Mark of the Beast Read online

  “Yes, yes.”

  “There’s this peculiar band on HLA B locus that is puzzling.”

  “What is the B locus?”

  “It’s just the nomenclature we use to differentiate the HLAs.”

  “Okay, go ahead.”

  “Well, this is the first differentiation using our new specialized solution that improves detection.”

  “What does that have to do with Pedrosa?”

  “Plenty,” Dickerson said, “because I was thinking that if I perform more testing on more individuals I can make a more reasonable deduction.”

  “Reasonable deduction?” the detective asked. “What kind of individuals are we making this reasonable deduction about?”

  “Well, Mr. Pedrosa is a hardened … more like a hard-core criminal, an alcoholic with multiple run-ins with the law, a murderer, and God knows what else.”

  “And you’re saying…”

  “If I can start a program with your department to do blood work on all inmates as part of the booking process, maybe I can run more tests to determine the significance of this finding on the B locus,” Dickerson finally said.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” There was hesitation in the detective’s voice. “I think we might be infringing on inmates’ rights here, because, whatever you do with it, some smart lawyer will likely challenge you in court.”

  “I’m not planning on publishing any article on this, at least not yet,” Dickerson replied. “Whatever I find, it will remain within the scientific community, and will be labeled as the so-so B-locus antigen associated with certain groups of people.”

  “You have to be careful now,” the detective said, “because you don’t want to be accused of discriminatory labeling.”

  “I am acutely aware of that. What I’m doing is simply making an association,” Dickerson said. “Once an association is made, then we can ask the government, or whoever, for a wider study.”

  “I don’t know, I just don’t know. I have to think about that and see if I can actually handle it,” the detective replied.

  * * *

  Detective Pinkett, an Oklahoma University graduate in criminal justice, had been with the San Diego Police Department for seven years. She had seen it all, ever since being promoted to lead detective five years ago.

  “You do have a natural instinct to analyze clues, especially in a crime situation, don’t you?” a colleague, a lieutenant, had once asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Pinkett had replied.

  “I will say one thing—at least you’re better than our former boss.”

  “Thanks for the compliment, Lieutenant.”

  A short but well-proportioned woman with dark hair, she had often been accused of acting like a man. She was always neatly dressed and her hair always well groomed.

  “That gun of yours,” the lieutenant had once asked her, “isn’t it a Smith & Wesson 4911PD, the lightweight thing?”

  “No, Lieutenant, that’s a 1911PD, and yes, that’s the lightweight thing.”

  “Are you sure? I just looked at one a month ago.”

  “I’m absolutely sure, because I bought it.”

  “What is it with you and the Sherlock Holmes novels? You’ve read every one of them, I heard.”

  “Are you coming on to me, Lieutenant?”

  “No, no, not at all,” the lieutenant said. “I’m just…”

  “That’s okay,” Pinkett said. “Yeah, I love Sherlock Holmes. Most of the cases I’ve seen have some resemblance to a Sherlock Holmes novel. That man was a genius.”

  The men in the department, even though they gave her a hard time at the beginning, had come to accept her as one of their own.

  She owed few people few favors, and that’s why when she asked the police chief for permission to do the HLA blood sampling, she encountered no obstacles. The only stipulation was that Dr. Dickerson and the university would be the responsible party for everything that had to do with handling the blood. Dickerson, of course, saw no problem with that, and as a matter of fact, her staff at the immunology department volunteered to handle all that.

  2

  A COLD JANUARY WIND WAS blowing all over Lake Michigan, freezing everything and anything in sight. The traffic on Lake Shore Drive remained at a standstill. Taking a sharp left onto Jackson Street to avoid the endless delay, Dr. David Aaron Abramhoff drove down to the less crowded Michigan Avenue, and turned north toward the Magnificent Mile and on to Chicago Avenue.

  He flashed his identification card to the car lot attendant before driving into the parking garage.

  “Good morning, Dr. Abramhoff,” said the broadly smiling garage attendant.

  “Good morning, Mr. Johnson,” replied Dr. Abramhoff, stern as the winter weather.

  “It’s freezing, Doc.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  He parked his car at his designated parking space on the second floor of the five-story building. The garage, connected to the Richard C. Needleman Medical Building, felt warm.

  The RCN Medical Building, a sprawling twenty-two-story towering medical complex, housed Chicago’s Loop University Medical School (the LUMS), the university hospital, and several other medical departments, including the Department of Immunology and Genetics.

  Dr. Abramhoff, chairman of the Department of Immunology and Genetics, nonchalantly strolled into the Needleman Building.

  The highly expensive marble floors were the pride and joy of Dr. Abramhoff; he had been instrumental in the final construction phase of the complex. The main hallways were lined with the most expensive paintings Chicago had ever seen.

  Dr. Abramhoff wielded a lot of power and influence. A tall, gray-haired, solidly built Chicagoan in his mid-sixties, he always wore fashionably cut dark blue suits. He was trained at the University of Chicago Medical School. After finally choosing to settle for Immunology and Genetics, the immunological aspect of brain function had fascinated him. A microbiologist and theorist at college, he strongly believed that people who perform purposeful acts had been genetically programmed at birth to do so.

  According to Dr. Abramhoff’s theory, most people realize what they were programmed for early in life, then pursue this path and become good at it, while others miss it completely. The latter folks, according to Dr. Abramhoff, spend the rest of their lives lamenting what they could have been if they had acted at the appropriate time.

  He concentrated his research on the histo-compatible antigens, especially the human leukocyte antigens, otherwise known as the HLA. Several diseases in the body were preprogrammed through HLA, and it was only fitting that purposeful behaviors were also preprogrammed, theorized Dr. Abramhoff.

  “Good morning, Dr. Abramhoff,” greeted Sabrina, his beautiful secretary, as Abramhoff walked into the office.

  Abramhoff, always pleased to see Sabrina Marley in the morning, nodded first and then proceeded to take off his winter coat.

  * * *

  A slim and beautiful woman, Sabrina carried herself well. She had become the most efficient secretary in the entire medical complex, and she virtually ran Dr. Abramhoff’s office single-handedly.

  “Have you heard of a certain Dr. Hood?” Dr. Abramhoff said one day.

  “Yes sir. He is the orthopedic surgeon recently recruited by the Department of Surgery,” Sabrina answered without hesitation.

  Everyone knew that if something needed to be done around the campus, Sabrina, not Abramhoff, would do it, and 99 percent of the time, it would be done correctly.

  “Are you related to Bob Marley?” colleagues would invariably ask her.

  “Just because we are both from Jamaica does not mean that all Marleys in Jamaica are related to Bob Marley,” Sabrina always responded with a smile.

  “I will say one thing, you’ve lost your entire Jamaican accent,” a coworker once noted.

  “That’s from living in United States for thirty years,” Sabrina had said.

  * * *

  “Good morning, Sabrina,” Abramhoff said. “What’s on
my schedule today?”

  Placing a cup of coffee down for Dr. Abramhoff, who strolled behind his big L-shaped oak desk and settled down, Sabrina began, “Today you have a class at nine thirty a.m. at the Meridian Hall, room 470, for the second-year medical students; a meeting at eleven a.m. with Dr. Ashutt Achampi to…”

  “I like how you say that,” Abramhoff remarked. “It sounds like you’re saying ‘A short H and P,’ but a little faster.”

  Sabrina grinned, but quietly continued.

  “You and Dr. Achampi are to go over the CDC grant. Then you have a lunch meeting with the immunology faculty at noon, laboratories from one to three, interview residents from three thirty to four p.m., then meet with the Pfizer senior representatives at five to seek sponsorship of our project at the Kankakee Federal Prison.”

  “That’s a full day’s work.”

  “Yes, sir, but you can handle it,” Sabrina replied.

  I admire her sense of confidence, Abramhoff thought to himself.

  “What class am I teaching?” Abramhoff asked.

  “Oh,” Sabrina said, flipping through the schedule book, “the HLA antigens.”

  “Good topic.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sabrina said, heading off to her office.

  The medical students were always in awe of Dr. Abramhoff. He exuded such power and influence that he was one of the most feared and respected professors at the university. Abramhoff showed no qualms about flunking students from his classes, because, as he explained it to the dean, students need to understand why we’re here. Otherwise the school would be grinding out graduates who had no purpose in life and, according to Abramhoff, they would eventually turn out to be bad doctors. The dean agreed.

  Upon entering classroom 470, Abramhoff was greeted with immediate silence. All eyes were glued on the professor, who believed that second-year medical students were a little bit more knowledgeable than first year; that’s why he never wanted to teach first-year students.

  “Since this is the first day of your second semester, this is what I would like you to do for the rest of the semester,” Abramhoff began without lifting his head from the spreadsheet that he had rested on the marbled podium. “I will assign readings for the next upcoming classes, and in every session, we will discuss the featured readings to solidify our understanding of them.”

  When he eventually lifted his eyes, he surveyed all 124 students sitting quietly.

  After what seemed like an endless silence, Abramhoff continued. “Ask questions if you do not understand any paragraph in the chapter, or chapters, so that you can get a proper explanation.” He opened the laptop computer and pushed on a key. “I will call on you periodically with my own questions. Do not come back and tell me you forgot to read an assignment. That’s unacceptable.”

  Pushing another key: big HLA letters appeared on the screen behind the podium.

  Abramhoff started teaching. “Let’s begin with a basic understanding of the HLA. As you may have learned, the nucleus of every cell in the body houses DNA. In DNA, there is a region called the chromosome. Each organ of every species normally has a characteristic number of chromosomes. Humans have forty-six chromosomes. Because of their complexity, the chromosomes are numbered into areas. The HLA are found at chromosome area six.”

  Abramhoff paused for a drink of water. He then clicked on the remote control and continued. “Class-I HLAs are grouped into A, B, C, and D as shown here,” Abramhoff stated, pointing to a table on the screen. “The most versatile of them is B.”

  He clicked on the remote again and showed a picture of the HLA with its B locus. “Various diseases and behaviors have been attributed to different positions on the B locus. The research is on to find out the exact location for different behaviors, such as criminality and wanton senseless acts, because I believe that locus does exist on the B.”

  After forty-five minutes of basic teaching, Abramhoff returned to his office, took off his white coat, and went into the corner bathroom.

  He was out less than five minutes when he heard Sabrina knocking at the outer door.

  “Come in,” Abramhoff said.

  “Dr. Abramhoff, Dr. Achampi is here,” Sabrina announced.

  “Oh, bring him in,” Abramhoff said.

  Dr. Ashutt Achampi was a recently transferred second-year oncology fellow from Duke University School of Medicine in North Carolina who admired Abramhoff and worked very closely with him. Abramhoff, on the other hand, respected his associate’s quick sense of deduction.

  “Good morning, Dr. Abramhoff,” Dr. Achampi said.

  “Morning, Ashutt,” Abramhoff replied. “Did I say it right this time?”

  “Yes, you did, sir,” Dr. Achampi said with a nod.

  “So, where are we with the Centers for Disease Control grant?” Abramhoff asked.

  “That’s the one for the link between HLA-B60 and Burkitt’s lymphoma?” Achampi asked, then frowned and sat down across from Abramhoff’s desk.

  “Yes?” Abramhoff looked curiously at Achampi.

  “The CDC did review the application but may be wavering on the price tag.”

  “So we might not get the five million we asked for?”

  “Probably not; they may, however, approve one or two only.”

  “How do you figure that?” Abramhoff asked. He was not accustomed to rejection or reduction when it came to grants.

  “I strongly believe that Burkitt’s, especially when it comes to the West African type of Burkitt’s, is a rare form of lymphoma not common in the general American population,” stated Dr. Achampi. “I believe, therefore, they may be leery about the five million.”

  “Continue to pursue and persuade them anyway, and oh, don’t forget to use my name to make contacts at CDC, and see what you can achieve,” Abramhoff said.

  “Yes, I will do that,” Achampi replied.

  “I do have a late meeting today with Pfizer representatives,” Abramhoff said. “I will see how much they can help.”

  * * *

  Since the Loop University Medical Center in Chicago was instrumental in the development of their now-famous anti-impotence drug, Abramhoff surmised that Pfizer would want to be part of the Shapiro/Kankakee project and maybe, farther down the road, develop a drug that could arrest the progression of the bad HLAs.

  “Good evening, sir,” said the Pfizer representatives upon being ushered into Abramhoff’s office.

  “And you are?” Dr. Abramhoff asked.

  “I’m Deborah Bond. I’m the senior project manager for Pfizer for the Midwest district.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Bond.”

  “And you?” Abramhoff asked of the gentleman accompanying the woman to the office.

  “I’m Roger Ezra. I’m the national grant specialist, what you may call the overseer.”

  “So you are Ms. Bond’s … boss?” Abramhoff asked.

  “Yes and no,” Mr. Ezra said. “She has the authority to approve, but in complex projects, it comes through me for referral to headquarters.”

  “So I’m talking to the right people?” Abramhoff asked.

  “I would say you are,” Ms. Bond replied.

  “Okay, then,” Dr. Abramhoff said, balancing himself in the middle of his black leather cushioned chair, “what we are trying to do at the Kankakee Federal Prison is to study all hard-core criminals, especially those who have committed heinous criminal acts.” Abramhoff used both hands to emphasize his points.

  “We believe that these individuals have an HLA marker, like a genetic stamp, that predisposes them to criminality, just like HLA B27 predisposes someone to get ankylosing spondylitis, you know, the disease of the spinal joints. As with the diseases associated with HLA markers, we do not know yet the trigger mechanism for manifestation. If we can research these people and find a common marker, could you imagine the potential? Drugs for early identification, gene therapy, and so on and so forth?”

  “That’s something new,” Ms. Bond said.

  “I’ll agree with that
,” Mr. Ezra added.

  “So are you guys on board?” Abramhoff asked.

  “Well, how much money do you think you will need?” Ms. Bond responded.

  “Well,” Abramhoff said, “you know I have to initiate a laboratory for genetic isolation and identifications. We’ll have to recruit inmates, even if we might have to pay the institution, medical assistants, research technicians, equipment, office computers.… I think twenty to thirty million dollars might be appropriate.”

  “Twenty to thirty?” Ms. Bond said hesitantly.

  “What Ms. Bonds is trying to say,” Mr. Ezra clarified, “is that … for an amount like that, it definitely must go to the corporate office in New York for final consideration.”

  “Yes,” Ms. Bond said. She finally composed herself. “Even if we approve that amount, the company will not issue that kind of check without corporate input.”

  “So what do you think our chances are?” Abramhoff asked.

  “Good, I would dare to say,” Mr. Ezra said, looking at Ms. Bond.

  “How about excellent? Then I’ll be happy,” Abramhoff joked.

  “With a little push, I think it will go a long way,” Ms. Bonds said, still noncommittal.

  “So will you guys push it, then?” Abramhoff asked.

  “I’ll get to work as soon as I receive the proposal from you,” Ms. Bond answered.

  “When can I hear from you all?” Abramhoff asked.

  “Give us about a week or two after we receive the proposal to be able to make all the necessary contacts,” Ezra replied.

  “That’s fine,” Abramhoff said, rising from his chair.

  “Good-bye, sir,” Ms. Bond said, as she and Mr. Ezra picked up their bags and headed toward the door.

  PART

  II

  1

  DRIVING CAUTIOUSLY BETWEEN FIFTY and sixty miles per hour on Route 21, Stella felt exhausted. She had just disembarked in Savannah International Airport from a United Airlines flight that was delayed in Chicago.

  Stella Montgomery had already figured out what to prepare for dinner when she got home, counting on the fact that she would be home before her husband.