Mark of the Beast (8 page)

“Last night after dinner, remember? You came to help me do the dishes,” Alexis responded as she sat on the high stool and leaned over the countertop.

“No, sweetheart, I was probably upset,” Joanne clarified, managing to inch out a smile.

“Like you always are.” Doug could not help that one.

“Drop dead,” Joanne muttered as she reached over to lead Alexis out of the kitchen to the bathroom.

“What?” Alexis asked, reaching over to grab Mom's hand.

Joanne took a deep breath, paused for a moment, then looked at Alexis and said, “Nothing sweetheart, your Dad is upsetting me, as usual.”

“Dad, stop upsetting Mom!” Alexis shouted, sensing her mother's uneasiness.

“I do not,” Doug said, as if trying to win his case in front of a jury. “Your mother is the one with the problem.”

“So I'm the one with the problem, huh?” Joanne asked. “I suppose you're the one with all the answers, aren't you? You know what? You'll see.”

“See what?” Doug asked, standing at the door to the master bathroom, face perplexed.

“You will see,” Joanne said.

Doug brushed it off as one of Joanne's little tirades and went into the master bathroom to shower, shave, and dress for work.

Doug, who just got promoted to junior partner at the law firm of Lloyds and Benson, one of the most prominent law firms in Chicago, worked long hours. Joanne resented the fact that Doug spent more time at work than at home. Joanne, on the other hand, had been accused by her friends at the Johnson Pharmaceutical Company, in Niles, Illinois, of being overprotective of her children.

Joanne also was recently promoted. She was now a senior sales supervisor.

“Good-bye, honey; bye, kids.” Doug waved, leaving hastily for work. He was already dressed in his blue business suit, briefcase in hand, walking out the door. “I have an eight o'clock meeting with Donald Stallman—you know, the guy on TV who was accused of murdering his wife,” Doug said, trying to leave the house on what he thought was a reconciliatory note.

“What are you…?” Joanne was about to bark.

“I was only joking,” Doug interrupted immediately. “My goodness! You can't even appreciate a joke anymore. He's being accused of embezzlement.”

With that, he closed the door behind him.

Joanne wanted to do something to Doug right there and then, but before she could make a move, Doug was already out the door, no mention of breakfast or coffee, no good-bye kisses to her or the kids. Feeling thwarted, Joanne was engulfed with rage. She cursed at everything and anything in her path.

Alexis and Isipe were busy in their rooms getting dressed for school. It was look-your-best day for the seventh and eighth graders at Wicker Park Middle School. Joanne had promised the kids that this year they would be the best-dressed kids in the entire school.

“Hey, Mom, you like?” Alexis asked, feeling rather good in her new clothes.

“You look … okay,” Joanne responded, somewhat absent-minded.

“I don't look bad either,” Isipe said, wanting his own accolade.

“You look like a gentleman.”

Joanne was trying to put on the best face possible, all the while lost in reverie.

“You know what, kids, let's not go to school or work today,” Joanne suggested out of nowhere.

“What?” Isipe said with a puzzled look on his face.

“Let's all go for a ride in the boat on the lake.”

“Are you serious?” Alexis asked.

“Yes. It's a beautiful day for a boat ride. Come on, pack a few things and drinks. Let's go have fun on our boat.”

Doug and Joanne Stead were members of the Navy Pier Yacht Club, and they owned a medium-sized boat, which they had used on a few occasions to sail around Lake Michigan.

It had been during one of the boat rides almost eight years ago that the first Stella arguments between Doug and Joanne occurred.

While enjoying the scenic skyscrapers, Doug had quipped, “This is like the good old days.”

“What good old days?” Joanne had asked.

“Oh, never mind.”

“Please, tell me.”

“Okay, I want you to promise me you won't take this wrong.”

“I won't.”

“Well,” Doug had begun, “about eight or nine years ago, Stella's parents took us on a boat ride along the lakeshore. It was a wonderful experience. There was champagne, hamburgers, and beer. It was on a hot summer day just like today.”

“You miss that, don't you?” Joanne had suggested, a curious expression crossing her face.

“Yeah,” Doug had replied, nodding his head nonchalantly.

“Was it better than now?”

“What do you mean, better than now?” Doug had asked, suddenly realizing the course of the conversation.

“I mean, would you rather be there than here?” Joanne had wanted to know.

“Be where?”

“Be in the boat with Stella.”

“That's ridiculous. I'm here with you, am I not?” Doug had replied.

“Yeah, but your heart was there; otherwise, you wouldn't have brought it up,” Joanne had argued.

“You promised you wouldn't be upset.”

“I'm not upset. I just wanna know.”

“Can we drop this?” Doug had gotten up immediately and walked toward the deck.

That was the beginning of several serious arguments about Doug's previous relationship with Stella. Even Joanne agreed that most of their arguments were about how Doug's parents fell in love with Stella's parents, how the marriage did not happen because Doug loathed Stella's abrasive behavior and her standing up for herself.

“Okay, Mom, we're ready to go sailing.” Alexis interrupted Joanne's thoughts.

“Pack your school bags with your shoes and clothes in case we dock at Navy Pier to go shopping,” instructed Joanne.

“We did already,” Alexis yelled with a surprised look on her face.

“Oh, yes!” Joanne answered.

In less than forty-five minutes, they arrived at the yacht club members-only parking lot. Safely parked, they headed to the boat with backpacks, one suitcase, and a cooler filled with cans of Diet 7Up and Sierra Mist.

Joanne's plan was to dock at Navy Pier for lunch, then shop for new clothes for Alexis, sneakers for Isipe, and jewelry for herself. These were the rare occasions when Joanne could splurge on herself and the kids, knowing full well that Doug would have something to say against the whole idea.

“I brought some orange juice and doughnuts,” said Joanne.

“I'll have some,” Alexis replied.

“I will do that, too, then the Sierra Mist later,” Isipe added.

Joanne reached into the cooler while gingerly steering the boat against the gentle summer Chicago wind.

“Here,” Joanne said to Alexis, “pour one for you, and one for Isipe. The doughnuts are in the plastic container.”

Both Alexis and Isipe had their fill and were satisfied. With their life jackets on, they started comparing which skyscraper was better looking and which one they would like to own if they ever became wealthy.

Within minutes, Isipe yelled from the washroom, “Mom, I'm sick.”

“What's the matter?” Joanne asked, with an anticipatory look.

“My stomach is upset and I'm gonna throw…” Isipe could not finish his sentence before projectile vomit mixed with blood spewed out of his mouth. He fell to the ground, curled himself into a fetal position, and grabbed his throat as if something was choking him. With a little whimper, “I need a doctor,” he turned blue. It started with his fingertips, then traveled to his neck. He struggled to breathe to no avail and passed out.

Joanne ran to find Alexis. There on the bathroom floor was Alexis, covered with blood-soaked vomit, while blood droplets dripped from her nose. Her entire body had turned dark blue.

“I declare,” Joanne said, quivering but composed, “that cyanide worked as quickly as they had said. Those guys at the Genome Laboratories are something else.”

With that, Joanne drank the rest of the orange juice, then plunged into the cool waters of Lake Michigan.

 

PART

IV

 

1

T
HE CAMPAIGN FOR THE
governor of Illinois had suddenly become very competitive. It pitched the Democratic secretary of state, Edgar Jones, against a Republican congressman, Milton Roderick.

Mr. Jones ran as a strong Secretary of State and advocated liberal positions, like home monitoring for petty criminals so as to avoid overcrowding in state prisons.

Congressman Roderick, on the other hand, campaigned on stronger and longer prison terms for all criminals, promising to rid the state of Illinois of all criminal elements and also to restore ethics in government.

Dr. Abramhoff supported Roderick, especially on the criminal issue, and had donated a substantial amount of money to his campaign.

During one of the gubernatorial campaign stops in Chicago to highlight Roderick's support for reform of Illinois' runaway medical malpractice insurance premiums, Dr. Abramhoff had had an opportunity to discuss with him the Kankakee Project.

The gathering was downtown at the Chicago Sheraton overlooking the Chicago River.

“Hello, Mr. Congressman,” Abramhoff said, noticing Roderick momentarily alone at the bar table.

“Hello, Doc.” Roderick smiled and then shook Abramhoff's outstretched hand. “I'm grateful for all your efforts. Folks like you will make this a successful campaign.”

“You know I'm in total support of your stand on crime,” Abramhoff said.

“Thank you,” Roderick replied, reaching for the gin and tonic that he had ordered.

“Actually, my department at the university is currently designing a project at the Kankakee Federal Prison to study the relationship, if any, between hard-core criminals at the maximum security prison and their genetic makeup.”

“That's good,” the congressman replied. “Care for a drink?”

“No thanks. What I mean is that we are looking to see if there is a genetic tendency to criminality just like there is a tendency to, say, develop diabetes, cancer, and some bowel diseases.”

“Are you implying that there may be a link between criminals and inherited genes?” There was a curious look on the congressman's face as he reached for his second sip of the drink.

“Not real inheritance, per say, but people with criminal intent … I mean those individuals may be predestined to commit crimes, just like Joanne Stead, that Chicago woman who poisoned her kids, and that fellow in Atlanta,” Abramhoff explained.

“Now that's really interesting,” Roderick said, letting out a slight cough. “You mean that these individuals were predisposed to commit terrible crimes?”

“Actually … yes. What we are looking for is a way to develop a testing mechanism to determine who, therefore, is going to commit terrible crimes, just as there are now testing mechanisms to determine who will develop arthritis, diabetes, or breast cancer.” Abramhoff finally regained his composure. “Once that is done, who knows, we might invent a better cure for criminals.”

“How do you intend to develop this test?” Roderick asked.

“There are two areas we are focusing on. One is the DNA, which we clearly know is not yielding good results, but the other, an area known as the human leukocyte antigen, HLA for short, has taken on a whole new meaning and new research interest.”

Abramhoff appeared more comfortable.

“Human leuko-what?” Roderick asked.

“In medicine we call it the HLA,” Abramhoff replied.

“So you think there is, or may be, a link between this … this…?” Roderick asked.

“HLA,” Abramhoff assisted.

“This HLA and criminals,” the congressman said.

“Yes.” A look of excitement lit Abramhoff's face as he perceived that Roderick was finally getting the picture. “And we intend to prove just that.”

“What do you need from me?” the congressman asked as he finished his drink.

“We have requested federal help to start a pilot project at the Kankakee Federal Prison,” Abramhoff said. “I was just wondering,” continued Abramhoff, “if the state of Illinois can champion this project. If the research pans out, imagine the national attention it can garner and subsequent federal funds it will attract.”

“Could you imagine what that would do for my career and for the state government?” Congressman Roderick said. “You'd be responsible for one of the greatest scientific, criminological breakthroughs of all time.

“How do you perform this test again?” Congressman Roderick asked.

“What test?” Abramhoff asked.

“This HLA thing,” Roderick said. “Do you draw blood, shine a light in their eyes, urine test, or spit test?”

“Oh!” answered Abramhoff with a smile. “The project would involve identifying the hard-core and most twisted criminals, and start with them. We will draw their blood, isolate their leukocytes, identify the antigen areas, and using chromatography, map out their HLA.”

“Too much technical detail for me,” the congressman said as he dropped five dollars in the glass tip collection bowl. “Bottom line is what?”

“Blood is drawn to find an area or areas on the HLA that may be common to these criminals,” Abramhoff responded.

“And if you're successful?” Roderick asked.

“Most likely develop a test for it,” Abramhoff said.

“Now help me again,” Roderick said. “What would the test do?”

“Well,” Abramhoff said, “with the testing, we can then identify individuals who are predisposed or predestined to become criminals.”

“People who are predestined to become criminals…” Roderick reflected. “Do you realize the implications of this both nationally and internationally?”

“I do fully realize the implications, sir,” Abramhoff said with a certain amount of authority.