little bit different. Maybe one had a birthmark and the other didn’t. What did she really know about genetics, anyway?
On the job, Barwick wished she could be more like Big Rob, wished she could keep her curiosity on a leash. But how could she watch this kid through the camera, violating him with each exposure, and not wonder who was paying for this and why? She’d been trying to think of an explanation that didn’t churn her stomach, and to this point she’d come up with nothing.
“Which one is yours?”
Barwick brought the camera down between her knees and turned toward the voice. She was sitting about six feet to Sally’s left: petite, pretty, not as old as most of the other moms. She’d brought a picnic basket, a cardboard carton of juice with a straw, and a home magazine.
“Oh, no,” Barwick said. “I mean, none of them are mine. I’m a student at the Art Institute. This is for midterms. Big show. You know – Innocence of Youth.” She laughed. “It’s a whole big theme or something.”
“I thought you were a little young for the mom thing.”
Barwick waved her hand. “I’m not as young as you, am I?” The woman blushed. “I’m Sally.”
The mother put her juice down and stretched her body close enough to extend a hand. “Martha Finn,” she said.
Barwick thought immediately of the different ways Big Rob might tell her she’d blown the case. Sarcasm was the most likely approach, but he could just as well choose a violent tantrum. He could decide she was unreliable. A flake. He could stop calling with work.
Still, have a spaz now and she’d no doubt make things worse.
“Nice to meet you,” Barwick said.
“Do you mind?” Martha asked, lifting her basket and making a motion with her shoulders in Barwick’s direction.
“Please,” Barwick said and the two scooched closer together.
“You’re a photographer?”
“A student. Someday I’d like to call myself a photographer.”
“Are you getting anything good?”
“Yeah,” Barwick said. “The sun’s a little bright. There’s such a thing as too nice a day when you’re taking snaps. Lots of shadows.”
“Taking snaps,” Martha said. “I like that.”
They watched the game and chatted for a while until Barwick realized that Martha probably expected her to take pictures, so she pointed the camera toward the field and took a few hastily focused pics of the other kids.
“Hmmm,” Martha said. “Could I ask you a favor?”
“Sure.”
Martha pulled a cheap digital camera from her bag. “You can’t get a decent shot from the sidelines with one of these. Would it be too much to ask you to take a few photos of my son? I’ll pay for all your film.”
Barwick giggled and Martha joined her. Everyone friendly. She hadn’t blown the case after all.
“Of course,” Barwick said and raised the camera to her eye. Another critical mistake, almost. She pulled it back down and smiled. “Which one is yours?”
– 22 -
It took about ninety seconds for a nurse to inform Dr. Burton that Dr. Moore’s black Volvo had pulled into its spot, and another minute or so for Joan to say good-bye to her contractor, who had called with a few questions regarding the tiling she’d selected for her new bathroom. Following that, it was a ten-second walk from her office to his.
“Can I talk to you, Davis?”
Davis looped his collared jacket over the top of the wooden coat stand, caught the whole thing as it toppled, and then wrestled coat and rack until they were in balance. Joan Burton looked fantastic. Under her smock, the silk shirt she wore billowed in the right places. Her hair was pulled back today, and the elastic at the back of her neck strained to contain it. He imagined the band snapping and waves of dark hair crashing around her face, hiding and revealing it like a dance of veils. At first, he didn’t even notice she was upset.
“Sure, Joan. What’s up?”
“You know Justin Finn?”
Davis was certain his face didn’t betray panic, but he quickly slid into his chair, where his knees trembled unseen. “Sure. Something wrong?”
“Yeah, I’d say so.” Joan shut the door and perched on the edge of the chair nearest his desk. In one hand, she held a large gray binder with a white sticker running down its spine. The label said XLT-4197, which was the office code for Justin Finn. Of the dozens of clones who had been conceived in his clinic, it was the only code number Davis had memorized. “Is he okay?”
“The kid’s fine. It’s our control that’s gone to hell.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I just did his five-year checkup,” Joan said. “There’s been a colossal screwup, and when I report it, you’re gonna take the heat. We all will, actually, the whole clinic, but mostly you.”
Christ. The five-year. Davis knew this was coming; Martha Finn had even mentioned the appointment when he saw her at Starbucks. Somehow, this morning, he hadn’t been ready for it. “Tell me,” he said. He hoped something would occur to him. Sometimes solutions make themselves. Not often in Davis’s case, unfortunately. He was a plotter. A plan-aheader.
Voice lowered, Joan said, “This kid isn’t who we claimed he is. His DNA doesn’t match the donor. Hell, he doesn’t match any donor on file. I don’t have the slightest idea where he came from.”
Davis said nothing. She’ll keep talking, he thought. Joan hates silence. Since the day she had joined the staff at the clinic, Davis had often counted on her to answer her own questions when others were slow to respond.
“This is a nightmare. How do you think it could have happened?” she asked. “I have a theory, and the disciplinary committee might let us off with a slap and a fine, but who knows what the parents might do? If they decide to sue… Do you remember that couple in Virginia last year? Jesus Christ. Anyway, I was looking back through the files, and around the time the Finns were being prepped for implantation, we fired this young admin after a long list of screwups.” She turned pages on a legal pad. “Tardiness, bad reviews, poor attitude, complaints from the nurses, complaints from patients. About six months later he was brought up on drug charges in McHenry County, dealing designer drugs to teenagers or some shit. I don’t remember him that well, but I recall Pete having to testify at his trial. Do you remember that?”
“I remember, yeah.” Davis did remember the kid. That had seemed like a big deal at the time. There were lots of nervous meetings between the partners. New Tech’s reputation was on the line. Their license had been threatened. But Joan was right. That was nothing compared to this.
“Anyway, I can’t prove he had anything to do with it – not yet – but if we dig around a little bit, we might find he had access to the samples, and that might be enough to build a case against the guy. I have a feeling.”
Davis stared at her, thinking, trying to forge a blank look that would hold the silence but also provide emphasis no matter what he said next. Joan was offering an answer of sorts. She had tried to solve the mystery with a story that turned out to be more plausible than the truth, and now that he’d been caught, Davis felt stupid and lazy for not leaving a trail of lies to a likelier culprit than himself. Now he was tempted by the opportunity to put the blame on a punk kid who was already in prison. The repercussions for a doctor found guilty of illegal cloning could be devastating: loss of license, possible jail time, shame. To a convicted drug dealer, however, the consequences of the sort of negligence Joan was suggesting would be, well, negligible.
There would be an investigation, though. Perhaps a trial. Testimony. Controversy. This story made sense to Joan, and others might believe it, as well. Still, the last thing Davis needed was scrutiny, and this had the low rumbling of a rolling snowball gathering size.
“Joan,” Davis said, his hand on the back of his neck.
“What?”
