Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Dan paused before they went inside, gazing across the street. “That’s a great view.”
Gary glanced at the trees and shrubs lining the other side. “That’s Franklin Park.”
Dan blinked. “Where Wilmer’s car was found?”
Gary nodded. “But don’t go jumping to conclusions. It might be one of those things neither of us believes in.”
“What’s that?”
He smiled. “A coincidence.” They went inside, and he found the buzzer for Sherrie’s apartment. By the time they’d climbed the stairs to the third floor, she was waiting for them, gazing into the hallway, biting her lip.
“Can I see some ID?”
Gary flashed his badge, and Dan held up his card. Sherrie peered at them, then stood to one side to let them enter.
She shut the door quickly behind them. “I shouldn’t have agreed to this.”
“You said you wanted to talk to the police, right?” Gary had seen his fair share of people who got an attack of nerves once they’d taken the step of contacting the authorities.
“Yes, but—”
“Could I have a glass of water, please?”
Dan’s question seemed to shock her out of her present state.
“Of course. Please, go through into the living room and sit.”
Sherrie’s apartment was small and neat, with two windows at one end of the room that looked out over the park. Photos sat on the bookshelves, mostly of Sherrie with what appeared to be her family. Gary sat on the two-seater couch next to Dan.
“She’s scared,” Dan muttered.
“That was my impression too.”
“No, I mean she’s really scared. It’s coming off her in waves.”
Sherrie came back into the room, carrying a tray with a jug of water and three glasses. She set it down on the coffee table, then sat on the lone armchair, perched on the edge of the seat cushion, her hands twisting in her lap, her knee bouncing a little.
“No one is going to know you’ve talked to us,” Dan said in a soothing voice.
Gary gave him a grateful glance before adding, “You said on the phone that the editor didn’t believe what you told him.
Well, whatever it is you have to say, we’re here to listen, okay?
” He took his notebook and pen from his pocket.
“Is it okay if I take notes? Just for us, you understand.” He was doing his damnedest to calm her fears.
Sherrie shuddered out a breath. “I guess.”
Gary opened the pad to a clean page. “Take your time.”
She took a deep breath. “Late 2017 I got a new job with an IVF clinic. I work in the labs, by the way. We don’t get to see the names of our clients—confidentiality rules, yeah?—but it’s common knowledge we get a lot of celebrities, prominent people, Boston blue bloods, that kind of clientele.”
Gary nodded. He was beginning to share Dan’s misgivings in that he couldn’t see how what she was telling them would result in Wilmer’s death.
“Anyhow, I got to talk with some of the others who work there, and… well, it horrified me, frankly. I mean, it sounded like something out of a sci-fi novel.” She poured herself a glass of water and took several gulps.
“If they’re doing this, then people need to know about it.
Someone has to stop them before they go too far.
If they haven’t already.” She replaced the glass on the table, her hands trembling.
Gary was dying to ask her to get to the point, but he knew better than to push.
They had to wait for Sherrie.
“I was reading the Herald earlier this year, and there was a piece covering the New Year’s charity ball. Not the kind of thing I could ever go to—dinner would set you back at least a couple of thousand dollars. I was looking at all the ball gowns and jewelry. Then I saw who wrote it.”
“Jonathon,” Dan said, his voice still soft.
She nodded. “We went to the same high school. He was always the one who stood up for the kids that were bullied or pushed around. Our civics teacher called Jonathon ‘the champion of the underdog,’ which kinda summed him up. We’d stayed in touch for a while, but then I guess we lost track of each other.
It had been a few years since I’d last seen him, put it that way.
And then it hit me. I knew someone who was a journalist. Someone who could expose the crazy shit going on at the clinic. ”
“So you contacted him,” Gary concluded.
Another nod. “We arranged a meeting in a Starbucks in Back Bay. I think Jonathon used that place a lot—everyone seemed to know him there.” She expelled a breath. “I don’t think he believed me at first, but then I showed him the menu, and that got his attention.”
“Menu?”
Beside him, Dan leaned forward. “Tell us about the meeting, Sherrie.”
Saturday, January 13, 2018
“So what’s this all about?” Jonathon leaned back in his chair, breaking pieces off his blueberry muffin and eating them, catching the crumbs with the pad of his finger.
“Aren’t you going to take notes?” Sherrie demanded.
He stilled. “It’s that kind of meeting? I thought this was a catch-up session, you know? What you’ve been getting up to since high school and all that. When you called to ask me to meet you, I assumed you were going to tell me you were getting married or having a baby or something.”
“I wish I had news like that to tell you.” She took a sip of coffee.
“It’s that serious?”
“Serious enough that I probably shouldn’t even be telling you all this, but I figured you’re the one who can let the world know what’s happening right under their noses.”
“Okay, now I’m intrigued.” Jonathon reached into his pocket and removed his phone. “Can I record the conversation on this? I usually have a voice recorder, but I hadn’t anticipated needing one.”
She gave a nod, then waited until he’d tapped the screen.
“I work at a fertility clinic. One of the services they offer is IVF, you know, for couples who can’t conceive. Except… I got talking to one of the guys who’s been there a while. He said there are couples going down the IVF route who don’t need to.”
“What do you mean?”
She sucked air into her lungs, her heartbeat racing. “The clinic applied for licenses to perform—how did he put it?—‘therapeutic genetic modification.’”
Jonathon frowned. “But surely that means screening for diseases? They can do that now, can’t they? I mean, we modify crops to make them disease resistant. If they can spot a disease that’s been prevalent in either of the parent’s families, that has to be a good thing, right?”
“But that’s not why some of these couples are coming to the clinic,” she persisted.
“What if…?” Christ, her hands were shaking.
“What if they can’t only predict the likelihood of whether some kid will develop a certain disease in the future?
What if some couples want to ensure their kid is intelligent?
Has the capability to be a world-class athlete? Another Einstein?”
Jonathon chuckled. “They can’t modify genes for intelligence or athletic ability.” He froze. “Can they?”
“I have no clue. It sounds far-fetched to me, but the guy I was talking to? He said it won’t be long before we’ll start seeing the use of gene-editing and reproductive technologies for what he called ‘enhancement.’ ‘You want your kid to have blond hair and blue eyes? Check. Improved athletic abilities? Check. Enhanced readings skills or numeracy? Check.’ And so on. ”
Jonathon pulled a tablet from his bag and connected to the internet.
He scrolled for a minute. “Wait a sec. Most countries haven’t legislated yet on genetic modification in human reproduction, but of those who have?
They all banned it.” He shook his head. “You’re right. This sounds way too far-fetched.”
She arched her eyebrows. “If you think that sounds far-fetched, you’re going to be blown away by this.
” Sherrie reached into her shoulder bag and removed a large plain brown envelope.
She glanced at the coffee shop’s patrons, but everyone else seemed locked into their own little world. She handed it to Jonathon.
“What’s this?”
“It’s the ‘menu’ they give prospective clients,” she said, air-quoting.
Jonathon removed the glossy cover and opened it. He stared in silence at its contents before raising his head to gape at her.
“Tell me this isn’t real.”
Friday, September 28, 2018
“What is this menu?” Gary inquired. He knew very little about genetics, but even he thought what she described sounded like science fiction, straight out of Brave New World.
“It’s what they show prospective clients when they come to the clinic.” Sherrie got up and walked over to the bookcase. She came back to them with a large envelope.
Gary took it and pulled out the single sheet.
“This is only a sample of what they’re given,” she explained. “It was all I could get hold of—Jonathon took the most complete version I had—but it gives you an idea.”
Gary glanced at the first paragraph. “Oh my God.” Dan leaned in to take a closer look.
He’d expected advice on IVF, assurances that it would work, anything but the clinical notes he was staring at.
Embryo 29—male
No serious early onset diseases but a carrier for phenylketonuria (a metabolic malfunction that can cause behavioral and mental disorders. Carriers only have one copy of the gene, therefore don’t get the condition themselves).
High risk of type 2 diabetes and colon cancer.
Low risk of asthma and autism.
Dark eyes, light brown hair.
43% chance of coming in the top half in SAT tests.
We have three hundred embryos to choose from, all made by in vitro fertilization (IVF)
Which will you choose?
Gary strangled a gasp. “Designer babies.”
She nodded. “That’s not what Jonathon was going to write about—okay, he was, but that wasn’t going to be the main point of the article.”
“Then what was?” Dan appeared aghast. “Because this is appalling. They really give this to prospective parents?”
“Yes.”
“They can’t possibly be able to deliver on all this,” Gary retorted.
“You’re right, they can’t. But the clients don’t know that.”
It took a moment to realize the full import of her words.