Most Wanted (4 page)

“You want some ice water?” Marcus asked, from the refrigerator. He took out the Brita pitcher with his right hand and with his left, scratched Murphy behind the ears.

“Yes, thanks.” Christine made a beeline for her makeshift home office, a large pantry off the kitchen that had a granite counter, a built-in desk and old-school cubbyholes to sort bills, junk mail, and the endless memos that came home from school, handed out in hardcopy despite the district's green initiative. She set her laptop on the counter, fired it up, logged on CNN's website, and navigated to the video again, then hit
PLAY
. The same voiceover started, but she muted it to concentrate on the visual, watching as the police escort filled the screen, walked forward, then got out of the way, so that she could see the prisoner, his head tilted down.

Christine pressed the icon to enlarge the video to full screen, and as soon as the photo expanded, she found herself swallowing hard. Once again, something about the prisoner's hair struck her as their donor's. Nevertheless, she waited, stomach clenched, as she watched the prisoner duck to get into the back of the police cruiser, then he looked up one last time. Christine hit
STOP
, but her hand was shaking. She couldn't believe what she was seeing. The man's blue eyes. The look around his face. His aspect in general, all of it struck her the same way it had before. He looked like their donor.

Marcus came over, setting the glass of ice water on the counter, the ice tinkling. “Why don't you sit down?”

“I can see better this way. Marcus, I can't help it. This guy looks like our donor.”

“It's not, honey.” Marcus put an arm around her and gave her a gentle squeeze. “You're worrying for nothing, really.”

“Watch it with me again, full screen, would you?”

“Okay.” Marcus leaned over, frowning. “Start the video.”

“It's easier to see on the bigger screen.” Christine started the video and played it until the frame when the prisoner looked up from the backseat. “Doesn't that look like him?”

“It looks a little
like
him. But it doesn't look like it
is
him.” Marcus shook his head. “As I said in the car, this guy has a narrower face, especially around the cheekbones.”

“So you see him as more gaunt than our donor?”

“Exactly, he has a longer face.” Marcus raked his bangs from his forehead, which was whiter than the rest of his face, a golfer's tan. “Really, believe me. You're worrying over nothing.”

“But I am worrying.” Christine couldn't let it go. She could never let anything go.

“Why don't you call Lauren?”

“I texted her from the car. She's going to come over after the kids are asleep.”

Marcus blinked. “Why didn't you just send her a link to the video?”

“I wanted to see her reaction. Hold on a sec. I have another idea.”

“What?” Marcus asked, beginning to lose patience. He withdrew his arm from her shoulder.

“Bear with me.” Christine was already pulling the accordion file that held their medical information. There had been so many bills related to the infertility procedures, forms upon forms to fill out to get what they could covered, and the files took up five accordions. The last accordion was the one that held their donor profiles, probably a hundred pages of bios that they had printed out from the banks.

“What's the point?” Marcus sighed.

“Hang in one more minute.” Christine rummaged through the donor profiles, passing the Sperm Bank of California with its characteristic green banners, the smaller old-fashioned font of Fairfax Cryobank, and coming finally to the bright red borders of their bank, Homestead, with its cute logo of a house and a heart inside. Dr. Davidow used banks all over the country, but had sent them to these three because he rotated the banks among his patient base, explaining his reason with characteristic candor.

I do it so donor-conceived children aren't concentrated in the same geographic area. You don't want to have a Gymboree class full of 3319 offspring, do you?

Marcus shifted his feet. “Babe, I have things to do. The dog wants to go out, and I need to return some phone calls.”

“Here we go.” Christine found the Donor 3319 profile, stapled together at the corner, then pointed to the first page of the form. “Under Physical Characteristics, it says ‘Hair Color—Blond,' ‘Hair Type—straight, fine.' Our donor has fine hair, like the guy in the video.”

Marcus eyed her with disbelief. “You can't tell if somebody has fine hair on a
video
.”

“Well, not absolutely accurately, but I had the idea.” Christine read to the next entry, Complexion. “Plus the skin is the same. It says, ‘fair, rosy, creamy.'”

“Donor 3319 has ‘creamy' skin?” Marcus chuckled. “The interviewer had a crush on him.”

“The guy in the video was also fair-skinned.”

“But was he
creamy
?” Marcus lifted an eyebrow, his crow's-feet wrinkling with irony.

“Look, I don't know what ‘creamy' means either, but—”

“I do. The interviewer was creamy. Good luck.” Marcus pulled open the top drawer and grabbed an old tennis ball from among the rubber Kong Balls and raggedy canvas pull toys, which set Murphy trotting over, his tail wagging and his toenails clicking on the tile floor.

“Marcus, please look at this bio with me.”

Marcus closed the drawer. “No, you do it. Knock yourself out. I said my piece. I'm done.” He bounced the tennis ball once, as if punctuating his sentence, then turned and left the kitchen with the dog dancing around his heels.

Christine swallowed hard, returning her attention to the profile of Donor 3319. After Height, Weight, Hair Color, Hair Type, Complexion, and Eye Color, was a typically breezy profile from an interview with him, which was written by the interviewer. Christine had memorized the interviews, but Marcus thought they were ridiculous.

Are you kidding me
? he had said, reading the interview notes from Donor 3319's profile.
“At 6 foot 3 inches with conventional good looks and a masculine build, Donor 3319 could be a tennis professional. He came to the interview wearing a white polo shirt from Ralph Lauren, khaki pants, and Teva sandals, and though his clothes fit comfortably, they did not hide his musculature.”
Marcus had looked up, laughing.
What the hell?

She has to give her impression. It says at the top of the form, “Interview notes are intended to give a subjective idea of how the donor appears to an experienced interviewer and are not intended as medical information.”

I know, but it has to be factual to be useful.

It tells you how he relates, and that she liked him. That's useful to know.

Why? Who cares who she likes?

We want a donor who's likable.

We want likable sperm?
Marcus had laughed.
If I had sperm, would it be likable?

It would be lovable.

Marcus had smiled and resumed reading the form, but then started shaking his head. “
Donor 3319 has shiny blond hair, so much so that I found myself asking him what conditioner he uses.” Are you freaking kidding me?

She's a girl.

Clearly.
Marcus had rolled his eyes. “
He has an easy smile and one I would say is confident, and he comes off as reliable, well-spoken, and serious-minded, with a hint of humor. The movie star he looks most like is Bradley Cooper.” Why did they have to compare him to a movie star? Of what relevance is that?

It's a shorthand.

I can't believe these profiles. “This one looks like Justin Timberlake, that one looks like Colin Farrell.” It's Hollywood sperm, everybody!

Christine put the memory out of her mind, skimming through Donor 3319's profile. After the interview was the form that included Personal Information: year of birth, 1990; Education, Bachelor of Arts in Chemistry; Current Occupation, Student, Accepted to Medical School; Ethnic Origin, Dutch, Swedish, English; and Religion, Agnostic/Atheist.

Christine read on to the family medical history of Donor 3319, his parents, and paternal and maternal grandparents. There were also his lab results, showing that he tested negative for chlamydia, hepatitis B, HIV I and 2, gonorrhea, CMV total antibody, and syphilis. After that was genetic screening for cystic fibrosis, spinal muscular atrophy, and then a boldfaced warning:
Genetic screening tests can significantly reduce but never completely eliminate the chance that a person is a carrier for a particular disorder.

Christine remembered that Marcus had been most interested in the medical history.

Christine, it says his father had asthma and the age of onset was two. He says it's “managed,” but that's not a good thing. I don't know if asthma is hereditary.

I'll make a note to ask
. Christine always had a list of questions before they went to the doctor. She wrote down, asthma.

The mother has “uterine fibroids.” She had a hysterectomy. Does that matter?

No idea. I'll make a note to ask, too.

It says it was resolved.

Then it's resolved.
Christine crossed out the entry.
I don't want to waste his time with dumb questions.

It's not dumb, it's important. Anything about the DNA matters. For example, it says here, “maternal grandmother had skin cancer, basal cell, on the arm. Age at onset was forty, surgical removal, outcome—resolved.” We should ask about that, too.

Will do.
Christine made a note on her list.
But I don't think skin cancer is hereditary.

Marcus frowned, in thought.
I do. The predisposition is inherited, I think. He has fair skin. He'll fit right in. The Nilssons burn like bacon.

Christine returned her attention to the profile, flipping through until she came to the questions and answers that Donor 3319 had filled out himself. The first one made her stop short:

Q: Are you going to enter Homestead's Open Identity Disclosure program?

A: No.

Q: If no, why?

A: As I understand the Open Identity Disclosure program, the sperm donor would be willing to meet the child conceived using his sperm when the child is 18 years old. I expressly
do not want
to do that because I do not consider myself the father of the child. I consider myself as providing genetic material that would help make a family, but it is not my family, it is theirs. Also, I know that my parents, given their strict religious beliefs, would not approve of what I am doing. I am certain about keeping my information private and my identity anonymous, except for the one adult and one child photo I have provided.

Christine felt her stomach drop. She set the profile aside, went back to her laptop, and hit the mouse pad to wake it up. The CNN website came to life and the video was still there, but the news story had grown longer, with two new paragraphs added. She read the first one:

Pennsylvania authorities seized Jeffcoat's automobile, a 2013 white Nissan Sentra, and reportedly discovered the contents of his trunk: a shovel, a roll of garbage bags, a large hunting knife, and a bone saw, of medical grade.

Christine's mouth went dry. The shovel and the garbage bag sent shivers down her spine, and the medical saw left her dizzy with questions. Who would have access to a medical saw but a medical student? Was that a link to Donor 3319? Who would know how to use a medical saw but a medical student? Did he steal it from the hospital? Did he buy one on his own? Who else could it belong to? Somebody, anybody in the medical profession. Then again, how hard could it be to use a medical saw? And how skilled a job did it have to be if the person was already dead? She read the second paragraph:

The Nurse Murderer is known for having a distinct modus operandi, or MO. His three victims, all female nurses between the ages of 30 and 40, were found in their beds in their home, fully clothed, with their hands tied in a praying position, using a tourniquet. They were also bound at the ankles, using a tourniquet. Each woman was murdered in the same manner, stabbed through the heart by a bone saw, in a precise location with only a single stab wound. Police authorities and FBI profilers report that the method suggests the killer has medical knowledge. The fact that his victims are nurses suggests an animus or a revenge motive against the nursing profession. Unlike many serial killers, however, The Nurse Murderer does not sexually molest his victims.

Christine felt queasy, shaken. She picked up her glass of water, took a sip, then set it down, her gorge rising with an unmistakable sensation she experienced every morning though never before in the afternoon.

She reached for the wastecan.

 

Chapter Four

Christine hurried to the front door and flung it open like the cavalry had arrived. “Lauren, great to see you!”

“Really?” Lauren grinned as she stepped inside. Her dark, curly hair had been twisted up into a tortoiseshell clip, and she had on a faded gray Columbia University T-shirt and light blue nylon shorts. “What did I do right?”

“Everything.” Christine gave her a big hug, then closed the door as Marcus came up behind her.

“Lauren, hey. Thanks again for helping with the party. It was awesome.”

“It was, wasn't it? You're welcome.”

Arf!
Murphy came up wagging his tail to sniff Lauren.

“Hiya, Murph. How's my big boy today?” Lauren ruffled up the dog's fur around his neck. She didn't have any pets because her husband Josh was allergic, and she always joked that she'd trade her husband for a dog. Josh was an accountant in Rocky Hill, which was why she'd moved to Connecticut from her beloved Manhattan.