The Gender Experiment: (A Thriller) Page 9

  Voices in the hall cut into his thoughts. He heard a woman say, “Only three stops today. The two Breakfast Pantries and the stale goods that go to the Mission.”

  A man responded, “Good. My back is killing me.”

  Footsteps moved away in two directions.

  Perfect. Jake pushed up the metal lid over his head and peeked out the inch-wide opening. The hall was clear. He climbed out and glanced toward the kitchen. No man in black. He stepped out the exit door again, blinking in the bright sun. A blue box truck sat there, with the back roller-door open. The driver was inside the cargo area, dumping a tray of bread bags into a bin. Jake moved sideways against the building, hoping to get out of the driver’s line of sight. He wished he had a cigarette to light, so he could pretend to be a store employee on a break. The driver clumped down the metal ramp, empty-handed, and walked back inside the store. Jake scooted up the ramp, glancing around for the killer.

  Was that him by the dumpsters? His heart skipped a beat, even though the man in black wasn’t looking at him.

  Inside the truck, Jake rushed to the back and moved a load of boxes, then slipped behind them and sat down. Hopefully, the driver would be preoccupied with his back pain and not notice the change.

  He didn’t. The driver made two more trips into the truck to load bakery goods, then pushed the ramp back into its slot, and closed the overhead door.

  An hour later, Jake scooted out when the driver took the old bread into the Mission. He stared at the familiar building and longed to go inside for a meal. But he would settle for the stale muffin in his pocket. Finding out what was happening with Taylor couldn’t wait.

  Chapter 16

  Jake hurried back to the Rocky Ridge Motel, taking only side streets so he wouldn’t be seen from Nevada Avenue. He didn’t mind the walk, but his feet were cold from the holes in his shoes, and he wanted out of the killer’s sight. The motel room might not turn out to be a safe haven, but right now it seemed like one.

  He passed the manager’s office and considered paying for another night but not yet. He had calls to make first, and it might be better to move to another motel. He put the card-key in the lock of room seven and hesitated. What if the killer was inside, waiting for him? He backtracked to the office. A different woman was on duty, older and reeking of cigarettes.

  Jake nodded and gave his name. “Has anyone asked about me or my friend, Taylor Lopez?”

  “No.” She glared at him. “You can’t have guests in the room.” A glance at the clock. “And it’s past checkout time.”

  “I know. I’m trying to decide if I want to stay another night. I’ll get back to you in a bit.” Jake scooted out of the office before she could respond. He glanced up and down the street, then turned his face back to the building and hurried into their room. He wished he knew what the assassin was driving. And it would be great to have access to Taylor’s car. How would he retrieve it? The killer might be watching the vehicle now, assuming they would eventually come back to it. Abandoning the Jetta seemed crazy.

  Inside the dark motel room, Jake finally felt his body start to unclench. He lay on the bed and listened to his heartbeat, grateful to be alive. He’d never come so close to death. Not even that time he’d nearly drowned trying to swim across Cedar Lake—while stoned, of course. He really wanted to smoke a joint right now but resisted.

  When he felt calm enough to sound rational, Jake called his friend at the Colorado Springs PD. They’d met when they were both employees at the Denver paper. She’d left the Post to take a public relations job at the Springs police department for better benefits. They’d dated briefly, then decided they were better friends than lovers. But she moved soon after, and they’d lost contact. “Kari, it’s Jake.”

  “Hey! It’s good to hear from you.” She lowered her voice mid-sentence, as if suddenly aware of her surroundings. “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m struggling a little, but it’s temporary. How are you?”

  “Good.” A pause. “I can’t really talk right now. Can I call you after work?”

  “Do you have a minute?” This wasn’t a social call.

  “Sure.”

  “I need a favor. I’m in Colorado Springs, and a friend was picked up this morning by detectives. I need to know what’s happening with her.”

  “That doesn’t sound good. What’s her name?”

  “Taylor Lopez.”

  “Do you know which detectives?”

  “No, but one of them looked young. Dark hair and jeans with a tweed jacket.”

  “That’s Brad Miller. Give me your number, and I’ll see what I can find out. But I’m not optimistic.”

  “Thanks.” He ended the call.

  Jake booted up Taylor’s laptop and searched for inmate information at the local jail. Taylor’s name didn’t come up. At least she hadn’t been booked into custody. A troubling thought hit him. If the assassin had seen Taylor being arrested, would he wait for her outside the police department? Maybe jail was the safest place for Taylor right now.

  While Jake waited to hear back from Kari, he decided to search for Seth Wozac. He’d promised Taylor that he would, but he hadn’t had time since they discussed it in the coffee shop. Jake checked Facebook and Instagram but struck out. He then tried Denver city records, in case Seth owned property or had been married in Denver. No luck there either. Seth could have moved away to attend college or taken a job in the oil fields. He could be anywhere. Or already dead.

  Jake started to search El Paso county, which covered Colorado Springs, but his phone rang. Kari. “Hey, what’s the situation?”

  “Taylor is being questioned in the murder of Bonnie Yost,” Kari whispered. “But they haven’t charged her, except for criminal mischief. That’s all I could find out.”

  “Will you call me when she’s released?”

  “If I can. I leave at five, but the detectives often work all night if they have a homicide and a viable suspect. Taylor could be released at anytime.” Kari kept her voice quiet. “Or she could be booked into jail. I’ll try to keep you posted.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Jake? Did she do it? Kill that old woman?”

  “Get out! No.” He wanted to tell Kari about the assassin, but it sounded lame without the whole back-story. “Taylor just wanted to find out more about her birth and maybe learn something about her father.”

  “Good to know. I’ll call you later.” Kari clicked off.

  Jake paced the musty motel room. Was this his fault for pushing Taylor to go back to the clinic, or would the detectives have tracked her down anyway? It didn’t matter. He had to help her. What Taylor really needed was a lawyer. Yet an attorney would want a retainer, probably several thousand, and they didn’t have it.

  Could he bluff his way into the police department, pretending to be her lawyer? He could pick up a suit at a second-hand store. Maybe even print a few fake business cards. Bad idea. Maybe he could find a lawyer who would take her case pro-bono. The criminal mischief charge was bullshit. The police might just question Taylor and let her go.

  And the killer could be waiting—unless the man in black was still looking for him.

  Jake had never felt so helpless. The least he could do was to track down Seth and warn him. It was the one thing he could accomplish while holed up in this motel room.

  Jake plopped on the bed and grabbed the laptop. He would search every county in Colorado. If only he had access to national databases. He suddenly remembered the files from the clinic. He stood and pulled the thumb drive from the hidden interior pocket of his jeans. Running from the assassin and worrying about Taylor had preoccupied him so much, he’d briefly forgotten about the clinic data. With the drive inserted, he opened the white file icon on the laptop screen. Dozens of color-coded folders appeared, many labeled with yearly dates and a short group of seemingly random capital letters. The labels meant something though, and with enough data sifting, he would figure it out. The first thing he would look for was
Seth’s parents. They might still be in Colorado and know where to find him.

  Loud knocking on the door startled him. The motel manager shouted, “Pay up or get out!”

  Jake decided to pay for another day. If he moved to a new motel, it had to be late at night when he had a chance of escaping the assassin’s watchful eye. Using Zion’s cash, he opened the door a few inches and gave the manager the night’s rate. “I’ll get a receipt later.”

  The old woman eyed him suspiciously, trying to look past him into the room.

  “Don’t worry. It’s all good.” Jake closed the door and sat on the bed. His stomach cramped, and he realized he hadn’t eaten hardly anything since he’d left Zion’s home the night before. Guilt sent another stab of pain to his gut. When he could, he would locate Zion’s family and pay them back.

  For now, he had to eat. He ordered a sausage-and-mushroom pizza to be delivered and sat back down to open files. He couldn’t stop thinking about Taylor. She must be hungry too. Maybe even handcuffed and thirsty. Would she confess to a murder she hadn’t committed if they intimidated her enough? Please no. He didn’t believe it. She was stronger than she thought. Her courage to pursue this investigation, knowing that two subjects had already been killed, spoke for itself.

  He grabbed the laptop, leaned back against the wall, and opened a file dated 1995/96. Within it were hundreds of folders labeled with last names. To check what kind of data they contained, he clicked the top folder: Sandra Altman. Three documents displayed. The first was a medical history file with some personal data, the second contained birth records, and the third was her pregnancy record. A scan of the birth information revealed that the baby had been labeled female, with no notes indicating gender confusion or abnormality. Were these files even relevant? Maybe the test subject data had been destroyed or kept somewhere else. But the researchers had known not only where to find the three men who’d been killed, but they also knew the three subjects shared a love of fire. They were keeping track of the offspring.

  Jake switched to Sandra Altman’s pregnancy record and scanned through the data, looking for a prescription or injection and didn’t see one. But he’d moved too quickly. He started at the top and perused it again, reading every word. Under a listing titled Ges-Rx, he finally found a short list of medications: Prenatal vitamins, amoxicillin, ImmuNatal. The vitamins and antibiotic seemed harmless enough, but what the heck was ImmuNatal? He googled it and came up with nothing. Was it the experimental medication that had created dozens of intersex children? It would be interesting to see if the mystery prescription showed up in other files.

  But first he needed to check if Seth Wozac was listed. Jake scanned to the bottom of the folders and spotted an entry labeled Julie Wozac, NPIN. Did IN stand for ImmuNatal? Jake scrolled back to Altman’s file, which also bore the label NPIN. Many others said NPST, and a few were marked APST. He would think about the coding later. Finding and warning Seth had to be a priority.

  Julie Wozac had given birth to Seth Richard Wozac on March 15, 1996. The father was listed as Dale Wozac, and the baby’s gender was male. Jake couldn’t find notes indicating any gender confusion. Had the doctor ignored the obvious or suppressed it? Or was Taylor simply wrong? Or maybe most intersex babies used to be labeled with a single gender—because that’s what society expected. Maybe they still were. Or it might be the parents’ choice now. He’d read that doctors often performed surgeries on newborns to force them into a single gender. Jake cringed and reached to protect himself. Was there a standard protocol in the medical field? He wanted to believe obstetricians and parents were more open-minded these days, but he’d never given the subject much thought. He would ask Taylor what she knew about it.

  Out of curiosity, he looked up her mother’s records: Mariah Lopez, NPIN. Baby Taylor was listed as female. He glanced at the Father box, which listed Miguel Lopez. Taylor hadn’t mentioned him once. Jake kept scanning and discovered that Taylor’s mother had taken ImmuNatal too. He checked to see if a doctor was listed. Charles Metzler.

  Jake had occasionally spotted a second name, Dr. David Novak, but the Altman and Wozac files also listed Metzler as the obstetrician. Could he find him? Metzler might be pretty old by now. Plus, Seth still came first. Jake went back to the Wozac file, looking for an address.

  A loud knock on the door made him jump. Jake looked around for a weapon or a place to hide. Someone called out, “Pizza delivery.”

  Relieved, he paid the driver and tipped him five bucks. Jake had waited tables in college and knew how important the extra cash was. Minimum wage didn’t leave enough money to buy pizza after paying rent, utilities, and car insurance.

  After scarfing down three pieces, he felt satiated enough to set it aside. He had to make this money last, and Taylor would be hungry if and when the police released her. Now he needed a little toke to compliment his meal and keep him from feeling cooped up. He still had half a joint in his backpack. Jake found his lighter in a jacket pocket and smoked it in two big lungfuls.

  Ahh. Tension melted from his body and his thoughts mellowed. He reached for the laptop and opened the Wozac file. But the urgency had gone out of his task, and he had to reread information. After a few minutes, he put the data-intensive files aside. He tried searching for Seth’s parents online and found Julie Wozac on LinkedIn. She ran her own consulting company and had multiple contact listings. Jake called the top phone number, then panicked about what to say. He couldn’t tell her the truth; she’d think he was mentally ill. But he needed her son’s information. With clinic files and Dr. Metzler on his mind, Jake opened with, “Mrs. Wozac? This is Dr. David Carson. I’m trying to reach Seth Wozac. Is he available?”

  “Ahh, no. He hasn’t lived with me in a few years.” Sadness permeated her voice. “What is this about?”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t violate patient confidentiality. Yet, it’s important that I speak with him. Please tell me how I can reach Seth.”

  “Why don’t you have his number?” A little concern now.

  “This is the only contact information he supplied on his intake form. Some patients get the test but are afraid of the results, so they make it hard for us to contact them. But he needs to know.”

  A sharp intake of breath. “What’s his diagnosis? Is he all right?”

  “I really can’t tell you, but I hope he will. Do you have his number?”

  “Yes. Let me look in my phone for it. I hope I don’t cut you off when I do.” A moment later, she read the number to him, as though it were not one she was familiar with. “Please tell him to call me,” the desperate mother pleaded. “I want to help.”

  “I will. Thank you.” Jake got off the phone, heaved a sigh of relief, then processed a wave of guilt for making the poor woman worry. He rationalized it by reminding himself that he was trying to keep Seth alive. The next call would be even more difficult. He had no idea how Seth would react to the potential death threat, yet Jake had to warn him.

  He called the number and rehearsed his speech while it rang. Seth didn’t answer. Following Taylor’s example, Jake left a brief message: “This is Jake Wilson, and I have information about your birth that you need to know. Your life could be in danger. Please call or text me so we can meet and talk about this.”

  He tried to read more of the medical files, but exhaustion from not sleeping much the night before overcame him and he lay down to rest his eyes. He wasn’t just tired though; he was stoned. If he hadn’t smoked, he might still be working this investigation.

  Shit. Getting high had been a mistake. Again. He vowed it would be his last time.

  Chapter 17

  Friday, Oct. 14, 5:05 a.m.

  The recurring strange dream disappeared the moment she opened her eyes. Taylor glanced around. The horrible gray room still held her captive. She sat up and leaned against the wall, her side aching from napping on the hard floor. At least she wasn’t handcuffed anymore. But she was hungry, and her lips hurt from drying out. It had to be the middle
of the night or early morning by now. How long would they hold her? She had to pee again. She fought the urge to cry. Be strong. Get mad. Her mother’s coaching had gotten her through this so far. What she really needed was a lawyer. Did she know any?

  The door burst open, and the older detective charged into the room. “Get up!”

  His intensity drove her to her feet. The way he looked at her, as if she were some kind of lowlife. God, she hated him. Where was his partner? This was the first time Blunt had come in alone, and she didn’t trust him.

  “Sit in the chair. I want some goddamn answers.” He slammed a fist into the table.

  But he’d done that a few times already, so she didn’t react. He was a bully, and she survived other bullies. But in this situation, she wasn’t free to walk away.

  “What were you doing in that clinic with a fake baby belly?”

  “Looking for information.”

  “Who was with you?”

  “No one.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. She and Jake had split up, and she’d been alone in the lobby. Stop talking! That’s what a lawyer would advise her.

  “Witnesses saw you with a young man. Who is he?”

  “I’ve answered all these questions before.” Taylor forced herself to project her voice. “So I’m done. I have nothing else to say.”

  The detective jumped to his feet. “You’re done when I say you are.” He came around to her side of the table and stuck his face right next to hers. “You killed that old woman. Smashed her head with a heavy flashlight and stole her cell phone. Just fucking admit it.” His breath reeked of cigarettes and bad coffee.

  “No, I didn’t.

  He grabbed her by the chin and squeezed. “Without a plea deal, you’ll do life in prison.”