Dying Memories (9 page)

Chapter 26

Bill showed ViGen’s bullet-headed security guard his fake
Boston Globe
press credentials that used the name Mark Sullivan. Jeremy had made these credentials for him so he could use them when he needed anonymity, and he had done the same for Jeremy, providing him fake
Tribune
press credentials.

“I’m doing a story on the growth of biotech companies in Cambridge and am hoping to be able to talk to your press relations person,” Bill said with a sincere smile.

The guard stared blankly at Bill for a long moment before telling Bill to take a seat. The only chair was placed on the opposite end of the lobby and the guard waited until Bill did as he was asked before he got on the phone. After a few minutes of talking over the phone in a voice too low for Bill to pick up what was being said, the guard put the receiver down and informed Bill that someone would be seeing him.

It didn’t take long after that, maybe three minutes, before a steel security door opened and a well-dressed man in a black power suit came out to greet Bill. The man looked a lot like Michael Douglas’s Gordon Gekko character from
Wall Street
, complete with a thick coating of gel greasing down his hair. His head tilted slightly to one side as he held out his hand. Bill took the man’s hand and introduced himself using his
Boston Globe
alias. The man kept quiet about his own name and position in the company.

“I hear you’re doing a story on the local biotech scene?” the man said with an overly friendly smile.

“You heard right.”

“I’m curious,” the man said. “How’d you pick us?”

“I’m looking into every company in the area and when I saw your web-site promising the next generation of immunology technologies I put you guys at the top of my list. I’m hoping you’ll be able to give me a few minutes of your time.”

“Of course, of course,” the man said. “Can I please see some identification? A driver’s license? Press credentials?”

Bill handed over his fake press credentials and a matching fake driver’s license. The man peered at them with disinterest before handing them back.

“Mr. Sullivan,” he said. “We’re at a very early stage in our development and need to operate in stealth mode so as not to give our competition any advantages. At this time we’re not seeking publicity, but when that changes, hopefully in the near future, I’ll be sure to give you a call. I’m sorry, but there’s not much more I can tell you.”

“Other than that you’re involved in immunology technologies,” Bill said.

The man smiled at that. “In the broadest terms, we’re trying to come up with a super-vaccine for the flu, something that will save thousands of lives yearly, as well as billions of lost dollars in productivity. I know that’s very vague and pie in the sky, but that’s all I can tell you. I hope that’s enough.”

“Very impressive,” Bill said.

“Yes, it is,” the man agreed.

“Very impressive security door over there also. Steel, huh? None of the other companies I’ve visited have bothered with anything like that.”

“As I mentioned, we’re working on a flu vaccine,” the man said, his smile cracking and a note of irritation in his voice. “We have hazardous biological materials that require this level of security. The door is appropriate.”

“Let me guess, machine gun turrets on the other side?”

The man’s thin smile disappeared, his expression all but saying that their discussion was over. He turned to walk away.

“How long did Tim Zhang work here?” Bill asked.

The man stopped and gave Bill a mildly amused look. “What?”

“Tim Zhang. An immunology scientist from MIT. He was stabbed to death a year and a half ago.”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about,” the man said.

“Yeah, well, I’m surprised by that. I know he worked here. Who’s funding you?”

The man faced Bill full on, a glint in his eyes. Bill also caught the signal he gave the security guard, as well as the guard talking quickly and softly over the phone.

“Let’s quit this nonsense. You’re not here to do an article on local biotech companies,” the man said. Without bothering to wait for an answer, he looked at his watch, then back at Bill. “I can give you ten minutes and see if I can clear up your misconceptions. Why don’t we go back to my office?”

Bill caught the way the security guard’s eyes darted in the direction of the steel door. “No thanks,” Bill said, “maybe another time.” He backed up and left through the front entrance before he had a chance to see who the security guard and the Gordon Gekko look-alike were waiting for. “Some other time then,” the Gordon Gekko look-alike called out to Bill with mild disappointment as he waved genially. Bill self-consciously found himself waving back.

Chapter 27

Dr. Sidney Whitfield’s soft owl-like face squeezed into a perturbed frown. “That is not possible,” he insisted, a nasal whine edging into his voice. “Injecting a subject with sodium pentothal will certainly aid and speed up the hypnotic process, but hypnotizing someone to commit murder? No. It simply does not work that way.”

“What about creating false memories with hypnosis?” Bill asked.

Whitfield’s frown grew more pained. “Not in an adult, no, at least not in the way you’re suggesting,” he said. “In a small child, maybe. For an adult, you would require brainwashing techniques, which is much different than hypnosis and far more intensive. It would take days, if not weeks. And to brainwash this woman into believing that she had a child who was murdered, a child who never in fact existed….” Whitfield rubbed his jaw while he considered the possibility of it, his fingers kneading deeply into his dough-like flesh. “I don’t know,” he murmured, a bit flustered. “But if something like that were possible it would take a long and drawn-out effort to break down the subject’s personality. I’ve never read any literature on the subject suggesting something as extreme as being able to create memories within a mother of a child who was never actually born.”

“That part of it was an accident,” Bill said. “They grabbed the wrong woman. They meant to take Janet Larson, but Larson and Hawes looked so much alike…”

Bill stopped as he saw how his theory fell apart. If they thought they had grabbed Janet Larson they would’ve brainwashed her that Forster had murdered her daughter. They never would’ve bothered trying to make her believe that she’d had this daughter in the first place.

Whitfield smiled sympathetically at Bill, clearly seeing the same hole in Bill’s logic that he was now seeing himself. “Anything else I can help you with?” Whitfield asked.

Bill shook his head and thanked the psychologist for his time. Something bizarre was going on, but it wasn’t what he had first imagined. Still, though, some bizarre shit. Abducting him in broad daylight and shooting at him. His car bugged, a GPS transmitter planted also. And then there were those emails from his good pal,
G
.  He wished he could just dismiss them as cranks. Except
G
knew about his abduction. Not just knew about it, but claimed that he had organized his rescue…unless he was bullshitting about that part of it.
G
could’ve been only watching him. That Hummer running the stop sign and plowing into the side of the van could’ve been just a fluke accident. Maybe Tim Zhang had worked for ViGen Corporation, then again, maybe not. Even if he had, what would that mean? He was a renowned immunologist, the company is working on a revolutionary flu vaccine. Nothing sinister there…

Except there was something sinister about the place. Even before they sent for muscle to deal with him he felt there was something very wrong there. Maybe it was the way that bullet-headed guard had stared at Bill when he first approached him, almost as if he knew who Bill was and that the identity he was being given was false. The same was true with that Gordon Gekko look-alike. Bill caught his flash of a smirk when Gekko glanced at the fake identification, also the look in the man’s eyes when he addressed Bill by his fake name, almost as if he were deciding whether or not to continue with the charade. But what really made the hairs stand up on the back of Bill’s neck was Gekko trying to get him behind that steel door.

Different ideas of what to do next spun rapidly through Bill’s head as he drove, but nothing that held much promise. Without much hope for success he called Thomas Roberson. When the lawyer answered, his voice was less cheery than the day before.

“I still haven’t decided if it’s in my client’s best interest to talk to you,” Roberson said flatly.

“That’s not why I’m calling,” Bill said. Distracted, he had to brake quickly to avoid running a red light. A woman walking past him in the crosswalk glared hotly at him. Bill barely noticed. “I want to suggest that you have your psychiatrist examine Gail again.”

“Why would I do that?”

“This might sound crazy.”

“Go ahead.”

“She might’ve been brainwashed.”

There was a long uncomfortable silence before Roberson asked if Bill could repeat what he had said. Bill did so.

“And why would I do something like that?” Roberson asked, somewhat incredulously.

“It’s a theory I’m looking into,” Bill admitted.

“And what would Gail have been brainwashed to do?”

Bill only paused briefly before saying, “The obvious. To murder Kent Forster.”

All cheeriness in the lawyer’s voice left then, replaced by something cold and distant. “Do you have any reason to suspect this happened?” he asked.

“Not really. Again, it’s just a theory. But it would help to know if your client went missing for several days before the shooting.”

There was more silence from the lawyer, then Roberson saying, “I know you talked to Trey Megeet’s attorney. Paul gave me a call afterwards. Are you also trying to tell me that you believe Mr. Megeet was
brainwashed
?”

“I’m not sure right now what to believe,” Bill admitted. The light had changed. He rode through the intersection, and mentioned to Roberson how Hawes and Megeet both had unexplained puncture marks on them.

“Why would you think Gail’s puncture mark is what anyone would consider mysterious?” Roberson asked stiffly. “It was caused by a recent tetanus shot. And whether Gail has had any unexplained disappearances, wait one minute.”

Bill heard the receiver being put down, then papers shuffled. When the receiver was picked back up, Roberson said, “The answer is no. I have Gail’s personnel file from work, and not only did she have a perfect attendance, it’s been over a year since she took a vacation. So I’m afraid, Mr. Conway, you’re barking up the wrong tree with this so-called theory.”

“Yeah, well, it still couldn’t hurt to talk to her psychiatrist about it,” Bill said. He added jokingly. “Worst case, maybe you could use it to confuse a jury.”

“I have to be ending this call,” Roberson said, his tone chilly enough that Bill could almost feel a wave of frost coming over his cell phone. “And I doubt at this point that it would be a good idea for me to allow you to meet with my client.”

The connection went dead with Roberson disconnecting the call from his end. Bill stared at his cell phone for a long moment before tossing it onto the seat next to him, then wondering what bug had crawled up Roberson’s ass. Something wasn’t quite right there either, but that had been true with just about everything the last two days. Ever since his abduction the world had seemed to be spinning off-kilter.

Traffic was lighter than he thought it would be as he approached Post Office Square. He drove slowly past the forty-story office building where Gail Hawes had shot large holes out of Kent Forster. Now, six days later and it was as if the incident had never happened. All evidence of the murder had been scrubbed cleaned, the police markings gone, people going about their business as if nothing had ever happened. There was no makeshift memorial left on the scene. Nothing to hint that a man recently had his life violently ended there.

Bill kept driving until he was able to find a parking spot on Milk Street, then waited several minutes by his car to make sure he wasn’t followed before heading back to One Post Office Square.

Chapter 28

The office for Kent Forster’s hedge fund was located on the thirty-eighth floor, and just like the area around the sidewalk where Forster had been gunned down, the office displayed no signs that its founder had recently been murdered. The receptionist manning the front desk was a sleek, twenty-something blonde who looked as perfectly put together as a runway model. She eyed Bill carefully as he approached her and when he showed his press credentials she made a face as if she’d just swallowed a mouthful of sour milk.

“Another parasite sniffing for blood,” she said, her lips forming a half-sneer.

“Is that nice?” Bill asked. “You don’t even know me.”

“We had enough of your kind trying to dig up whatever dirt they can on Kent,” she said, her half-sneer turning to a full one. “Let me save you the trouble, no one here is about to talk to you about Kent, so you might as well leave now.”

Bill leaned forward against her desk, flashing her a wolfish grin. “You know you’re beautiful when you sneer.”

“Fuck you, too.”

“As charming and delightful as you appear on first impression, I’m presently engaged in a relationship, so regretfully I have to decline your offer.”

She stared at him full on as if she were trying to bore holes through him. “Leave now or I’ll have you physically removed,” she said, frigidly.

Bill straightened up, all business as he told her, “I’m not here to ask about Mr. Forster, but about the hedge fund. How you operate, who you’re invested in, particularly whether ViGen Corporation is one of your investments.”

She was about to say something, and from her expression Bill could tell it was going to be along the lines of, ‘
I don’t care what you’re here for, leave!
’, but a phone call stopped her. She picked up the receiver and listened without saying anything. When she looked back at Bill her sneer was gone, replaced by a brittleness about her eyes and mouth. She apologized and asked Bill to repeat what he wanted. He did, and she timidly glanced away from him, telling him that she would see if she could find someone who could answer his questions, then asked if he could take a seat. Bill did so. She got on the phone and after a quick conversation told Bill that someone would be out to speak to him in just a few minutes.

Bill sat waiting, watching her growing nervousness. He stood up and told her he’d be back later. She got halfway out of her chair, alarmed, asking him to please wait and that someone would be right with him.

Bill hurried out of there. He glanced behind to see her reaching frantically for her phone. Then he was in the elevator and heading down to the street. Once the elevator reached the lobby, he was running fast to get out of the building.

He was half a block away when he saw a large behemoth in a gray suit and dark shades making a beeline for the main entrance. The behemoth was the same clean-shaven thug from the day before. The left side of his forehead looked badly bruised, the area a nasty purple color, his face set in a dour expression. The thug stopped suddenly to reach into his pocket and pull out a cell phone. Bill quickened his pace and turned the corner onto Water Street before flattening himself against the side of the building. From there he watched the thug.

The thug’s conversation was short, lasting less than half a minute. After his cell phone was put away, he turned from the entranceway and peered in all directions, his mouth now squeezed into a tiny angry oval. At one point it seemed as if he was staring directly at Bill, but then he looked away and stormed off in the direction from where he had come. Bill watched as the thug got into the passenger seat of a waiting Mercedes sedan, and then as the car drove away. Bill tried reading the license plate but it was too far for him to make it out. The windows were tinted too darkly for him to get a good look at the driver.

This answered whether or not there was a connection between Kent Forster and his abduction, with both seemingly connected to ViGen. The receptionist’s sudden skittishness warned him that something was up, that they were only trying to delay him. He wondered briefly what would’ve happened if he were still in that office on the 38th floor and that ox-sized thug showed up, and a cold chill caused him to shiver. He stood silently for several minutes as he made sure the Mercedes sedan didn’t perform a reconnaissance of the area, then he made his way quickly down to Milk Street and where he had left his loaner car.

They probably suspected that he had ditched his car; at the very least they had to be suspicious of why their planted GPS tracking device showed that his car was nowhere in the area. They’d find out soon enough he had left his at an auto dealership and they’d know then that he was driving something else.

Soon they’d be staking out his parking lot at work to find out what he was now driving. Or if they really wanted, they’d grab him instead of bothering to bug his car again. Whatever he wandered into, it was serious. They had already killed two men, and it looked like they were targeting him to be their third victim. Bill felt a tightness in his chest and began hyperventilating. It probably lasted less than a minute, but it seemed much longer than that before he was able to breathe normally again.

He wasn’t going to be able to go back to the office, at least not for now. He had a fleeting thought that maybe he should just get lost somewhere in the Midwest until this blew over, then he sat back, grimfaced, a slow anger burning his skin. He wasn’t going to run. Whatever it was, he was going to figure it out and then expose those murderous sons of bitches. As he sat in his loaner car thinking things over, his anger bled away as he realized he didn’t really have any choice on the matter. Dropping his investigation wasn’t an option; at this point it wouldn’t stop them. Going to the police wasn’t an option either, at least it wasn’t until he had something concrete to give them. And even if he wanted to he couldn’t run away from this and get lost somewhere in the middle of the country now that he had Emily in his life. Whatever he had stepped in, it was too late for him to turn back.