Tarnished Image (25 page)

“So someone could take a photo and substantially change it?” Calvin asked.

“It’s done all the time,” Greg answered. “It’s frequently done in fashion photography. You don’t think those women really look that way, do you? The truth is that no photo or
video can be fully trusted. More than half of all the commercials you see on television and nearly all of the movies have been electronically altered. It’s the way it is now.”

David sighed heavily. “Thank you, Greg, you’ve been a big help. I knew the video was a fake, I just didn’t know how. You’ve shown me that.”

“You’re not out of the woods yet, David,” Calvin said. “A shadow under your nose is a far cry from having charges dropped.”

“But it’s a start,” Kristen said. “At the very least we could call another board meeting and show them what Greg has found.”

Calvin shook his head. “Let’s hold off for a little bit. We need to think this through.”

“I don’t understand your reluctance,” David said.

“David,” Calvin responded firmly. “This is like a man walking through a minefield. He finds one mine and disarms it. Does he say, ‘Whew, I’m glad that’s over,’ and then start off on a little jog? Of course not. He starts looking for the next mine.”

“So you think there’s more to all this?” Kristen said.

“I think there’s a lot more to all this.”

“In that case,” David said. “I think it’s time to start looking for the next mine.”

Darkness hung in the room like an impenetrable shroud. The stark light of a computer monitor valiantly fought against the gloom. Dark as the room was, a greater darkness indwelled Archer Matthews. He sat motionless in his chair, body bent so that his head rested on his crossed arms. To his right was a bowl of empty pistachio shells, the sole remains of his dinner.
Six inches from his head was the head of David O’Neal—a model of the man he had been paid to frame.

Slowly, he raised his head and stared into the unblinking eyes of the sculpture. “So how are you dealing with all of this, Dr. O’Neal?” Matthew’s voice echoed in the near empty room. “It’s not at all personal, you understand.”

He picked up the bust and held it in his hands. He studied its shape, each line, each carefully crafted crease. Archer had used it to build a wire-frame representation of O’Neal in the computer. Using an electronic device, Archer had carefully traced all of the head’s features and replicated them in the computer.

The sculpture had been a tool, but now it was a constant reminder that he was participating in the demise of a man whom he did not know. A man who nobly worked at easing the world’s pain and suffering. That man—David O’Neal—stood on a crumbling precipice of public opinion. Soon he and his organization would be gone: O’Neal to prison, Barringston Relief to oblivion. All because of the work that he, Archer Matthews, had done. Without him, the frame-up would have been impossible.

Archer set the bust on the desk, leaned back in his chair, exhaled noisily, and rubbed his weary eyes. He had not wanted to frame an innocent man, but what could he have done? Elaine Aberdene had him in the palm of her hand. Archer needed her, not for work, not for income, but for life.

She and she alone had that which would keep him out of the grave. In fact, if it had not been for her, he would now be lying in some AIDS hospice waiting to exhale his last breath.

It was unfair to David O’Neal, he knew, but his life had been filled with the unfair, the inequitable. Archer was a true
victim. He had not contracted AIDS through any act of his own. He had not used intravenous drugs, and he had never had a homosexual encounter. No, the HIV invaded his body because eight years ago a drunk had run a red light and crashed headlong into Archer’s car.

He had been a senior in an East Coast college then and was on spring break with some friends. Like several thousands of other students, he had traveled to Fort Lauderdale for the weeklong intermission in classes. And like thousands of college students who filled the city streets, he spent his days sleeping and his nights hopping from one party to the next. It was while he and two friends were on the road to yet another party that a man, fresh from a tavern two blocks away, ran a red light and forever changed Archer’s life.

When he had awakened, he was lying in a hospital bed with a concussion, two broken ribs, and a compound fracture of his left arm. There had also been internal bleeding. The lost blood had been replaced by a routine transfusion—an HIV-tainted transfusion. Somehow the blood they had given him had been overlooked in the routine screening for HIV. He could never prove it. He tried to sue for financial relief but had failed at every turn. The hospital had been able to “prove” that their blood was always tested and that such an event could never occur. When it was all over, Archer was left with a couple of scars and a terminal disease.

It took six years for the HIV to become AIDS. He took care of himself, having decided to surrender to death only after a fight. His doctors prescribed a course of medication that other AIDS sufferers called “the cocktail,” but the course of treatment was expensive and he was underinsured. Since he made a good living working for one of Hollywood’s premier
special effects houses, he couldn’t qualify for state aid to help pay the enormous cost of the medicine. Soon he was broke and desperate.

That’s when Aberdene Pharmaceuticals had come along. Through an AIDS support group, he had heard that the drug company was looking for test subjects for a special set of trials. He applied immediately.

From the moment he was accepted, he was surrounded with secrecy. He could tell no one of the tests, not even family or friends. Since he had no family and very few friends, that had not mattered.

The people of Aberdene Pharmaceuticals were thorough and left no stone unturned about his life, his relationships, and his work. He was poked and examined and tested and then poked some more. Soon he was started on a one-time daily medication that replaced the cocktail, which had to be taken several times each day and at regular intervals.

It took less than a week for Archer to feel the difference. He had more energy, felt stronger, and enjoyed a natural euphoria that came with the drugs. There was no doubt in his mind that Aberdene Pharmaceuticals had come across the next big step in AIDS treatment. He wanted to tell everyone he met, but he had been sworn to secrecy.

“We must be very careful,” they had told him. “Pharmacology is a very competitive business. Besides, we still have to obtain FDA approval, and we can’t do that until the trials are finished.”

So Archer kept the news to himself, ecstatic that he felt so well and consumed with guilt that he couldn’t talk about it, especially to those who suffered from the same affliction. He watched as many fellow AIDS sufferers declined into abysmal
weakness, ravished by one of the most tenacious diseases in the world, knowing that they wondered why he seemed so much more robust than they. Still, he kept the secret.

He had been in the program for a year when Jack LaBohm began visiting him. He asked Archer question after question about his occupation. How do computerized special effects work? What kind of equipment does it take? What programs have to be purchased? How long does it take to learn the craft? How can anyone tell if a video clip is real or fabricated? Jack had asked the last question a hundred times if he had asked it once.

Two weeks later, the bad news came. Each of the fifty volunteers in the research program were called in one by one and told that the trial run had been completed. Aberdene Pharmaceuticals was very pleased with the results, and Dr. Aberdene herself would push to have the medication made available as soon as possible. But that would take time. Independent testing had to be conducted. Massive amounts of paperwork needed to be filed, and the result had to be published in a reputable medical journal. In addition to all of that, patents, trademarks, and other legal matters had to be taken care of.

“How long will all that take?” Archer had asked when he sat in the office of Jack LaBohm. He was sure the other fifty had asked the same question and received the same answer: “Five years. Certainly no more than ten.”

“But can’t I continue on the medication?” he had begged. “I’ll sign whatever release forms are needed. I’ll sign a hold-harmless agreement.”

Jack had shaken his head solemnly. “I wish I could say yes, but the laws of our country are very clear on these matters. We
would be risking Aberdene Pharmaceuticals’ reputation and exposing it to massive lawsuits. I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

Jack had been very patient with Archer, answering every question, countering every suggestion. At the end of the meeting, he had even offered Archer free use of the company’s counselors. He then expressed his deep sorrow that he couldn’t do more.

Archer had left that meeting more depressed than he had ever been. Thoughts, logical and illogical, erupted in his mind. He considered stealing several years’ supplies, but he had no way to defeat the high-tech security that protected the nation’s largest pharmaceutical firm. He thought of blackmail, extortion, and even retaliatory violence. But he knew it was all futile. He was just one small man against the laws of the nation and a major firm with more money behind it than some small countries possessed.

It was then that the next thought hit him. It was just a matter of choosing the right method. Gun to the head? Sleeping pills? Carbon-monoxide poisoning? A leap off a bridge over Interstate 15? It would have to be quick whatever it was. Suicide seemed the only choice for a reasonable man—a reasonable man who had no hope of surviving more than a couple of years.

As he drove home he masterminded several painless and quick ways to die. It was cowardly, he knew, but to his depressed mind, it was the only choice.

He entered his North Park home, a small house Aberdene Pharmaceuticals had rented for him while he was in the program, and noticed the phone answering machine showed one message. More out of habit than willful decision, Archer punched the play button. It was Jack.

“Archer,” the message began, “this is Jack LaBohm. I’ve been thinking about your needs and … well, I think I may have found a solution. Dr. Aberdene needs you to consult on some matters and would be willing to pay you handsomely for it. Of course, we would provide whatever materials and, uh, supplies you need.” Jack had stressed the word
supplies.
Archer immediately knew what he had meant. “Give me a call as soon as you get home. I’ll be working late, so call at any time.”

Archer had returned the call immediately.

Four months later, Archer knew he had been duped. True to their word, they provided him with everything he needed to do the work: computers, programs, models—everything, including the life-sustaining medication. All he had to do was sell his soul. That and destroy another man.

New concerns now worried him. After this “project” was over, what would happen? They wouldn’t need him any more, and he knew too much. They could once again withdraw the medication or simply have him killed. Archer hoped, even prayed, that they would buy his silence with the medication, something to which he would readily agree.

Again he picked up the bust of David. “I’m sorry, Dr. O’Neal. You do great things, and I have no right to do to you what I have done, but I am desperate. You understand, don’t you?” Archer felt that somehow, David O’Neal would understand, and that made Archer feel all the worse.

He set the sculpture down again and turned his attention to the computer monitor. He gazed at it blankly and then hit the enter key on the keyboard. The video began to play across the screen. He watched as Dr. David O’Neal did on tape what he had never done in life.

It was perfect. Everything was in place, including the little imperfection he had drawn in. It was a variation of something he used to do when he worked for the Hollywood effects business. On one frame in a scene he would put his initials. In film the frame would flash by too fast for anyone to notice, and only those with special equipment and knowledge of where to look would be able to find it. In those days it was his tag. Now it was … it was … he didn’t know what it was, but he had to do it.

When the two-minute video reached its conclusion, Archer reached forward and turned off the monitor. The sole source of light in the room blinked out, and darkness covered him.