Splicer (3 page)

Malcolm Grieves was slipping. He felt it every day.

Sometimes he could sense a change in himself between morning and sunset, even between breakfast and lunch. He was reminded of the
Incredible Shrinking Man
. Everyday, every hour, a bloody new perspective.

He bathed now only every third or fourth day. When he did manage to find an available shower at the Y or a nearby hostel, he felt as if he was washing away layers of himself he would never see again. He was reminded of a movie he saw once about lepers, their fingers and toes dropping off with no more drama than the kind reserved for a missing button.

He toweled himself with lunatic precision now, in a hopeless attempt to postpone the emergence of that tremulous thing he imagined was quivering inside of him. He wasn't ready to let it out just yet.

  He had let his hair grow long and stringy. There was grime under his fingernails and his clothes were stained with his sweat. There was no question - he had re-invented himself and it made him dizzy to consider the wonderful potential of this new personality. He had a new toy to play with. Grieves two point zero.

He was slouched over, shuffling across the pavement near Bloor Street, his clothes too large for him. The
new
Grieves, of wirier and hairier construction. Free of all that
civilized
bullshit. Free to push old ladies on the street, free to urinate against a parked car if he wanted to, let it hang out for all the goofs to stare at, free to ... SHIT.

His mind went blank again.

He stopped and felt his head. It was getting worse.
What made a person keep moving when all the reasons evaporated?
Maybe it wasn't movement. Maybe every day he just shrank back a little bit from the world and that gave him a sense that he was moving forward. If it weren't for Dante ... he didn't even want to think about that. Didn't want to think about what it would be like to just be there. Without his
codes
.

Codes, or programming, were as relevant to most people's lives as the Dead Sea scrolls. But to Grieves, it was everything. Since his first year of university, it had obsessed him completely. He sat down as a student one day and pecked out a simple Basic program on a computer keyboard. The program was called 'Life'.

'Life' was a simple game. The program planted four little graphic cells on a computer screen. You chose their position. Then they began to grow, multiply, and die according to how they were placed. Close cells prospered and grew. Distant cells died. They grew and then withered and grew again on the computer screen with the frenzy of fruit flies on amphetamines. Generations came and went in seconds. Grieves was mesmerized by the swirling patterns.

So he finessed the program - added different kinds of cells - tried changing all the rules. He ignored his girlfriend, his classes, and his hygiene. At times like this, and there were many in his life, reality swung off into the distance out of focus. He was finally the god of his own little universe again. 

He developed a tiny program, hardly more than a few lines of instructions; a perfect little sonnet that calculated how long a person could survive without food or water. Another that estimated the effect of Brownian motion on a helium balloon. Or expected survival rates after radical mastectomy. With time, the numbing process of sitting down and mapping out a complex program became almost a subconscious process.

Grieves could sit at a keyboard and develop a chunk of working software faster than anyone he knew. And he met a lot of superstar programmers during his studies at MIT.

When he graduated, his impressive credentials gave him quick access to a number of plum jobs. He worked at Dow in Boston for three years creating computerized artificial hormones. The program would test them on an imaginary human host. Saved on the messy cost of volunteers.

At Level Five Labs in New York he developed a computer program called a
micronaut,
which prompted a feature article in
Discover
magazine. A
micronaut
was essentially a computer virus that could be sent on a mission to infect distant computers, but could also search for information and return to home base undetected.

He became famous in software circles worldwide - even appearing as the keynote speaker at various programming conventions, an article in Wired, even an offer from Google. Nobody could crank out more perfect code as quickly, as brilliantly, as he could. He was a prodigy.

And then it all came apart.

Under his coat now, his only worldly possession lay wrapped in a greasy bag. He hugged it to himself. He shuddered to think what his life would be like without this one last link to his past.

"Malcolm?"

He stopped, his hands in his pockets. He turned dumbly to the voice.

"Malcolm Grieves? Is that you?" A female voice.

No you bitch, it's the new Malcolm
. This thought flashed in his consciousness and surprised him mildly - just another of the voices fighting for attention in his head.

She looked familiar, like a face from a high school yearbook. She was tall, wore a dark suit, looked very clean and cool and freshly scrubbed. This puzzled him. He felt feverish. A phrase kept coming to him.
Off with her head.

"Are you all right?" she asked quietly.

He smiled slightly and pushed the greasy hair away from his face. She was tall, very tall. Long straight black hair whipped around her face in the wind. He imagined it falling softly; her head clear from the body. A slight look of surprise on her lips. He studied her again. Her business-like attire couldn't hide statuesque breasts and long legs.
Who the hell was she?

Then he knew and a shiver ran through him. He felt as if a long thin needle had been pushed into his body, a spinal tap to go. He turned and stumbled but somehow avoided falling. He did a halting, jerky dance across the pavement. She stood watching him, her expression remote.

A van lurched past him, the driver yelling obscenities. Then Grieves remembered his appointment. He turned into the dank breeze of an alleyway and moved away from her as quickly as he could, tacking away from her scent. But already he wanted to go back to her and he knew, as a programmer knows the flaws of his own yet unfinished code, that his mind was failing him; that left unattended it might crash and burn.

He wanted her; he also wanted her hurt. Another thought that only mildly surprised him. There would be pain for someone else too. Someone he thought of every hour - perhaps every minute of his endless unstructured days.
He could hurt her
he thought, choking back his emotion. He could cause her pain and he would feel less than nothing. This made him smile but also surprised him.
You are truly capable of anything today, Grieves my friend.
Capable of twisting her simple white neck. Capable of getting even.
Then maybe his brain would heal itself, back to its original pristine orderliness. More than anything else, that's what Grieves wanted - his mind back.

Shay stood on the curb watching Grieves scramble away.
Like a battered crab looking for a rock
, she thought, both amused and mildly disgusted by the analogy. But he
was
disgusting ... and he looked so ...  haunted? Is that what going to prison for a couple of years does to a man like Grieves? She didn't think so. He was different, no question. Someone who had been abused and then made up for it with a false tinker-toy bravado. But was he still smart? What troubled her, made her skin itch, was she saw no intelligence in those eyes anymore.

Her mother had a stroke last summer, the glimmer of intelligence gone forever from her sad gray eyes. Grieves looked like that. Someone should put up a sign. Vacancy.

He was also a filthy smelling mess.
He always wanted so badly to belong,
she thought. Now he did - to the swelling ranks of the street people. She shuddered slightly and turned.

She'd have a story to tell Rusty next time they spoke.

Rusty had folded his arms and put his feet up on the scarred desk in the detention room. He was going to try to rest, chill. Relaxed prisoners drove cops crazy. He was going to work at it.

He knew exactly why they thought he had murdered Jeff Ludd, and he was angry and hurt the moment they put the cuffs on him, but he saw it coming. Hell, he was great at seeing things coming but not overly adept at sidestepping them. This one had rolled right over him.

He wanted to yell out in righteous indignation
.
Isn't there anyone else's life you can screw up? You've done mine already!
But he had to play it out. Was there any point in making a scene? He had tried that once before and it hadn't really changed anything.

He remembered the TV news footage from the previous week. He saw a brief flash of Jeff Ludd's face on the tube. He was alive then, red-cheeked, cocky. The blood hadn't flown from his brain yet, hadn't made his jowls go slack and puffy. Ludd was always playing the unassuming young millionaire, the genius who looked more like a computer nerd University student than a ruthless businessman. They had found him murdered in his electric car on Wednesday night.

As soon as Rusty had heard about the death on the radio the next morning - something cold and quivery had unfolded in his midsection. He couldn't deny that he hadn't thought about how good it might feel to be rid of Ludd. He may have even said it out loud at some point, to a close friend, his ex-wife, his roommate or even an odd co-worker. But hearing that Ludd was finally gone, finally faded from Rusty's littered career path, well, it didn't feel good or healthy at all. It felt sick and dangerous.

Ludd had molded himself into a media favorite. His death was a double blow against capitalism and the modern wonders of science. In the early nineties, he had formed a startup biotech company called
GeneFab
, with an old school buddy by the name of Rosenblatt.

Two years ago they had demonstrated a prototype of a machine that modified DNA and cloned cells in minutes. The machine was white, sculpted in stainless steel and graphite - and loaded with new techno baubles. With a few swipes on the touch screen, the right voice commands, they claimed a user would be able to build a brand new gene. The
Splicer
, they called it, had the potential to become the microwave of the biology industry.

Last year,
GeneFab
grossed over two billion dollars in international sales. This year they would have broken ten, and may still. Without actually producing a single machine yet.

Rusty and the company's head programmer, Malcolm Grieves, were a handful of the first employees to join the company. They were supposed to be participating in juicy stock dividends right now, laying on a beach somewhere fantasizing about their next big software project. Instead, Grieves had spent almost two years in prison for theft of company secrets, and Rusty was sitting in a smelly holding cell.

Last time Rusty paid a visit to the
cop shop
his roomies were just small time crooks- pickpockets and bicycle thieves. This time it would be the big time. Murderers row. Rusty shivered.

  He began to drift off when the door banged open.

"Call from your lawyer," said a young detective in a blue sports coat. "I'll bring it in."  He dragged a battered black phone in with a long cord, handed it to Rusty and pulled the door closed behind him. They had confiscated his cell phone during the arrest.

Rusty put the phone to his ear, which smelled of Old Spice and tobacco. He said hello, then felt his heart rate increase.

The voice on the other end wasn't his lawyer. It was David Quinn.

An area known as MaRS, the Medical and Related Sciences Discovery District, encompassed several blocks of prime real estate near Queen’s Park in downtown Toronto which included Discovery Tower, a state-of-the-art wet lab housing dozens of small biotech start-ups. GeneFab’s impressive new headquarters formed the other cornerstone of the park, an eight story titanium and electrochromic glass structure that Ludd obsessed over for years

The building was so advanced that portions of the plaza floor were made from self-healing concrete. Ludd would explain to visitors that the concrete had embedded clay that contained dormant bacteria and a food source. When a crack appeared in the concrete, water would seep in and activate the bacteria. When they awoke, the bacteria would eat their stored lunch and then conveniently excrete chalk, which would fill the crack. Another modern biotech wonder.

The plaza alone cost ten million dollars to build.

The main floor of GeneFab’s head-office housed Marketing; the next four floors peopled by some of the most impressive bio and science credentials on the planet - Nobel Prize winners, internationally recognized researchers. Among their team they currently held over 50 patents on DNA and genetic research.

Rosenblatt ran the business from a relatively unassuming office, a twin to Ludd’s next door, which was currently cordoned off with yellow police tape. Jeff loved to spend money to impress shareholders, but he refused to pamper himself or his key execs. Rosenblatt hated his partner’s cheapness - the crappy cars, the bad clothes, the cheap glasses he bought online from some Chinese company for twenty-dollars. He never understood the point.

Rosenblatt’s smart phone vibrated on his desk, so he tapped the speaker key. Security had two members of the Toronto police downstairs who would like to speak to him. Rosenblatt fidgeted and then told them to send them up to the top floor.

When Rosenblatt arrived at reception, the police officers who had spoken to him a few days before, were waiting for him. Looks of impatience were written on their faces. They shook hands. "Mr. Rosenblatt? Inspector Kozak! And you'll remember Detective Otter. Have you got a few moments?"

Rosenblatt led them down a hallway lined with abstract art, into a massive boardroom. He slid the wide glass door closed behind them.

"This will only take a few minutes," offered Kozak. "We've arrested a suspect and wanted to ask you a few more questions."

Rosenblatt hesitated, still standing.

"We picked him up this morning," offered Otter.

"Who?"

"Angus ‘Rusty’ Redfield," said the cop, opening a small notebook.

Rosenblatt knew they were watching his reaction. He could hardly act shocked.

"I've got to tell you ... this ...
surprises
me," stammered Rosenblatt.

"What surprises you, Mr. Rosenblatt?" asked Otter.

The partner looked from one cop to the other. "That he could
do
something like that. Something that brutal. I knew he was planning something. Espionage. Start a fire. Maybe try planting a virus," added Rosenblatt. "But I never imagined murder. Never thought he was that desperate. "

"How about Ludd? Did he ever argue with this guy? Any fights?" asked Kozak stonily.

"He didn't like Redfield. After all, the guy tried to steal corporate secrets from us once. They had words. Never in front of the staff, though."

Kozak gave him a patronizing smile. "Did he ever express any fears? Were there threats?"

Rosenblatt looked to see if his fly was done up and smoothed the front of his shirt. "He would never admit to being afraid. It wouldn't fit his public image." He shook his head, hoping that was enough. Both cops were silent, staring ahead. 

"How did Redfield leave
GeneFab
?"

"He just walked out," answered Rosenblatt, his voice a little higher, his words clipped.

"Redfield had stated that both yourself and Mr. Ludd would have done anything to stop him from leaving and competing with you. You said in your testimony at last year’s fraud trial that you were afraid that he and Malcolm Grieves might seriously hurt your business. Might damage it 'beyond repair', as you said."

"That was what we thought. We might have over-reacted. But if we hadn't ...
clipped
Grieves and Redfield, this company might be in real trouble" Rosenblatt was feeling warm.
As if GeneFab’s not in trouble now.

Otter read from his notes. "The evidence suggests that Redfield invited Ludd to the President’s Club. Ludd picked him up in his car. Theoretically Redfield then killed Ludd in the parking garage."

Rosenblatt grimaced. "How?"

Otter looked at Kozak who sat like a tired vulture, his eyes hooded and red. Kozak rubbed his eyes with hands that seemed to tremble slightly. "The murder weapon was unique. It will help us in our investigation if we don't make it public yet."

"Oh," was all that Rosenblatt could muster.

"It's going to be asked sooner or later then why Ludd would invite Redfield into his car if they were such enemies?" asked Otter.

Rosenblatt looked puzzled. "You think so? If Redfield called me and said, listen, we've had our problems, but can we talk. I’d consider it. Even though he tried to punch me in front of the courthouse once.“ He didn't like the way that sounded, but he had thought about the logic behind Jeff meeting Rusty and it didn't totally make sense to him either.

"As busy and important as Ludd was, he would put aside an evening to have a dinner meeting with someone he hated?" asked Kozak.

"I don't think Jeff actually told me he was going to meet
Redfield
for dinner. You probably have that in your notes. But it says that in his meeting calendar on his desktop  ... in fact, you've seen it."

"Not admissible in court. Too easy to fake,” said Koz, pulling out his puffer and taking a hit.

“But Rusty did meet Ludd at the President’s Club. Right?"

Otter said flatly, looking through the glass at the modern office space, so unlike the one he worked in. "We have very little evidence of that. We have no fingerprints, no eye witnesses, nobody saw them together ... "

"And you’re absolutely certain that Ludd never mentioned meeting Redfield for dinner?" asked Kozak, his voice raw from too much smoke.

"No, I'm not certain," answered Rosenblatt.

"What did he say?"

"He mentioned Redfield at one point. We got on to the trade show he was preparing for in Las Vegas that Redfield used to always put together. He was excited and worried at the same time. But he was definitely concerned about how he would organize the Las Vegas show without Redfield’s technical help."

"Do you remember anything else? Did he talk about his plans for the day?"

"He had some sort of communication with Rusty Redfield that day. Or the day before. I don't know if it was by phone or email, but it worried him. That's pretty much it."

"So, what happens to
GeneFab
now?"

Rosenblatt swallowed loudly. "Jeff was the scientist, I'm just the operations manager. Our board may decide to hire a new CEO. "

"Why?"

"We need to replace Jeff. This is a very complex field."

"Would you consider selling?"

"If it was the right match."

"And how much would you stand to make if
GeneFab
sold?"

Rosenblatt hesitated. He wasn’t expecting the question. "That's kind of a personal question, isn't it?"

"Not to the courts. Not to us. A Million?"

Rosenblatt fidgeted. His color had risen and his cheeks were flushed. "A lot more."

"Five? Ten?"

Rosenblatt was thinking that these guys were really out to lunch when it came to evaluating a hot technology firm.

"As a guess, I would say 500 hundred million." Rosenblatt was purposefully guessing low. But then, the way things were going, with the stock value dropping, anything was possible.

The two cops couldn’t hide their surprise. "What about Ludd? Did he want to sell?"

"We talked about it. Not that often, but we had conversations."

Otter read from his police notes. "Ludd was quoted in some issue of
Science and Technology.
I got this from one of the technicians - saying he would never sell his shares in
GeneFab
, that these other companies were only interested in
raping his technology
."

"That was Jeff. Always quotable. The fact is - if the price is right, you sell."

"I hope the jury sees it that way."

"What do you mean?" asked Rosenblatt.

"I'm saying killing Ludd has only earned our friend Rusty Redfield a chance for free room and board for 25 years. In your case, and Mrs. Ludd's ... well, you both come out looking more like candidates for the next episode of the
Secret Lives of the Rich and Famous
. I would call that motive."