exactly!” Reed said. “Fetal tissue is unlike your tissue and my tissue. I can inject it anywhere in your body and… chances are your body will not reject it because it will not be seen as foreign material. It’s nonspecific. We all start out as a single cell — a zygote. During gestation, in some sort of process we don’t fully understand, cells differentiate even though they all have the same DNA complement. Cells are told to become brain cells or skin cells or kidney cells. Now, if you inject nonspecific fetal tissue into an organ system, it will become part of whatever system you inject it into. What is it about embryonic tissue that allows our bodies to accept and incorporate it? That is — was what King was working on.”

Marge looked at Decker. “I understood most of that. I feel pretty smart.”

Reed said, “It sounds more complicated than it is. I’ll simplify—”

“Doctor Reed, it’s not necessary for us to know all the medical details,” Decker said. “Suffice it to say, Dr. Merritt had been working illegally with embryonic tissue. How long had he been doing his research?”

“Years. He has made some
incredible
discoveries! But he couldn’t publish his findings because his research was illegal.”

“So why was he more driven of late?” Decker asked. “Did he feel the heat breathing down his back? Was he getting angry letters from some right-to-lifers?”

“No, no… at least I don’t… there’s always some hostility when you do abortions, but…” Reed sat back down. “It was money. He didn’t just
need
it, he was
desperate
for it. Research is expensive — the machines, the chemicals, the animals he had to buy. It was draining him. But even that was not unusual. King was always running his science on a shoestring. But he felt he was on to something very important. He needed more money to make it work. He called me up for a loan.”

“And you gave him something?” Marge said.

“Yes, I did. Twenty thousand dollars to be exact. But… but it wasn’t enough.” Reed shook his head. “I will be totally honest. Money wasn’t the sole reason for his call. He wanted to sound me out. Mother had a proposition for him.”

“What kind of proposition, Doctor?” said Decker.

“That… I don’t know. Frankly, as soon as I heard that it was from Mother, I advised King to stay clear of it. I have always followed that advice and found it very suitable. Mother can be quite wicked… playing us off against each other. King told me it could lead to quite a bit of money… more money than she had ever given him.”

Decker said, “Your mother was giving Kingston money all this time?”

“Bits… a thousand here, a thousand there. But from the way Kingston was talking, I had a feeling he was expecting something more — a big payoff.”

Decker remembered Davida talking about padding her sons’ wallets.
But it never seemed to be enough — the carrion eaters
.

Reed continued, “I told King that if it came from Mother, it would be nothing but heartache. I don’t know whether he listened to me or not.”

“But you have suspicions,” Decker said.

“Yes, I do.” Reed clasped his hands. “As soon as King told me about Lilah… about the robbery, I was suspicious. Not that King would ever
hurt
Lilah, but the robbery… I wondered if he had… was… involved…”