The Gender Experiment: (A Thriller) Page 2

  Chapter 2

  After work, Taylor entered her apartment and headed straight for the fish. The coffin-sized glass tank occupied the space where a dining table should have been, but she didn’t mind. “Hey, kids, I’m home.” The silliness of her daily greeting made her smile. She tapped food flakes into the water and watched the little beauties gulp them down. The clownfish were her favorites—she related to their shyness—but the Mandarin was the most stunning, with its wavy turquoise and orange patterns. As she watched them swim around, the tension of her long workday melted off. The long shifts three days a week left her free to take classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but they wiped her out.

  Hungry, she put a bag of popcorn in the microwave—a dinner she could eat in front of her laptop—then checked her messages. An email from her dentist, reminding her of an appointment, and two texts from a classmate who wanted her notes from a microbiology class. How pathetic was her social life? Her best friend had dropped out of college to take care of her sick mother, so Taylor didn’t hear from her much anymore. She texted Jonie just to let her know she was thinking about her, then set her phone aside. She had an Instagram account, but didn’t use it unless she took a picture of something really interesting. But pictures of dead people didn’t go over that well with her few followers.

  Eager to discover everything she could about the accident victims, Taylor opened Facebook in two tabs and keyed each of their names into a search field. Adrian Warsaw’s profile came up quickly with no other exact name matches, but Logan Hurtz didn’t have a page, at least not under his real name. Adrian’s profile listed his birthplace as Colorado Springs, the town sixty miles south of Denver near Fort Carson, where she’d lived as a child. Adrian had attended community college in Aurora, then lived in Denver.

  His collection of photos stood out, and fire was a dominant theme. Campfires, candle flames, even a few images of forests burning, but few pictures with people. A loner pyromaniac? Had he ever started a fire? Taylor opened the Denver newspaper website and keyed Adrian’s name into the search field. He’d been a person of interest in connection with a fire at an abandoned factory. Was that why someone might want him dead?

  What about Logan Hurtz? The police report had listed him as a volunteer firefighter. It seemed weird that he and Adrian had a common interest that was potentially dangerous. Taylor keyed Logan’s name into Google, then plowed through several pages of sites that linked to an older businessman with the same name who’d started a windmill company. About to give up, she spotted a headline at the bottom of the page: Obstetrics Clinic Hosts 20-year Reunion. She clicked through to the website and found a year-old story by the Colorado Springs newspaper. The clinic, an off-base extension of the Fort Carson Community Hospital, had thrown a party for people who’d been brought into the world by staff doctors in the past twenty years. Logan Hurtz had attended and been singled out for being the oldest of the birth babies.

  Taylor glanced at the time: 4:45 p.m. The facility might still be open. She keyed in the number but didn’t press the dial icon. What would she say? Voice trembling, she practiced her introduction a few times. The questions would be the hardest. She wrote out several in longhand, then practiced asking them. Finally, she popped in her earpiece and made the call.

  A tired-sounding woman answered on the fifth ring. “Carson Obstetrics Clinic.”

  “Hello. This is Taylor Lopez from the Denver Medical Examiner’s Office.” She had that part down pat. The woman was silent, so Taylor blurted out her opening line. “Logan Hurtz, one of your birth babies, died in an accident a few weeks ago.”

  A long pause. “I’m sorry to hear that.” The voice sounded weak and soft, like an older woman.

  “Adrian Warsaw drowned in a pool early this morning. I think he might have been a clinic baby too.”

  A strange sound escaped the receptionist’s throat. “Why are you calling here?” She sounded distressed.

  Taylor gulped in air. Just say it. “Both men had genital abnormalities. Do you know anything about it? Or who I should talk to?”

  A longer hesitation this time. “That information is confidential, and I’m not at liberty to discuss patients.”

  “Can you tell me if Adrian Warsaw was one of the clinic doctor’s deliveries?”

  “Technically no, I can’t.”

  That meant he probably was, and the receptionist wanted her to know.

  “How long have you worked at the clinic?” The question popped out of Taylor’s mouth, surprising her.

  “Twenty-three years. But you should forget what you think you know about Logan and Adrian.” The woman ended the call.

  Taylor’s pulse quickened. Was that a warning? The receptionist had been at the clinic the year Adrian and Logan were born, and she knew something about their condition. Feeling shaky, Taylor paced in front of the fish tank, thinking everything through. Logan and Adrian’s mothers had both been patients at Carson Obstetrics, where they’d received prenatal care around the same time. Then they’d both given birth to intersex babies. Taylor’s mother had been stationed at Fort Carson during her pregnancy, and she’d started labor in the military hospital. She had probably been a patient at Carson Obstetrics that year too.

  A startling thought hit her brain. How many more were there? Taylor knew she was one of them—whatever they were. Two clinic babies from 1996 were dead. A chill ran up her spine. Was she in danger?

  She ran to the end of the hall. On the closet floor sat a white plastic tub that contained everything she had left of her mother. Taylor pulled it out and dug straight to the bottom for the bundle of paper, trying to ignore the soft fabric of her mother’s favorite scarf and the scent of vanilla wafting from her jewelry box. Please let there be something! A receipt, a note, or maybe the doctor’s name was on her birth certificate. She would check that next.

  Taylor scanned the military papers first, but nothing medical surfaced. Her mother’s high school track-and-field awards made Taylor smile, but she pushed them aside. A few handwritten letters from her father were also in here somewhere. He’d sent them when her mother had been overseas during the Gulf War. Or so she’d been told. Her dad had disappeared when she was four, and her mother had never talked about him. She’d never used the word died, so Taylor sensed he was still out there somewhere. Some day, she would take the time to find him, if only to ask him why he’d abandoned her. Right now, it didn’t matter.

  She found the stash of letters inside a folder, remembering that she’d tucked them there for safekeeping. The first one was brief, written on lined paper, like she’d used in grade school before they got laptops in the classroom. I love you… I miss you… I’m keeping the bed warm. Taylor’s cheeks flushed, and she flipped to the next letter. They’d all been written before she was born. No help. That was her mother’s expression, and she’d subconsciously started using it soon after her death. Along with a few other choice phrases. It was a way of keeping her close.

  Pushing to her feet, Taylor reached for the small metal safe on the top shelf. The code, made up of her favorite numbers, three and seven, was similar to her password for everything she did online. Keep it simple was her motto. Inside the safe was her birth certificate, high school diploma, social security card, pearl earrings that had belonged to her mother, and a hundred dollars she kept for emergencies.

  Taylor scanned the birth certificate, not finding the doctor’s name. She looked again more slowly. There it was, near the bottom, in the middle box. But what the heck did it say? The first two letters of the first name were CH, and the rest was a squiggle. Charles? Chuck? There weren’t many options. The last name started with an M, then the signature shot out in a dramatic line. No help at all. Damn.

  Maybe she would skip her morning classes and drive down to Fort Carson tomorrow and talk to the receptionist in person. Show the woman the birth certificate and see if she recognized the obstetrician’s name—then find the doctor and talk to him. What if he was retired now? That would make it more
challenging, but she’d try anyway. She also needed to track down Logan and Adrian’s birth certificates. But how? From their parents?

  The thought made her cringe. This was really out of her comfort zone. But talking to grieving people would be a big part of her internship, so she had to get used to it. She closed the safe, keeping the birth certificate in hand, and pushed the plastic tub back into the closet. “Later, Mom,” she whispered, closing the door. Respect for the dead was a military motto, and she’d learned it young. Now that she worked with corpses all day, it was ingrained. Or maybe her acceptance of death had compelled her into the morgue as an intern. Whatever. She had to start a load of laundry, eat some protein, and write a paper for her sociology class.

  By ten o’clock, her eyes hurt and she was exhausted. Taylor grabbed her laptop and phone from beside her on the couch and heard the familiar ping of a text. Probably Justin again. He usually texted late, after he’d had a beer or two. He’d been bugging her to hang out with him, but she only liked him as a friend. If her body were normal, she would have hooked up with him just for the experience, but she was a freak and didn’t plan to get naked with anyone she would ever see again. At least not yet.

  She tapped the message icon, not recognizing the number of the text, but the sender was obvious: Your call stirred up a lot of old memories. I looked back through the files and found a list. Give me your email address and I’ll send it to you.

  A list! Taylor sucked in her breath. That meant there were more dual-gender babies born through the clinic. She quickly texted: Thnx! Taylor73@gmail.com

  After a short wait, she checked her email, but a new message hadn’t come yet. She texted the receptionist again: Why so many intersex babies? What happened at the clinic?

  Her phone stayed silent. Taylor walked over to the fish tank, knowing it would help her keep calm. The biggest clown fish swam by, and she watched it dart through the rocks. The old woman’s contact had surprised her. Taylor certainly hadn’t expected to get a text from her. She didn’t seem the type. Where had the receptionist gotten her number? From her earlier incoming call?

  A beep in her hand made Taylor jump. She looked at the phone. An email this time. No message, just an attachment. Taylor left the file unopened and hurried to her laptop on the couch. She wanted to open the list on the big screen where she could scroll, save, and print it.

  The email was from an anonymous Hotmail account. The receptionist was being careful to mask her identity. Or was the woman trying to hide the communication from someone else? Fingers trembling, Taylor opened the attachment, a plain-text file with a long list of names and birth dates. A fast count tallied thirty-three. Four had checkmarks by their names. Her chest tightened. Logan Hurtz and Adrian Warsaw were both marked. So were two others: Zion Tumara and Seth Wozac. Were they also dead? Or targeted for death?

  After a second run through, she found her own name. No check next to it, but a little asterisk instead. What did that mean? A thorough scrutiny revealed that hers was the only name highlighted that way. She hoped the receptionist had just noted it for her convenience, but Taylor didn’t believe it.

  Someone was coming for her too.

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday, Oct. 11, 6:05 a.m.

  Running hard, breathing heavy, her heart gripped with fear. Past the burnt-out rubble that used to be buildings. The road beneath her bare feet turned to dirt, and the wreckage gave way to open fields. Were those dead bodies? Out of nowhere, the earth in front of her exploded. For a moment, she flew through the air, then landed in a heap on the cold, hard ground. The silent aftermath hurt her ears. Was she dead?

  A piercing scream cut through the quiet. But it wasn’t human. Taylor opened her eyes. The dreaded alarm drilled into her still sleepy brain. She reached out and slammed it off, heart pounding. That damn dream again. Whatever it was about. She’d never been in a war or seen an explosion, so it didn’t make sense. She hated the alarm almost as much as the dream, but at least its intrusion was short. When would she become a morning person? It was supposed to be easier now that she was twenty.

  Taylor took a long shower to wake herself up and finally made up her mind about what she should do. She wasn’t scheduled at the ME’s office, and she only had three classes. Skipping them to drive to Colorado Springs and talk to the receptionist face-to-face seemed essential. She had to find out why her name had been noted and why the others had been checked—and possibly murdered.

  She pulled on yoga pants to be comfortable during the drive and topped them with a pale-blue, button-up shirt to look sort of dressy. Plus ankle boots of course. They made her feel taller and more confident. She ate a banana and washed it down with instant coffee. Not her fave, but it was all she could afford and make time for. She grabbed her canvas shoulder bag, locked her small apartment, and headed down to her beat-up Jetta. Someday, she hoped to own a Prius or maybe a hybrid like a Trax. After getting gas, her first stop would be on campus to turn in her homework, then head south on the highway.

  She’d finished writing her deviant-behavior paper for sociology class late the night before, then had stayed up searching online for some of the names on the clinic list. The task had been challenging, and she’d only found three before she was too exhausted to continue. Two were still in Colorado, and one had moved to L.A. The first two names she’d googled were Seth Wozac and Zion Tumara. Seth hadn’t turned up at all, but she’d found Zion on Instagram. His photos also included a lot of fire scenes, which had startled her. It was as if the marked men shared some DNA. Zion, who lived in Denver, was an artist and liked outer space too, posting pictures of comets and supernovas—explosions in the cosmos.

  Tempting as it was to track down Zion right away, Taylor thought it would be best to get more information. Her mother’s voice in her head kept nagging her to contact the police, but she wasn’t ready. The thought made her queasy. What could she tell them? That two young men had died in accidents? It happened all the time. Their connection to the same obstetrics clinic was also common. The people of Colorado loved their state and tended to stick around.

  The list—and vague warning—from the clinic receptionist was the only inexplicable part of her story, and it sounded a little crazy. Taylor suspected the receptionist would deny everything if detectives questioned her. Otherwise, why hadn’t the clinic worker contacted the police herself? Taylor decided that when she was ready to take her concerns to the authorities, she would contact the female police detective who’d attended Adrian’s autopsy. At least the detective had seen one of the bodies and would understand what Taylor meant by intersex. Talking to a woman would be easier than being questioned by a man with a badge and gun.

  But she wouldn’t call the detective yet. Taylor wasn’t even sure she should contact Zion. He might think she was a paranoid type who stirred up drama just to feel alive. Yet, not warning him seemed wrong. Logan and Adrian had died seventeen days apart. If Zion or Seth came into the morgue next week, she would freak the hell out. And if she hadn’t tried to contact them, the guilt would be unbearable.

  The closest parking spot was six blocks from the sociology building, so her errand at the college took longer than she’d planned. But she managed to slip the essay under her professor’s door without encountering the woman and only had to stop and chat with one person, a graduate teaching fellow who always bugged her about her internship.

  “Who’d you cut open this week?” he asked with a smirk.

  She didn’t do the autopsies, but she was tired of explaining that to him. “A young person who drowned.”

  “Bet he was drunk.”

  She’d also assumed so at first too. “We don’t know yet. The toxicology report takes weeks.” Taylor had been surprised to learn that. TV made death investigations seem so fast and high-tech. She’d learned otherwise, but it hadn’t disappointed her. “Sorry, but I have to go. I’m late.” Taylor gave the guy a half smile and hurried away. She didn’t want to encourage him, in case he was actually flirtin
g with her in his own peculiar way.

  Once she was on the highway, she set her music to shuffle through her favorite songs and punched the address of the clinic into her GPS app. The big Colorado sky was blue and clear the way she liked it, and the mountains were topped with a light frosting of snow for the first time in months. The changing season and its new challenges suddenly made her anxious. Structure and predictability were her friends, but they never stuck around long enough.

  Carson Obstetrics was just off Nevada Avenue on the south end of Colorado Springs, not far from Fort Carson. The original red-brick building had been added onto with a two-story structure of glass and mauve concrete. Taylor sat in her car, working up the nerve to go in. She had two strategies mapped out and rehearsed, but her legs shook just thinking about the potential conflict.

  What’s the worst that could happen? Her mother’s voice echoed in her head.

  They could call security and have her thrown out.

  Then what?

  Get in the car and drive away.

  See? You’ll survive.

  Taylor smiled sheepishly and climbed out. She remembered the first time her mother had talked her through a fearful situation. A big black dog had lived in the middle of their block, and she’d been afraid to walk past that house to her school around the corner. Her mother had sat her down and asked, “What are you afraid of?”

  “It might bite me!”

  “And if the dog bites you, what happens then?”

  “It’ll hurt and I’ll bleed,” she’d responded, even more worried.

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know. I might need stitches.”

  “Then what?”

  Taylor had shrugged, not wanting to admit the next part.

  Her mother had supplied it. “We’ll put on a bandage, and you’ll go back out and play.”