Cain's Blood: A Novel Page 3

  The room proved spacious and expensive. It had also been totally destroyed. The chairs and dark sequoia coffee tables splintered into pieces. The cabinets emptied. Built-in shelves split and bare, the books in lopsided piles on the floor. Someone had clearly tried to start a fire with some of the paperwork. Mirrors and framed pictures had been demolished into shards of glass, and several computers and monitors were smashed, so that the whole room glittered beneath the harsh, unnatural lighting recessed above. The large desk was covered in blood that pooled along the edges of the missing doctor’s laptop.

  “This the teacher’s blood?” Castillo asked. “The one from the stairwell.”

  “Mrs. Gallagher,” Erdman confirmed. “Right. She would have been sixty next month.”

  Castillo looked around, pointed to the swaddled cloth in the sink of the understated wet bar tucked into the corner of the office. “And that’s the . . .”

  “Yes.”

  Castillo nodded, made to examine the room casually, while his mind absorbed the information. Mrs. Gallagher’s entrails and uterus not ten feet away. This is worse than Towraghondi, he thought suddenly. God, I didn’t think that was even possible. To clear his mind, he tried focusing on the only two things in the room not completely destroyed. The fish tank, which, though tinged slightly pink with blood, was still intact with a dozen saltwater beauties still swimming about.

  And the framed needlepoint behind the desk. Old English lettering:

  And our LORD set a mark upon Cain,

  And he dwelt in the land of Nod,

  on the east of Eden.

  “He nicknamed it the ‘Cain gene’ early,” Erdman said behind him. “Cain XP11. For Cain and Abel.”

  “Got that part. First killer ever. Cute. What’s the ‘XP11’?”

  “A coding gene which influences the protein transcription and enzymatic activity of DARPP-32, dopamine, and cAMP-regulated phosphoprotein.”

  “Don’t be a dick,” Castillo said. So much for playing quiet and nice.

  The doctor held up his hand in apology. “Dopamine influences anger. In short, MAOA, or monoamine oxidase A, helps govern dopamine levels and is a keystone for high biological plausibility in antisocial spectrum disorders and psychopathy. Each chromosome of human DNA carries a million different strands with specific instructions on what that person’s genetic makeup will be. One particular location, a strand labeled XP11, controls the MAOA gene. When there’s an anomaly on that strand, it characteristically indicates abnormal dopamine levels, potentially influencing a genetic predisposition to abnormal violence. Does that help?”

  “Better, thank you. And these clones are created so that your team can better study and . . . develop this specific gene.” Castillo met Erdman eye-to-eye. “To ultimately, I assume, harness violence.”

  The geneticist weighed his options, clearly deciding how much more Castillo was allowed to know. “Yes,” he said. “And to cure it, too. We’re not here only to construct weapons, Mr. Castillo. In the last ten years, this pioneering research has tendered more than fifty patents to medicate depression, bipolar disorder, Parkinson’s disease, and PTSD.”

  Castillo glanced at Erdman to see if the PTSD reference was deliberate. A slam? How much do they know about me? The geneticist’s expression revealed no intended insult.

  “Parkinson’s?” He followed that path instead.

  “Remedial manipulation of dopamine levels will eventually cure the disease. We’re in clinical trials now on several innovative products toward that selfsame purpose.”

  “And you test on these kids?”

  “No, no,” Erdman shook his head. “Not at all. You’re not . . . If we want to test a new protein or antibody, or whatever, we have mice and monkeys and human volunteers for that. The boys are where we harvest the new proteins and antibodies. Perhaps it’s easier to think of these boys as living drug factories, flesh-and-blood bioreactors. A single pint of their blood contains thirty grams of genetically enhanced human protein and is worth millions.”

  Castillo’s face must have revealed his revulsion at the idea.

  Erdman sighed. “A traditional protein-development factory would cost four hundred million and take five years to build. Subjects in the Cain project cost one hundred million each and take a single year. Each boy is projected to produce six hundred million in profit in his lifetime merely by donating a little blood a few times each year. I know what you’re thinking. It was not the boys’ choice. The ethical implications are, admittedly, complicated.”

  “Complicated. Or inhumane.”

  “A question we should debate later, perhaps. Today, there are lives at risk, yes?”

  “Fair enough.” Castillo willed his voice to stay even. “Why’d you even tell me? The clones, I mean. You guys might have just told me six violent kids were missing.”

  “Colonel Stanforth said you’d figure it out eventually anyway.”

  Castillo nodded. It was a nice compliment from a trusted mentor, but: Could I ever have really imagined this? “Why killers? Shouldn’t we be cloning little Einsteins? Kobes? I don’t know, Eddie Van Halens?”

  “Who’d pay?” Erdman replied. “Fifty years from now, the consumer market might sustain such programs. But, at this stage, start-up costs are in the hundreds of billions. Not many industries can undertake that. Oil. Telecommunications, maybe. But, who’d we clone for them? The military’s driven human technology for ten thousand years. And, if some good comes from that, the medicines for instance, all the better.”

  “OK. Then, so why well-known serial killers? Wouldn’t it have been far easier, safer, to grab your run-of-the-mill psychopath? The prisons must be filled with them.”

  “Tens of thousands. A million, maybe. But Jacobson, who directs the program, always wanted the most violent. Not just gangbangers or family annihilators. He wanted consummate psychopaths. Serial killers. And most of those men, the ones society eventually catches, become famous.”

  “And no girls here. Safe to assume males are more prone to violence.”

  “Safe?” Erdman’s smile was genuine, a scientist discussing his favorite subject. “Genetically and statistically undeniable. It’s not even close. The chromosomal allele for this mutation travels only on the X chromosome. Think of this allele as the genetic antidote, a code in the DNA that can ‘fix’ the violent abnormality. Remember enough high school biology? Females are born from XX chromosomes. So they’ve got a likely chance to have a cure for any aggressive mutation in the womb.”

  “And men are XY.”

  “Very good, you remember. So, men have only a fifty-fifty shot of carrying the natural cure to an overly aggressive XP11 strand. We’re hereditarily predisposed to retaining the affliction.”

  “Half the world is hereditarily predisposed to violence?”

  “We make up ninety-five percent of the prison system. Ninety-nine percent of rapes. And ninety-nine percent of death row.” The smile turned wry. “Guess you can say it’s in our blood.”

  “Guess you can.” Castillo nodded. “What was in the fish tank?”

  Erdman blinked. “Sorry?”

  “Speaking of blood, you can tell there’s some floating in the fish tank. Someone may have only dipped their hands in, but looks like the rocks were disturbed also. A child could tell something was tossed in there. So, what was it?”

  Erdman pretended to check his notes, clearly already knowing what’d been found. “It was a key,” he said. “We don’t know to what yet. Nothing here or his other office across the compound at DSTI. We’re still looking into it.”

  Castillo thought about requesting the key to see what Erdman would do but figured it wasn’t worth adding to the evident animosity; locks had stopped being an issue more than a decade ago. He asked, “Was Jacobson’s lab office also destroyed?”

  “No. Nor is there any record that he even went there last night.”

  Castillo didn’t respond. He leaned on the edge of an upturned desk and reached down to retrieve one of
the splintered picture frames. The photo inside showed two men shaking hands. The first man was a former vice president. The other, a tall, lean, gray-haired man who looked like someone you might bump into on a private golf course. Except smarter, Castillo decided. Much smarter. Someone who truly understood the world’s secret levers and cogs. “This Jacobson?”

  Erdman nodded.

  Castillo scanned the room. “The boys and he were in some kind of group meeting, yes?”

  “First and third Thursday of every month for this group. Our psychiatric head, Angela Corwin, and Dr. Jacobson always run the session together. Ran.” Down the hall, Dr. Corwin had been found nude and murdered in her own office. “Though I didn’t think he’d make this one.”

  “Who?” Castillo had lost track of the present. “Who wouldn’t make it, Doctor?”

  “Jacobson. Been out for weeks,” Erdman said. “Pneumonia or . . . Just said he wasn’t feeling well. Was working from home. Came in only yesterday. Last night.”

  “Why would a geneticist take any part in such talks?”

  “Dr. Jacobson’s core discipline is behavioral neuroscience. His achievements in genetics evolved from that.”

  “And who assigns particular students to specific group meetings?”

  “Varies. Case counselors. Occasionally, Jacobson himself.”

  “Right.” Castillo squinted at Erdman, finally voiced the obvious. “So Jacobson let them out. This was all intentional, premeditated even. You guys good with that? Explains the trouble-free escape, the transmitters, the missing security recordings. Why these six kids. The key. His own disappearance.” Castillo could tell from the scientist’s expression that DSTI had already considered this possibility, and maybe right from the very start. They just hadn’t wanted to concede it out loud yet.

  “But why?” Erdman asked. “Why would a man do something like that?”

  “Was he disgruntled?”

  “How could he be? DSTI was practically his company. He could do just about anything he wanted.”

  “ ‘Just about.’ What couldn’t he do? Was he working with a competitor? Influencing the stock market? Did he have money issues? Or maybe he did it for the same reason you guys do a lot of things around here.” He waved his hand, encompassing the acres of laboratories and observation rooms surrounding them. “To see what would happen.”

  The geneticist looked directly at him, brought the clipboard to his chest. Cleared his throat. Castillo got the distinct impression that something of what he’d said had struck a little too close to home. Interesting. “So,” Erdman said. “What now?”

  What now?

  Castillo thought again of just leaving all this blood and moving on. Going home. Rather, making a home somewhere. A new life. That had been the damn plan, hadn’t it?

  But the words came to him then, an ancient mantra he’d commandeered and employed for more than a year now: “I will endure it, having in my breast a heart that endures affliction. For ere this I have suffered much and toiled much amid the waves and in war; let this also be added unto that.”

  Can I reappropriate the line for this task also?

  He’d been in the Army for fifteen years and served with Delta Force most of those. He’d learned the art of finding people there. Hunting them.

  “Now I’ll do my job,” Castillo said.

  • • •

  The scientists at DSTI had told him that only six boys had escaped.

  They were not being entirely truthful.

  HOUSE CALL

  JUNE 03, FRIDAY—FELTON, DE

  Albert could not sleep again.

  His head filled with too many thoughts. Each idea, memory, and image leading to another as he stared up at the shadow-lined ceiling.

  Final exam in Spanish. No clue, gonna fail. Gym first bell. Why bother getting dressed? Never understand a word the asshole teacher says anyway ’cause the fucking guy’s from Honduras or somewhere. Don’t ever go nowhere. Never even been on a plane. So fucking lame. Retarded. Bullshit class anyway. Wetbacks should just go home. Learn English like everybody else. Adrienne Haller and her fantastico tits. Two rows back. About always see her big giant nipples. Love to watch her. Her mouth. Love to watch her mouth. “¿De dónde venéis?” the mouth says. “¿De dónde venéis?” Wanna see that new movie, the one with that one guy. Sometimes, she runs the pen along her lip. You know what she’s really thinking about. Probably has stinky breath. Ashtray-breath like my bitch mother. Haller’s a big freezer, probably. Cock tease. Heard Mike Gaffney was looking for me after school. Wants to kick my ass or some shit. Another total cockwad. Need a fucking car. Go somewhere. New York. Or Vegas. Or Honduras. Anywhere. Take Mrs. Nolan somewhere and check out her nips awhile.

  He’d already jacked off three times. Trying to relax. To get tired. He just wanted to sleep. No more thoughts. He had to keep busy or they came back again. Every night. Sick of YouPorn and RedTube and the shitty pictures in his shoplifted Hustler magazines. The one girl had dark hair on her arms. Like an animal. Ripped those pages out and flushed ’em down the toilet with his jizz all over them. Sick. Freak. Me.

  Mrs. Nolan. Right across the street. No more than a hundred feet away. He turned onto his side and looked out the window toward her. Her bedroom. She probably jacks off sometimes too. She’s, like, forty but even old people do that stuff. MILFs do, for sure. Lies in bed and jams away with a giant purple thingee. Probably her own fingers too. Probably sick of that gay husband. Chris. Faggot. Bet she’d love—

  Noise from the living room. Something breaking. His drunk mother stumbling over the end table again. No doubt pouring herself a last round of Jack and Diet Coke before bed. If he was lucky, she’d go straight to sleep. Some nights she’d come in and start laying into him. Retarded shit about his grades or friends or keeping his music too loud or other stupid shit. Like she was starting shit to start shit. Drunk bitch.

  He would talk to Jacobson. He always had pills or something to make the worst thoughts go away. For a while.

  Mrs. Nolan walks around in her black thong underwear. Seen it. Just last week. When she bent over to pick up the newspaper. Sure like to get my hands on dat ass. Stupid virgin. I should have done that fat bitch with Kevin when she was all fucked up, passed out. Whatnot. I could kill Mike Gaffney. Just shoot him in the fucking head with the gun in Mom’s closet. Or Mr. Faggot Nolan. Whatever. Or me. BAM! No masa Española. She thinks I’m a loser anyway. Freak. Who’d fucking care anyway? She would. Mrs. Nolan. He reached into his shorts. Fourth time would ache a little, but it was worth it. Imagined her beneath him with her arms over her head, tied to something maybe. A bedpost, he guessed. Those rail things. Something. Keeps saying NO but that’s because she doesn’t want to take the blame when they get caught. Squirming beneath him. Can’t make out her face. Adrienne. Mrs. Nolan. Mommy.

  Shit!

  Someone standing outside his room. Heard the creak. If his mom caught him again . . . He remembered that ordeal well enough. She’d vanished for a while and then come back to tease him about it for hours. Would not drop it. Like it was her fucking job or something. He quickly pulled his hand away. “What?” he snapped at the dark. Tried to sound tough with his heart thumping halfway out his chest. Wiped off the spit from his hand on the sheet.

  The door opened a crack, and a shadow stepped into the den television’s ghostly light. He thought it might be Russ, his mom’s latest boyfriend. No. This guy was too tall. Some new guy who’d come by to fuck the bitch. Another asshole who’d probably end up laying into him someday for looking at ’im wrong.

  “What?” he asked, sitting up. “What the fuck—”

  The shadow man now stepped fully into his room.

  But it didn’t make sense. Not at all. Why is he here?

  “Dr. Jacobson?”

  “Hello, Albert. I’m sorry if I alarmed you.”

  Just like that. As if Albert had somehow willed the man into the bedroom with his earlier thoughts. Like some kinda genie lamp. The boy stood fro
m his bed. “I don’t—”

  “Nothing to fear, son,” the man said, his face still half lost in the room’s shadows. “Not anymore. Sit. Everything’s going to be fine now.”

  Several darker shapes in the living room behind the doctor, but Albert couldn’t make them out. “Where’s . . . where’s my mom?”

  “First we need to talk,” the doctor said.

  “Why? Why are you here?” Albert found he’d sat back down as told, but he’d pulled the blanket close to his chest as some childish protection. “We’re not supposed to, ummm, meet again for, like, two weeks.” He squinted as the doctor loomed. “What’s that?”

  “This, Albert, is a folder with all the information we have about who you are.” Dr. Jacobson had taken a seat at the end of Albert’s bed. Casually crossed one leg. “Who you really are.”

  “What do . . . you mean, like, those tests and stuff  ?”

  “We’re done with all that. This concerns where you come from.” He’d placed the thick folder on the bed. “Your ‘family tree,’ you might say. Go ahead. Have a look.”

  “This about my dad?”

  “It’s about you,” the doctor corrected. “Only you.”

  The boy reached out carefully and took the folder.

  ALBERT/5.

  And inside: ALBERT HENRY DESALVO. (11/3/1931–11/25/1973), and a picture.

  “Is this . . . ? Who is this?”

  The black-and-white photo so very familiar. As if he’d seen it before, when he knew that he had not.

  Dr. Jacobson smiled beside him, and then spoke briefly to Albert about things like cloning and DNA and “Self.” Before Albert could even imagine a response or question, Jacobson nodded back to the folder as if it alone now held all remaining truths. So Albert examined it again.

  There were photocopied newspaper headlines. “Boston Strangler Escapes from State Mental Ward” and “Boston Strangler Murdered at Walpole Prison.” There were labeled pictures of old ladies: Anna Slesers (55), Mary Mullen (85), Nina Nichols (68), Helen Blake (65), Ida Irga (75). And also faded shots of their dead bodies. Then, the younger ones. Sophie Clark (20), Patricia Bissette (23), Beverly Samans, (23), Joann Graff (23), Mary Sullivan (19). Albert thought, The Sullivan girl has gay hair but is still kind of hot. Blond. Pretty eyes. Looks a little like Mrs. Nolan.