Frameshift (12 page)

Nighttime. Two police officers, one black, one white. A blood-splattered sidewalk. A man named Chuck Hanratty dead, his body taken away by ambulance. Pierre chilled in the nighttime breeze, his shirt lying in a stiffening wad, soaked with blood.

“Look, it’s after midnight,” said the black cop to Molly, “and, frankly, your friend seems a bit out of it. Why don’t you let Officer Granatstein and me give you a lift? You can come by headquarters tomorrow to make a report.” He handed his card to her.

“Why,” said Pierre, slowly coming out of shock, “would a neo-Nazi want to attack me?”

The cop lifted his broad shoulders. “No big mystery. He was after your wallet and her purse.”

But Molly had read the man’s mind, and knew that this wasn’t a simple mugging — it was a deliberate, premeditated attempt on Pierre’s life. She gently grasped her husband’s hand and took him over to the police car.

Pierre and Molly lay in bed, Molly holding him tightly.

“Why,” said Pierre again, “would a neo-Nazi be after me?” He was still badly shaken. “Hell, why would anyone go to the trouble of trying to kill me? After all…” His voice trailed off, but Molly could read the already formulated English sentence:
After all, I’ll probably be dead soon anyway.

Molly shook her head as much as her pillow would allow. “I don’t know why,” she said softly. “But he was after you. You in particular.”

“You’re sure?” asked Pierre, his voice betraying the faint hope that Molly was mistaken.

“As we passed him, Hanratty was thinking, About fucking time that frog showed up.”

Pierre stiffened slightly. “You can’t tell the cops that,” he said.

“Of course not.” She forced a small laugh. “They wouldn’t believe me anyway.” She paused. “But he’d been ordered to kill you, ordered by someone named Grozny — and he’d apparently already killed several other people for this Grozny, too.”

Pierre was still trying to digest it all. A man had died right in front of him. Yes, it had been self-defense, but one could nonetheless say that Pierre had indeed killed him. Pierre had come across the continent to the home of the free-love, antiwar movement, and he’d ended up with a human being’s blood spilling out onto his hands.

A knife slicing into the man’s body; Molly on his back, Pierre tripping him.

If only Hanratty had dropped the knife. If only…

Dead.

Dead.

He couldn’t shake the horror, couldn’t escape the pain.

Pierre would take the next day off work — something he had never done before except for his honeymoon.

“Maybe you should get some counseling,” Molly said. “Ingrid did a study of Desert Storm vets. She could recommend someone who handles post-traumatic stress.”

Pierre shook his head. They’d also tried to get him into counseling when he’d first discovered that he was at risk for Huntington’s. But counseling seemed a never-ending proposition. He didn’t have time for that.

“I’ll be all right,” he said, but the words sounded flat.

Molly nodded and continued to hold him tight.

Avi Meyer sat hunched over his metal government-issue desk at OSI headquarters in Washington. His window, the vertical blinds angled to block most of the sun, looked out over the gridlock of K Street. It was noon and already his chin felt rough as he supported it with his left hand.

Susan Tuttle, his assistant, came in. “Pasternak just faxed over a report — you might be interested.”

“What is it?”

“A neo-Nazi from San Francisco named Chuck Hanratty was killed two days ago.”

“How old was he?”

“Hanratty? Twenty-four—”

Avi waved an arm dismissively. “Not old enough to be a war criminal.

Except that it means there’s one less asshole in the world, why’d Pasternak think I’d care?”

“Hanratty was killed in a fight while trying to mug a French Canadian named Pierre Tardivel.”

Avi scowled. “Yes?”

“And this Tardivel worked at Lawrence Berkeley in the Human Genome Center there, so his boss is—”

Avi’s shaggy eyebrows lifted. “Burian Klimus.”

“Exactly.”

Avi stabbed the intercom button on his desk. “Pam?”

A woman’s voice. “Yes?”

“I need to get a flight to California…”

When Pierre had gone to Berkeley police headquarters to file his report, he’d asked the black man — Officer Munroe, his name turned out to be — for more information about Chuck Hanratty. Munroe really didn’t have much to add. Hanratty had lived, and was most frequently arrested, in San Francisco. After mulling it over for a day, Pierre decided to drive across the Oakland Bay Bridge and try his luck at SFPD headquarters.

It was raining. The bridge turned into the 101, and headquarters was just south of that at 850 Bryant, between Sixth and Seventh Streets.

Pierre furled up his umbrella, entered the building, and made his way down the short corridor that led to the desk sergeant, a burly white man with curly black hair atop a loaf-shaped head. He had a computer screen mounted at an angle beneath his desk, visible through a glass window on the desktop. He was reading something on it, but looked up when Pierre cleared his throat. “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?”

Pierre wasn’t sure where to begin. “I was mugged a few nights ago.”

“Oh, yeah? You want to fill out a report?”

“No, no. I’ve already done that, over in Berkeley. I was just looking for more information. The guy who mugged me lived here, and, well, he died during the attempt. Fell on his own knife.”

“What’d you say your name was?”

“Tardivel. T-A-R-D-I-V-E-L.”

The sergeant typed on his keyboard. “Can I see some ID?”

Pierre opened his wallet and found his Quebec driver’s license. The sergeant looked at it, nodded, and turned back to his monitor. “Well, sir, I don’t know what kind of info you’re looking for. If he died in the attempt, it’s not like we’re still looking for suspects in the mugging.”

“I understand that,” said Pierre, nodding. “I was just interested in other cases this same guy was involved in.”

The sergeant eyed Pierre suspiciously. “Why?”

Pierre figured the truth was the simplest approach. “The officers over in Berkeley said Hanratty had been a member of a neo-Nazi group. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out what such a person would have against me.”

“You Jewish?”

Pierre shook his head.

“But you
are
a foreigner. The skinheads aren’t keen on immigrants.”

“I suppose, but… well, I was wondering if I could see the file on him.”

The cop looked at Pierre for a time. “Hardly,” he said at last.

“But—”

“We’re not running a library here. Your case is closed. If your insurance company needs some paperwork to substantiate a claim, they can contact us or the Berkeley PD through normal channels. But otherwise, forget it.”

Pierre thought briefly about trying to push the point but realized it was hopeless. He laid a sarcastic ‘
Merci beaucoup
’ on the man and headed back to the lobby. It was still raining, so he stopped just inside the front doors to get his umbrella ready. As he was doing so, his eyes happened to glance over the building directory, made of little white plastic letters slid into a black board with slots in it, covered by glass.

Pierre’s eyebrows went up. He looked back. The sergeant had his head tilted down, reading. Pierre turned around, walked past him, and entered the elevator.

He got off on the third floor and found room 314. There was a sign on the door that said Forensics. Beneath it were two names in smaller letters:

H. Kawabata and J. Howells. He pushed the door open and stuck his head in. “Hello?”

A tall, fortyish Asian woman appeared from behind a room divider. She had frosted blond hair cut in a pageboy style, three rings on her right hand, a chain-link bracelet on her right wrist, a matching choker, and two small studs in her left ear. She wore a white lab coat, unbuttoned, over a pink pantsuit. Her lipstick matched the suit. “Can I help you?” she said in a rapid-fire voice.

Pierre didn’t like to make assumptions, but this one seemed a safe bet.

“Ms. Kawabata?” he said.

“That’s me.”

Pierre smiled and entered the room. “Forgive me. I was in the building on other business and I couldn’t resist stopping by. I know I should have made an appointment, but—”

The Asian woman’s voice hardened slightly. “All purchasing is done through the office on the fourth floor.”

Pierre shook his head. Maybe he needed to acquire better taste in sports jackets. “I’m not a salesman,” he said. “I’m a geneticist. I’m with the Human Genome Center at Lawrence Berkeley.”

She touched a hand to her lips. “Oh, I’m sorry! Come in, come in, Mr… ?”

“Tardivel. Dr. Pierre Tardivel.”

“I’m Helen,” said the woman, extending her hand. “I did my graduate work at UCB. Say, I hear you got that Nobel winner running things now, what’s his name…”

“Burian Klimus,” said Pierre.

Helen nodded. “The Klimus Technique, right — wonderful method; we’re starting to use it here. How is he to work for?”

Pierre decided to be honest. “He’s a bear. Fortunately, he’s spending a lot of time at the Institute of Human Origins these days; he’s gotten interested in Neanderthal DNA.”

Helen smiled. “I saw him on TV once — he looks old enough to have firsthand knowledge of that.”

Pierre laughed and looked around the room. Like just about every lab he’d ever been in, this one had some
Far Side
cartoons taped to the filing cabinets. “Nice equipment you’ve got here,” he said.

Helen looked at the centrifuges, microscopes, and other hardware, as if appraising them herself. “It does the trick. We don’t get to do nearly as much DNA work in-house as I’d like, but it’s quite exciting when I get to testify in court. We nailed a serial rapist last week. Doesn’t get much better than that.”

Pierre nodded. “I read about that case in the
Chronicle
.

Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

“You know, I’m wondering if you can help me out. I— I was assaulted last week; that’s why I’m down here. I’m trying to find out why that particular person might have gone after me and, well…”

“And they told you to take a hike downstairs, right?”

Pierre smiled. “Exactly.”

“What do you want to know?”

“One of the officers who came to investigate said the guy who attacked me was a neo-Nazi, and he had a long record. I was wondering if there was any other info I could see about him.”

Helen frowned. “Are you really with the Human Genome Center?”

Pierre was about to reach for his wallet, but then decided against it.

Instead, he smiled. “Try me.”

Helen’s eyes twinkled. “Let’s see… What’s a riflip?”

“Restriction-fragment-length polymorphism,” said Pierre at once. “The variation from person to person in the sizes of DNA pieces snipped out by a specific restriction enzyme.”

Helen smiled. “I’d love a tour of your lab, Pierre.”

This time Pierre did pull out his wallet. He removed a business card — he’d gotten new ones the previous month, when the lab had changed its name from Lawrence Berkeley Laboratory to Lawrence Berkeley
National
Laboratory — and handed it to her. “Anytime.”

She walked over to her desk and slipped the card into a little metal card box. She then moved over to her computer terminal. “What would you like to know?”

“The man who attacked me was named Chuck Hanratty. I’m still trying to figure out
why
he went after me in particular. It’s a bit unnerving, having somebody try to kill you.”

Helen tapped at the keyboard with two fingers. Her delicate eyebrows went up. “You offed him.”

“He fell on his own knife, actually. Does it really say I killed him?”

“No, no. Sorry. It says he was killed in a struggle with his intended victim. What do you want to know?”

“Anything at all. Anybody else he’d ever attacked, for instance.”

“I’ll print you out a copy of his rap sheet; just don’t ever tell anyone where you got it. And — that’s interesting. After he died, some of our people went over his rooming house. Guy lived in the Tenderloin — rough neighborhood. Anyway, among the things they found was a wallet containing credit cards belonging to a fellow named Bryan — that’s with a Y — Proctor. Cross-reference in the file says that Proctor was shot to death here in SF by an unknown intruder two days before the attack on you.

They found a gun at Hanratty’s place, too. Ballistics confirmed it was the murder weapon in the Proctor case.”

“Did this Proctor leave any family behind?”

Helen touched some more keys. “A wife.”

“Is there any way I could speak to her?”

Helen shrugged. “That’d be up to her.”

“Pierre Tardivel?”

Pierre was bent over his lab countertop. He looked up. “Yes?”

A short man with a bulldog face and blue-gray stubble entered the room. “My name is Avi Meyer.” He snapped open an ID case, flashed a photo card. “I’m a federal agent, Department of Justice. I’d like to have a word with you.”

Pierre straightened up. “Ah — sure. Sure. Have a seat.” Pierre indicated a lab stool.

Avi continued to stand. “You’re not an American—”

“No, I’m—”

“From Canada, right?”

“Yes, I was born—”

“In Quebec.”

“Quebec, yes. Montreal. What’s this all—?”

“What brings you to the States?”

Pierre thought about saying “Air Canada,” but decided against it. “I’m on a postdoctoral fellowship.”

“You’re a geneticist?”

“Yes. Well, my Ph.D. is in molecular biology, but—”

“What is your association with the other geneticists here?”

“I’m not sure what you mean. They’re my colleagues; some are my friends—”

“Professor Sinclair — what’s your association with him?”

“With Toby? I like him well enough, but I hardly know him.”

“What about Donna Yamasaki?”

Pierre raised his eyebrows. “She’s nice, but her name—”

“Did you know her before coming to Berkeley?”

“Not at all.”

“You work under Burian Klimus.”

“Yes. I mean, there are several layers between him and me, but, sure, he’s the top person here.”

“When did you first meet him?”

“About three days after I started here.”

“You didn’t know him beforehand?”

“Well, his reputation, of course, but—”

“You’re not related to him, are you?”

“To Klimus? He’s Czech, isn’t he? No, I’m not—”

“Ukrainian, actually. You had no contact with him prior to coming to Berkeley?”

“None.”

“Do you belong to any of the same groups as any of the other geneticists here?”

“Most of us are in some of the same professional associations. Triple-A-S, stuff like that, but—”

“No.
Outside
your profession.”

“I don’t belong to any outside groups.”

“None?”

Pierre shook his head.

“You were attacked a short time ago.”

“Is that what this is about? Because—”

“Did you know—”

“—I gave the police a full report. It was self-defense.”

“—the man who attacked you?”

“Know him? Personally, you mean? No, I’d never seen him before in my life.”

“Then why did he attack you? You of all people?”

“That’s what
I
want to know.”

“So you don’t think it was just a random attack?”

“The police certainly believe so, but…”

“But what?”

“Nothing, really. It just—”

“Do you have reason to think it
wasn’t
a random attack?”

“—seemed to me… what? No, no, not really. Just— no.”

“And you’d never seen the attacker around this lab before?”

“I’d never seen him
anywhere
before.”

“Never seen him with, say, Professor Klimus?”

“No.”

“Ever see him with Dr. Yamasaki? Dr. Sinclair?”

“No. Look, what’s this all about?”

“The man who attacked you belonged to a neo-Nazi organization.”

“The Millennial Reich, yes.”

“You know the group?” said Avi, eyes narrowing.

“No, no, no. But one of the police officers mentioned it.”

“You have any connection with the Millennial Reich?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“What are your politics, Mr. Tardivel?”

“NDP. What diff—”

“What the hell is ‘NDP’?”

“A Canadian democratic-socialist party. What possible difference—”

“Socialist? As in
National
Socialist?”

“No, no. The NDP is—”

“What do you feel about, say, immigration?”

“I
am
an immigrant. I came here less than a year ago.”

“Yes, and you’ve already killed an American citizen.”

“It was self-defense, damn it. Ask the police.”

“I’ve seen the report,” said Avi. “Why would a neo-Nazi want to attack you, Mr. Tardivel?”

“I have no idea.”

“You have no connection to neo-Nazi organizations?”

“Certainly not.”

“There are a lot of anti-Semites among the Montreal French.”

Pierre sighed. “You’ve been reading too much Mordecai Richler; I’m not anti-Semitic.”

“What about the other geneticists here?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Do any of the geneticists here at Lawrence Berkeley — or down at the university — have connections that you know of to Nazi organizations?”

“Of course not. I mean, well—”

“Yes?”

“No, nothing.”

“Mr. Tardivel, your evasiveness is trying my patience. You’re not yet a citizen here; you wouldn’t want any special annotations in your immigration record. I could have you back in Canada faster than you can say Anne Murray.”

“Christ, I— look, the only guy who even comes close to being a Nazi is…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want to get him in any trouble, but… well, Felix Sousa is a professor at UCB.”

“Sousa? Anyone else?”

“No. You know Sousa?”

Avi grimaced. “The whites-are-superior-to-blacks guy.”

Pierre nodded. “Tenured prof. Nothing they can do to shut him up. But if anybody’s a Nazi here, it’s him.”

Avi nodded. “All right, thank you. Don’t mention this conversation to anyone.”

“I still don’t know—”

But Avi Meyer was already out the door.

“Susan? It’s Avi. Yeah — yeah. What?
Corrina, Corrina
, with Whoopi Goldberg. Yeah, it was okay; better than the food anyway. Yes, I saw Tardivel this afternoon. He didn’t come out and say it, but I think he feels the attack was aimed right at him, which makes the connection even tighter. I’m going to spend tomorrow going over the files at the SFPD and the Alameda County sheriffs office on the Millennial Reich. No, I’m avoiding Klimus, at least for the time being. Don’t want to tip our hand…”