Mark of the Beast (5 page)

Sometimes, Lisa thought she was getting a little paranoid, but she always convinced herself that she did not want to be the next victim.

At exactly 3:33
A.M.
, something woke Lisa up. She looked around the room, frightened, but there was no one there.

Did the alarm go off accidentally?

Lisa sat up in bed. It was still raining outside; Lisa could hear the raindrops through the east end window. The chilly room sent shivers through Lisa's bones. She got up and put her jeans and her school blazer on over her nightgown. She took her diary from under the pillow, tucked it in her blazer pocket, and set out to check on Trianna.

She picked up her cell phone like she usually did on her way to school.

Arriving at Trianna's room, Lisa noticed dim lights emanating under the door.

She tiptoed, catlike, to the door and listened.

Mom and Dad were in the room whispering. Lisa could not make out what they were saying.

A muffled moan could be heard, and then it suddenly stopped.

Lisa sat on the floor, thought for a minute, and then decided that she would take a chance. She got up, turned the doorknob gently to slowly open the door, only to discover that the door was locked.

Just then Lisa heard Mom ask, “Is she dead?”

“I think so,” Martin answered.

Lisa gasped. Frightened, she let the doorknob go.

The knob closing sounded like a big gong in the silence of the night.

Realizing what had just happened, Lisa took off running.

Instead of running down the stairs like she usually did whenever she was in trouble, she ran to Chris's old, now empty, bedroom. She quietly opened the window and climbed outside on the roof. She had figured out that this was the only window close to the drainpipe, and she could easily use that to climb downstairs to the back of the house.

Martin and Stella were downstairs in the living room looking for Lisa. When the doorknob snapped, they knew immediately that it was Lisa. By the time they opened the door, Lisa was nowhere to be found. They both immediately ran downstairs to the living room, instinctively thinking that Lisa was hiding in her usual hiding place. Not finding her there, Stella barked with clenched teeth, “Lisa!”

No response.

“Lisa!” Stella barked a second time.

“Let's check her room. She might still be up there,” Martin said between heavy breaths.

“Yeah,” Stella agreed.

As they hurried to the stairs, there was a thud outside. When Martin and Stella finally went outside in the rain, they saw what appeared to be a little girl, whom they presumed to be Lisa, running down the street approximately two to three blocks away.

She was talking on a cell phone while occasionally looking behind.

*   *   *

Savannah Police Chief Elijah Goodwin had initially doubted Lisa when she had come to him about five weeks before with an incredible story about her parents being responsible for the deaths of their children. The county coroner had previously cleared Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery of any wrongdoing. His detectives had interrogated them previously and had found no evidence of foul play. But Chief Goodwin became intrigued by this intelligent young girl. His main regret now was that Lisa did not inform him earlier that she suspected something might go down tonight.

“Why didn't you tell me about your suspicions yesterday? We might have been able to save your sister's life,” asked Chief Goodwin.

“I'm sorry,” Lisa said sadly. “I had a strong feeling that they might, but I wasn't one hundred percent sure.”

“How did you come up with the idea of planting a tape recorder there?”

“Because my parents talk too much,” Lisa said, “and I knew they would have something to say while in the act.”

The police found Trianna's body, which was still in the bedroom. The tape-recorded conversation, mostly whispered, was incriminating enough for a conviction. Mr. and Mrs. Montgomery were found guilty of first degree murder in the deaths of their four children.

They were spared the death penalty, but were given four life sentences, with no possibility of parole, because they agreed to cooperate with the federal investigation of the Oak Lawn, Illinois, operations.

 

PART

III

 

1

“C
OMING HOME LATE AGAIN?
I hardly see you anymore since you started working with those prisoners,” said Manuel, eight weeks into Dickerson's study.

“Yes, I know,” Dickerson said, sitting at the kitchen bar stool, hands clasped beneath her chin, looking guilty.

“We haven't been to Tijuana in a long time.”

“But you have, haven't you?”

“What do you mean, I have?” Manuel asked.

“Come on now, twice you told me that you took some doctors to Tijuana to entertain them,” Dickerson said.

“Oh, yeah,” Manuel replied quickly, looking into the kitchen cabinets for sardines.

“That's okay by me, honey, because I know that's part of your job,” Dickerson said while looking for a Corona in the refrigerator.

“Well, if you had been home, I'd see no reason to take those doctors to Tijuana,” Manuel snapped, playing the blame game.

That surprised Dickerson. What was Manuel upset about?

She knew that she had been working late hours at the university to finish her project because she planned to present her findings at the American College of Immunology and Genetics, scheduled to meet next month in Florida.

Manuel did call on several occasions to check on her, and Dickerson did not appreciate that, but to reciprocate, she did at times call Manuel to see how he was doing.

A week later, it was about 11:30
P.M.
, Dickerson had been working late at the laboratory and had totally lost track of time. She had made significant progress and had worked longer hours looking for that elusive band on the gel electrophoresis.

Tonight, however, on the third trial using the new analytical solution, she was so overjoyed to see the elusive band finally separate on its own.

“Yes! Yes and yes!” Dickerson shouted, pounding her right fist on the lab table.

There may be a connection after all between some criminals and the HLA, she thought. Face glowing, she turned to the two techs and literally shouted, “We did it … Yes, we did it!”

She rushed to each tech and planted a kiss on their cheeks before dashing out the door. Leaving the two technicians behind, she dashed out of the laboratory to rush home and share her joy with her husband.

At the corner of Genesee Avenue and Noble Drive, Dickerson was about to run the yellow light when she noticed a squad car parked at the curb on Noble Drive. She stopped as the light turned red.

What a difference a simple solution makes, Dickerson thought. All she needed was to add 5 percent dextrose solution with the ethylene benzoic prior to the gel electrophoresis run. It clearly defined position sixty-six and, just like that, eliminated the other fuzzy positions, especially the one at position sixty-eight.

She got home quickly. After fumbling with the keys and finally opening the door, Dickerson suddenly realized Manuel was not home. She dialed his cell phone, but only got the voice mail.

Just then, the phone rang. She rushed to the phone, mistakenly thinking it was Manuel.

“Hi, honey, listen, there…”

“Hello!” a sobbing female voice on the other end said.

“Hello,” Dickerson replied, wondering who it was.

“Is this Dr. Dickerson?” asked the stranger.

“Yes, who are you?”

“My name is Jennifer; I'm a friend of your husband,” the strange voice said.

“What happened? Is he okay?”

“Yes, he is … I think.”

“Oh, thank God.” Dickerson breathed a sigh of relief.

“I should just come out and tell you,” Jennifer sobbed.

“Tell me what?”

“I'm a drug rep with Ortho-McNeill in Southern Los Angeles County, and I don't know how to say this,” said Jennifer, trying to calm herself down.

“What do you mean … how to say, what? Come out with it,” Dickerson demanded. “Just go ahead and say what's on your mind.” Dickerson was already thinking Manuel was caught doing something unethical for one of his doctor friends, and in the process probably lost his job.

“I've been seeing your husband for six months,” started Jennifer.

Oh no, thought Dickerson, not again. Please, God, don't let it happen again.

“You mean you've been seeing him or sleeping with him?” Dickerson shouted, breathing heavy and obviously angry.

“Yes, we were sleeping together,” Jennifer admitted.

“So, why are you calling me?”

“I just wanna get it off my chest, because we're not seeing each other anymore.”

“You mean he dumped you.”

“Yes, for that tramp, Janice…”

“Excuse me! Who is Janice?”

“The girl he's sleeping with now. She works for Bayer Pharmaceuticals.”

“Did you love Manuel?”

“We were supposed to be getting…” There was a pause on the other end, and then, the phone went dead.

“Hello, hello!” Dickerson was screaming to a dial tone.

That was the beginning of the end of Dickerson's second marriage.

 

2

I
T WAS TWO WEEKS
since Dickerson's divorce had been finalized. Due to the fact that she had a prenuptial agreement and Manuel finally pleaded no contest, the whole process had been executed quickly and painlessly. Now back in the laboratories, she had been able to test nearly 106 processed inmates.

Of those, only four clearly showed HLA B66 differentiations on gel electrophoresis.

One was a forty-six-year-old man who drove the family's van with all his six children in front of an oncoming train in an attempted murder/suicide. The second and third cases were similar, in the sense that they were both involved in multiple killings during armed robberies.

The final of the four was a bizarre case: a husband who, even though he did not believe in Christ, claimed that his born-again Christian wife was possessed by the devil, so while she was sound asleep one night, he doused the entire bed with gasoline and then set it on fire. She died later in the hospital from burns sustained over 90 percent of her body.

Dickerson called Detective Marie Pinkett at home early Sunday morning to discuss her findings.

“Hello, Doc,” Pinkett said, yawning. “Good morning.”

“Did I wake you up?” Dickerson asked.

“Not really.” Pinkett yawned again. “I need to get going.”

“So, what's happening in the criminal world?” the doctor asked.

“A lot,” the detective replied. “How about you, any good news?”

“Quite a bit.”

“Well?” Pinkett asked.

“Okay. We've tested about 106 inmates so far,” Dickerson said. “Out of that, guess how many tested positive?”

“I don't know; how many?” Pinkett asked.

“Four tested positive,” the doctor replied.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” the detective asked.

“Very good thing,” Dickerson said. “Four out of 106 in science is a poor result, but looking at it differently, it points us in the direction and type of clients we need to focus our attention on.”

“Go ahead, I'm listening,” Pinkett urged.

“We were testing all your departmental bookings: petty thieves, rapists, larcenists, arsonists, purse snatchers, shoplifters, traffic violators, and so on, only to find out that the highest probability of positive HLA tests are from those who commit ferocious or heinous crimes,” the doctor explained.

“You mean—” Pinkett began.

“I mean,” Dickerson continued, still excited, “let's look at the four positive tests: one is that train accident that killed his family. The other two, with no remorse, killed six people between them, and the last guy set his wife on fire. What does that tell you?”

“That you're looking for people who commit or have committed serious crimes,” Pinkett suggested.

“That's exactly the kind—those that have committed serious but more gruesome crimes. Maybe like the infamous celebrity from Savannah, Georgia—what's her name? Stella Montgomery and her husband—who suffocated their own children to sell them for body parts. I will bet my last dollar that they test positive,” Dickerson theorized.

“Well, my suggestion is to go down to the federal prison in Lemon Grove, select the prisoners that match your description, and then test them,” Pinkett said.

“That, my friend, is where you come in,” Dickerson replied.

“You are not asking me to—” Pinkett started in disbelief.

“Yes, I am,” Dickerson interrupted.

“You're gonna owe me plenty for this,” the detective said.

“I know, I know; I'll take you out to dinner,” Dickerson promised.

*   *   *

Over the next couple of weeks, Detective Pinkett made several trips to Lemon Grove and met with Superintendent Thomas Strickland.

After several communications between him and Pinkett, Dickerson was only allowed to collect limited data pertaining to incarceration records and blood drawings.

Dickerson spent only two days going through the records of the prisoners. She selected about one hundred inmates whom she thought might qualify according to her specifications. Dickerson purposely selected the number one hundred to ease mathematical calculations.

She was so pleased with Pinky's effort and work that she again promised her dinner at her favorite restaurant in La Jolla, an offer the detective accepted.

When Dickerson met Mr. Strickland, the superintendent, she was rather taken aback. He was a tall, heavyset, no-nonsense kind of guy, in his late fifties, who was more concerned about rules and regulations than the study outcome in general. His stipulations were that the testing be done only when the inmates came to the infirmary complaining of illnesses, which happened very frequently. He wanted all contacts concluded as soon as possible and recommended that the entire inmate testing be done in about three to six months.