Childless: A Novel (10 page)

Trisha Sayers was given fifteen minutes to discuss how they might manage the media when Senator Franklin released the Comeback Coalition’s proposals. She described the importance of timing, carefully worded spin, advance access to friends at RAP and Bing Syndicates, and about a dozen other steps she called “smart” and “proactive.”

Troy rolled his eyes toward Julia.

“She’s good,” his wife whispered, to Troy’s surprise. “Exactly the approach I would recommend to work the system in Franklin’s favor.”

An idea popped into Troy’s head that he tucked away for later.

Anderson suggested a short break in an uncharacteristic show of mercy. Half the group hurried out to find a restroom. The other half, including Anderson, found isolated spots to make calls.

Kevin approached Troy and Julia. “Well?”

“You did great,” Julia said with enthusiasm.

He smiled gratefully in her direction before looking Troy in the eyes. “Give me the body language numbers.”

“I figure about a third are with you,” Troy began. “But Anderson is one of them, so I’d call it about even.”

“You think?” Kevin said with a trace of optimism.

“I’d bet your golden locks he’s on the phone with Franklin right now for approval to railroad your proposal into the final plan.”

“Not likely.”

“Very likely,” Troy argued. “Didn’t you hear what Journeyman said about the decline in transitions?”

“I did. Good news from our perspective.”

“It is. But it’s also a mandate to find alternative solutions.”

“A mandate from?” Kevin asked.

“A mandate from Franklin. Surely he’s known about those numbers for weeks. He must have assembled this coalition because he anticipates trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Julia asked.

“If NEXT wins the appeal you know Franklin will push full steam ahead on Nicole Florea’s proposal.”

Kevin gave a nod of annoyed agreement.

“But if NEXT loses…”

“He’ll hold a press conference to pitch an alternative plan,” Julia interjected.

“Exactly,” Troy said to punctuate his wife’s intuition.

“But two-thirds of this coalition want to throw me and my proposal out of the room,” Kevin reminded him.

“Which is why I seriously doubt Anderson plans to call for a vote.”

All three sets of eyes looked toward the front of the room. They saw Brent Anderson nodding into his phone in deferential agreement with, Troy presumed, a direct order from Senator Josh Franklin.

Irritation clawed
up Tyler’s spine at the man’s voice calling from downstairs. Renee had roped Tyler into “keeping an eye” on her father while she took her mother to a follow-up appointment, “just for an hour or two.” The moment she was out the door, he locked himself in his office—no, make that his new bedroom-slash-office-slash-closet space.

“Tyler?” Gerry called again.

Tyler squeezed out from between the desk and the wall and trotted down the steps, dismayed to find a stark-naked old man dripping water all over the floor.

“Geez, Gerry!” Tyler exclaimed, averting his gaze to his now-sopping carpet.

“I can’t find any towels. Do you have any towels?”

“Did you try under the sink?”

Gerry pondered for a moment, then shook his head, splattering the walls like a wet dog.

Tyler nabbed a dishtowel from the kitchen and tossed it at his…well, what was he? Not father-in-law. No relation in any way whatsoever, and here Tyler was, being subjected to—this! “Use that in the meantime. And cover up, for Pete’s sake,” Tyler said.

Gerry smiled, then began drying off his hair.

“Listen, Gerry,” Tyler said. “I’ve got a lot of work to do. So why don’t you go put on some clothes and watch television or something.”

A few minutes later Tyler was back at his desk, banging his head against the wall behind him in frustration before typing in his next search.

NEXT TRANSITION APPEAL
.

A whole slew of search results popped up, although most were variations of the same. Antonio Santos’s mother had died accidentally in a NEXT facility during Antonio’s transition—trying to stop him, since he was, apparently, a minor at the time he volunteered. Jeremy Santos, Antonio’s brother, filed a wrongful death suit and won. NEXT appealed, and now the case sat pending.

“With Santiago,” Tyler murmured to himself.

He scrolled to the next article. Second verse same as the first. Then a third, and fourth. Nothing useful other than what he already knew—until he found Julia Davidson, RAP Syndicate. The name rang a bell. He poked at the title.

Jackpot! It appeared Ms. Davidson had already done a lot of legwork on this case, including an interview with Jeremy Santos, as well as the transition specialist involved. That could be interesting.

Name withheld on condition of anonymity.

Tyler swore under his breath. Still, a lot here, including connections to the government’s Youth Initiative with potentially billions of dollars on the line. This case might actually be even larger than he had first believed. Jennifer McKay had already suggested Jeremy and NEXT as the most likely suspects to have written the letters. But there was a whole industry involved.

For now, however, the conspiracy theories would have to wait.

Back to Julia Davidson. He pulled up his Privacy Search account and found all her personal information, including direct contact accounts for both phone and messaging. For a few hundred bucks a year he had access to more private information than he could ever have accessed legally on the force. Everyone was afraid of the government butting into their lives where it didn’t belong, but no one seemed to mind revealing anything and everything about themselves to the civilian population through cell phone records, social media, and the rest. Security scanners now knew and could report when someone walked into a store, what he bought, and in what size, all in the name of “targeted marketing” and “price reductions.”

As for Julia, she was apparently married now with a different last name, and as luck would have it, living right here in the Denver area. He clicked the
ESTABLISH CALL
button and waited as the other end rang. With any luck he could meet with her today to learn everything she knew about the Santos case.

Less than thirty seconds later her auto response came back indicating she would be unavailable until after the weekend. No way to know whether she was actually gone or screening requests. He left a message indicating his desire to meet.

Julia Davidson would have to wait, which put Jeremy Santos on deck. Tyler looked up his info and placed the call.

“Hello?” the voice answered on the other end.

Within five minutes he had set up a meeting with Jeremy for that afternoon. Tyler glanced at the time, then grabbed his keys and headed downstairs, ready to escape the very moment Renee returned. She gave Tyler the evil eye in reaction to finding her father watching some old war movie in nothing but his underwear.

Tyler hadn’t expected to find Jeremy living in such a run-down apartment complex. Then he remembered. Winning an enormous case doesn’t translate into cold, hard cash until after you survive the string of appeals. Jeremy’s sofa was threadbare. The rest of the décor? Deteriorating bits and pieces showing neither a girlfriend’s nor a mother’s touch. The kid appeared broke, alone, and into who knew what kind of trouble.

Did desperate need motivate desperate measures
? Tyler wondered as he fingered the threatening letters.

“Sorry about the mess,” Jeremy said, indicating the piled-up dishes strewn around the room. “Haven’t had much time to clean up lately.”

“Working a lot?”

A nod. “Making a buck more than minimum wage.” A shrug. “It pays the bills.” A pause. “Barely.”

Tyler smiled encouragingly, unsure if Jeremy’s final statement was meant to inspire levity or compassion. “I read Ms. Davidson’s article about the NEXT case,” he said. “And I know about the ongoing appeal. I’m confused about something, though.”

“Shoot.” Jeremy tossed the bangs from his eyes. He appeared unkempt, like someone wearily trying to find his way in life. Stuck in post-adolescence.

“I thought it was a wrongful death case.”

“That’s right.”

“So, why haven’t you at least received your”—Tyler hesitated, unsure of the correct wording—“inheritance?”

Jeremy laughed weakly, then gestured a wilted hand across the room. “You’re lookin’ at it.”

“So, you got very little from your mother and brother’s estate?”

Jeremy looked around with a sigh. “Less than little.”

“I hope you don’t mind me saying, but this appeal has to be pretty important to you, to your future. Financially speaking.”

“You could say that. At the moment, I’m on a fast track to nowhere. I essentially work to live. Although I was able to pay for exactly two classes at Denver Community College. Passed both of them.”

“Congratulations,” Tyler said with a smile. “Any friends?”

“Nah. I burned through my few friends when I was still angry about what was happening to Antonio. Or more like what
wasn’t
happening with me because of Antonio.”

“Family?”

“I’ve got a dad. Somewhere. Maybe. Who knows? Other than that, I’ve got no one. Not even a girl.” He laughed, uncomfortably.

Tyler pulled out the letters and spread them across the coffee table. “Have you seen any of these?”

Jeremy slid one close, glanced it over, then shook his head, his expression turning to one of concern. “No, I haven’t. But…where did you get these? Are they for real?”

“Are you sure? Do you recognize the writing, maybe?”

He shook his head again, then locked his gaze on Tyler. “Wait a minute. You think I wrote these?”

Tyler shrugged, figuring there was little point in not being honest. “I don’t know what to think. I’m still trying to investigate this whole mess. But the fact is, you’re prime suspect number one. Let’s face it, until this appeal is over, you’re living in squalor. So I have to ask: did you write these letters?”

“No!” Jeremy shouted defensively. “Absolutely not!”

Tyler closely watched Jeremy’s eyes, the poor man’s lie detector. This was the moment of truth for a quick and easy investigation.
Bam, case closed
.

No such luck.

Jeremy returned Tyler’s stare.

Both men realized the question of Jeremy’s innocence had been resolved.

“Listen, kid,” Tyler said, “as much as I’d like to discover who wrote these letters, I imagine you’ll want to find out even more.”

Jeremy settled back into his chair, nervously running his fingers through his hair. “It’s got to be NEXT.”

Tyler waited.

“They’re trying to derail Judge Santiago’s decision. They must think they’re gonna lose the appeal. Oh man, this is intense.”

Jeremy stood and walked toward the tiny kitchen. He came right back and sat. “What if these threats work? I can’t keep going on like this. Hoping this whole thing will eventually end gets me through right now.”

“I understand,” Tyler said sympathetically. “It must be hard, having lost both your mother and your brother on the same day.”

Was this going to turn into a counseling session? Years of holding weepy clients’ hands had qualified Tyler more than he cared to admit. He’d consoled countless lovers through grief over cheaters. Was a death, or even two deaths, any different? Reassuring the boy might be as simple as inviting him to open up and talk about…his feelings.

“What was it like?”

Jeremy continued staring as if trying to decipher an algebra problem.

“Son,” Tyler said more loudly.

“Sorry?”

“I asked what it was like. You know, losing them both so suddenly?”

Jeremy looked deeply into Tyler’s eyes as if trying to gauge the stranger’s heart. Then he stood again, this time walking toward the bedroom. He returned carrying a tablet. He placed it on the coffee table in front of Tyler’s seat. “Watch this.”

An icon labeled
SANTOS BODIES
awaited Tyler’s initiating tap.

A video commenced playing. He realized immediately what it was. He had recorded countless others himself while investigating murder scenes. Someone had made a video record of the bodies in hopes of identifying clues to what had actually occurred on the day Jeremy’s brother and mother died.

The first image was a small sign outside of what appeared to be a medical office complex. The large print read
NEW DAY TRANSITION CENTER
. Much smaller letters beneath said
A SUBSIDIARY OF NEXT INC.
just above an address, a contact code, and office hours.

A quick blink of the screen brought Tyler into a room containing about two dozen chairs and a few end tables with stacks of cheap tablets, the kind dentists and hospitals made available to occupy waiting patients.

“This is the reception area where Ms. Santos would have been sitting with Antonio before his procedure?” Tyler didn’t recognize the voice. Female. Most likely a videographer contracted by the police department to document the scene.

A long silence followed as the woman awaited an answer to her question. The camera shifted, focusing on a slumping male form offering a silent nod in reply. Jeremy, twenty-four months earlier. He looked pale and shaken.

“Were you waiting with them?”

“No, ma’am,” he said weakly.

Another blink and a new image. A narrow hallway with a series of doors bearing tiny signs indicating
TRANSITION ROOM
#1
,
TRANSITION ROOM
#2
, and so on. They stopped at room number four, where the woman invited Jeremy to step in front of the camera and open the door.

“Do you really need me to go back in?” he asked. “I already identified Mom’s…I mean…I already identified the victim bodies. And I told the police officer everything I know. Can’t you record without me in there?”

“I’m sorry, son,” the woman said in a frail attempt to sound sympathetic. “But I don’t have the authority to change the assignment. You’ll be fine.” She spoke like a woman who had grown callous to human loss, a hazard of her line of work. Get in, record the facts, and move on to the next case in your queue. Tyler remembered fighting the same tendency after being assigned to the homicide division.

“Can you call someone?”

“Not at this hour,” the woman replied.

Tyler noticed a small time stamp in the bottom left corner of the shot:

Less than five hours after Jeremy lost the two most important people in his life.

Tyler saw Jeremy’s back obscure the scene. Then Jeremy opened the door inward, the camera following closely behind until he stepped out of the way.

The woman’s voice assumed a more official diction, like that of a news anchor reporting live from the scene. “We’ve entered the room where Antonio Santos and his mother Sylvia Santos died within minutes of one another at approximately three o’clock mountain time.”

The screen zoomed onto the body of the boy, starting with his face. All color had drained from the lips, cheeks, and ears. Tyler recognized the familiar, vacant stare of death.

“This is the cadaver of the late Antonio Santos, his body identified this afternoon by his biological brother”—the camera moved to Jeremy, his head bowed in awkward reverence—“Jeremy Santos.”

The camera lingered for a moment, then returned to the corpse, this time offering a full-body review. A catheter remained unremoved, one end attached to a needle in the boy’s arm and the other to an empty plastic pouch, the slight residue of yellow serum still clinging to the bottom of the bag.

That’s when Tyler realized he had never actually been inside a transition room, or even a transition clinic. Like everyone else, he knew they existed. He even placed himself in the 68 percent of the population in favor of the president’s Youth Initiative. Had probably parroted the common rationale about redeploying scarce resources rather than wasting them caring for debits. He imagined craggy, drooling seniors opting for a merciful release from dementia. An eighteen-year-old boy lying dead on a gurney didn’t fit the picture of an industry he had always admired from the safe distance of opinion columns and political speeches.

Neither did the next image to appear on the tablet screen. A pool of drying blood escaping from its source, a woman’s skull with matted hair splayed onto the floor and over her lifeless face. An assortment of male and female footprints had spread the dark redness throughout the room, evidence of a flurry of activity immediately following the fall.