The columnist

The AON Building: Los Angeles, CA

Three Years Ago

     Stacy burst into the stairwell at lightning speed with Kelly right on her heels. The sound of the door’s metal handle slamming hard into the stairwell’s block wall echoed through the building, but neither girl cared. It was all part of the plan.

     Both girls railing-hopped down five flights with two security guards in tow. One shouted into his radio as he struggled to keep up. “Keith! We’ve got them on the run! They’re headed down the southeast stairwell. Cut them off at the bottom!”

     Stacy and Kelly both paused when they heard the transmission. “That’s our cue,” Stacy whispered. She peered through the small glass window on the stairwell door. The forty-sixth floor was vacant. They slipped inside, gently closing the door behind them, careful not to make a sound. The elevator shaft was a straight shot across from the stairwell, according to the blueprints Stacy had found. They darted through the darkness with only a few red exit signs to keep them oriented. They pried the elevator’s metal doors open and each grabbed hold of a cable. Stacy peered down the dark elevator shaft. If all went according to plan, the elevator carriage would be parked on the first floor. The cable-climb down to the lobby was perhaps the easiest part of their little operation, and both girls regained control of their breathing in the process. 

     Once atop the elevator, Stacy gently lifted its small hatch and peeked inside. As expected, it was empty, so one at a time, they silently dropped into the carriage. With the AON building’s limited night shift focused on the stairwell at the southeast corner of the building, Stacy and Kelly had just enough time to escape out the main entrance. The plan had worked.

     Back at their shared apartment, Stacy ripped into the file they’d stolen—her deceased mother’s medical records. She thumbed through the folder’s contents, passing by countless policy documents, release forms, visitor logs, and chemo results until she found it. Stacy pulled a single page and began skimming. The toxicology report showed more than trace amounts of sodium pentothal. 

     “I knew it,” Stacy said solemnly. She took in a deep sigh and sat on her bed. “My mom did not die of natural causes. She was murdered.” She handed the report to Kelly and buried her face in her hands. 

Kelly skimmed through the page. “Stacy, doctors have been known to use Pentothal for pain relief in terminal patients.”

     “Not my mom, Kell. There is no way my mom would have agreed to that. She hated feeling disoriented. Besides,” Stacy took a piece of paper from the top drawer of her nightstand and handed it to Kelly. “This is the report the ME gave me and my dad.” 

     Kelly held the two reports side-by-side and took a closer look. “No way.” She shook her head in disbelief. “These reports should be exactly the same.”

     The tox reports were identical, all except for a single line. The version Stacy and her father had received only showed 29.03 kilograms of sodium pentothal in Barbara’s bloodstream at her time of death. This was well within the acceptable limits for someone of her age and stature. But the report the girls just stole told a different story.

“49.03 kilograms is lethal,” Stacy insisted.

     “It might have been a clerical error. The technician could have hit the four instead of two by mistake.”

     “So, someone filled out the tox report once for the insurance company and once for the ME’s office? Come on Kell. You’re smarter than that.” Stacy’s sarcasm wasn’t helpful but Kelly let it slide. She was right. There was never a good reason to fill out a second report.

     “This report goes directly from Spectrum’s toxicology lab to the ME’s office. Are you suggesting that someone in my department changed it before they sent it out? Why would anyone do that?”

     “Isn’t it obvious? Hall paid someone to cover up a murder.”

     “Yeah, but who? And why kill a terminal patient? It doesn’t make sense.”

     Stacy thought for a moment. “Do you know what else sodium pentothal is used for? Other than pain relief?” 

     “It’s a barbiturate. Doctors might use it as an anesthesia, cops use it in interrogations, and—” She paused and looked at Stacy. “You don’t think—”

     “Yes. I think someone interrogated my mom, and then killed her to cover their tracks.” 

     “But who would do that? And who at Spectrum Labs would help cover up a murder?”

     Stacy’s mind was like a freight train, barreling toward a conclusion. “Do you remember when you first started interning at Spectrum Labs?” 

     “Of course I do,” Kelly replied.

     Stacy nodded. “I need you to think back and tell me if anyone there seemed shady enough to take a bribe.”

     “All I can remember about those first few weeks is how frightened I was to make a mistake. Forensic labs like Spectrum don’t give second chances. I was fully focused on myself at the time. I’m sorry.”

     Stacy looked disappointed. “It’s all good,” she reassured her. “It was a long shot, anyway.”

     “You know what I do remember,” Kelly said with a smile. “You demanding that I dust your mom’s room for fingerprints on my first day.”

     “It worked,” Stacy reminded her. “You found Tyler Hall’s prints.”
     “Along with half a dozen others, most of which we couldn’t even identify. Like I said from the beginning, fingerprints are not a smoking gun.”
     “You were right. And now we need a link between Hall and the altered report. If I could just find whoever GEN Industries bribed to change it, I’d be able to tie Tyler Hall to my mom’s murder and finally get her the justice she deserves.”

     Kelly could see the determination on Stacy’s face. “Tell you what,” she offered. “I’ll talk to HR and see what I can find out. If anyone was accused of ethical misconduct around that time, I’ll let you know.”

     “Thank you so much, Kell. I would never have gotten this far if it wasn’t for you.”

     Kelly sat next to her on the bed. “Don’t get your hopes too high. I’m still not sure this will be enough for the cops to arrest him.”

     “I know, but it is enough for a front-page cover story. This report proves that my mom was murdered, we have Tyler’s fingerprints in her hospital room, and the hospital already went on record, admitting they don’t know how the footage from that night got erased.”

     “That’s a great idea. An article will help you build public support for his arrest.” 

     Stacy walked into the small apartment’s kitchenette with Kelly trailing behind her. She sat two martini glasses on the counter. “Yes it will. And that is a reason to celebrate.”

Monday, March 1st
GEN Industries’ Press Room: Los Angeles, CA

 

     Anastacia Zane, or Stacy as she was known by close friends and family, barely flashed her LA Times press pass long enough for the security guard to register her credentials. It didn’t really matter, though. Everyone from California to New York recognized her from the plethora of reputable magazine covers—and even the not-so-reputable tabloid covers—that had placed her face right next to world-famous genetics tycoon, Tyler Hall. The article she had written, titled Genetic Ties, accused the billionaire of murdering their shared mother in cold blood—and Stacy didn’t hold back. 

     To prove the validity of her scathing claim, the bitter columnist had also published the ME’s toxicology report showing that lethal amounts of sodium pentothal had been found in Barbra’s bloodstream—alongside an anonymous quote that Tyler Hall’s prints had been found at the scene. It should have been enough to warrant an arrest, or at the very least, an investigation. But according to the LAPD, Stacy still didn’t have enough evidence to prove Tyler Hall was a murderer, at least not yet. Stacy was livid when she discovered the police would not be investigating the billionaire, but her article still managed to capture the hearts and minds of readers from coast to coast. As its popularity gained traction, so spread the knowledge that Stacy was actually the billionaire geneticist’s younger half-sister. 

     The sprint from her L.A. Times office desk to Genetic Enterprise Network’s press room—now packed like a can of sardines—reminded Stacy of the poor shoe purchase she had made on the shopping spree that she and her girlfriend Kelly had indulged in earlier that weekend. She didn’t regret it, though. The blisters searing her ankles were a small price to pay for her annual ritual, the shopping spree she had put into place when her mom passed. It had been four years since Barbara’s death, but the case was far from cold in Stacy’s mind. 

 

Mercy Hospital: Los Angeles, CA

Four Years Ago

 

     “Miss Zane, I know this news is hard to take but—” 

     “Hard to take?” Stacy interrupted. “My mom was supposed to have six months left.  What the hell happened?” 

     “We’re not quite sure how—” 

     “You’re the Doctor, how can you not know how my mom died?”

     “Cancer is a tricky disease, Miss Zane, now if you just—”

     “I want an autopsy,” Stacy demanded. “Now!”

     “I’m sorry, Miss Zane, but autopsies are not standard protocol when it comes to—”

     “Then I’ll order one myself!” Stacy burst through the hospital’s double doors just in time to collide with her father on the other side. “Dad,” she cried, throwing her arms around him. “I can’t believe she’s gone, I just can’t!” 

Michael Zane held his daughter in a tight embrace as Stacy sobbed into his shoulder. 

     “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.” 

     “It’s okay, Stace, I’ve got you. I’m here.” Michael, who was equally as heartbroken over the sudden loss of his wife, was determined to hold it together for his daughter’s sake. “We’re gonna get through this, one day at a time.” 

     “No Dad, I can’t live without her,” the young girl sobbed. “I just can’t.”

     “You can, Stace, and you will, because you have her strength deep inside you. We’ll get through each day as it comes, together,” he promised. “I’ll be here the whole time.” 

     Stacy pushed the aging man away. “Like you promised you would be there for her? But where were you, huh? Where were you when she was dying? You should have been here!” Stacy pounded her fist into her father’s chest as hard as she could. Michael pulled her back into his tight embrace, knowing how much she desperately needed someone to blame. 

     In truth, once the doctors had determined that Barbara would be passing in a matter of months, Michael immediately made the decision to take an early sabbatical. He had one project left to wrap up at The Edifice, and then he would be taking as much time as needed. He had made arrangements at home, too. From a lift chair to new entry ramps, Michael was more than prepared to assist Barbara in living out the rest of her days in the comfort of her own home, but it was not meant to be. 

     “I should have been here for her, Dad,” Stacy admitted after a long moment of silence. “I’m such a bad person. I can’t believe I let her die alone.”

     “Hey now,” Michael reasoned. “You know she would tell you not to say such things. And if there was ever a time for us to honor what your mom would have wanted, this is it, don’t you think?” 

     Stacy knew she had no argument for his logic, so the two observed another moment of silence.

     “I want an autopsy,” Stacy said, breaking the long pause.

     “Stace—” 

     “Don’t fight me on this.”

     “Okay,” he complied. Like all good fathers, Michael would have done anything in that moment to heal his daughter’s broken heart. If facts were what she needed to soothe the pain, then facts were what she would have. “I will have one ordered before we leave the hospital,” he confirmed. 

     Stacy took in a deep sigh. One way or another, she was determined to find the truth.