The Memory Killer - J. Kerley A.

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self-directed anger, that sort of thing. If you’d attempted suicide because of weight-related issues, you were automatically chosen. Group therapy was part of the study, both moderated and off-site, much like AA meetings.”

      “What was phase two?”

      “That was more quantitative and involved study of caloric intake and so forth. That’s when the DNA sampling was done, the intent being to determine whether obesity has genetic markers.”

      “Who sponsored the testing?”

      “The National Institutes of Health. Total enrollment was one hundred fifty-seven, males and female, about equally split.”

      I looked at Gershwin. We could eliminate the females from the study, obviously. But investigating seventy-five potential suspects was a huge task.

      “May I ask the name of the person you’re talking about?” Roth asked.

      “Gary Ocampo,” I said. One name in seventy-five. “Do you recall him?”

      A brisk nod. “Gary was as troubled as he was intelligent – and he’s very smart. He used self-deprecating humor to mask very deep insecurities, the result of a rather nasty childhood as well as a lifetime of being mocked about his weight. As with most of our larger participants, we did the tests and interviews at his home. For the support-group work he had to come to our facility. He was hesitant at first, but something changed and he really got into it.”

      My breath stopped. Had we caught a break?

      “How is sampling accomplished?” I asked.

      “A nurse hands the patients a swab and explains how to gather material from between gum and inner cheek. The swab is immediately put into a vial and labeled with name and patient code. One swab, one pre-labeled vial. Swab to volunteer, to mouth, to nurse, to vial. No way to make a mistake.”

      I sighed, the precise chain-of-custody not what I’d wanted, hoping the nurse tossed Ocampo’s spitty swab into a purse with a half-dozen others and didn’t think to label them until getting back to the U. I thanked Roth and stood to leave.

      “Happy to help,” she said. “By the way, how much does Gary weigh these days?”

      “About five hundred pounds.”

      She looked down at her records and brightened. “Five hundred? Wonderful.”

      “Why wonderful?”

      “He must have gotten motivated. He’s lost over a hundred fifty pounds.”

       13

      Patrick White sat at the desk in his apartment, its surface covered with books: Gray’s Anatomy, Human Musculature, Medical-Surgical Nursing. An ironing board was opened at his back, three fresh-pressed nursing uniforms hanging from the board. Music played at low volume, études by Debussy. Outside his window the setting sun had turned the sky into layers of purple and orange.

      Patrick’s cell shivered an incoming call. He studied the caller’s name and rolled his eyes.

      “Hi, Billy,” he said. “What’s happening?”

      “You going to Kevin’s birthday party on Saturday, Nurse Goodbody?”

      “Hunh-uh. Gotta study.”

      “Bitch. All you do is work anymore.”

      Patrick leaned back and tossed his pencil on a book. He spun his head in a circle to loosen his neck. “I have to hit the books, Billy. Got a major anatomy final next week.”

      “If Kevin’s party is like last year’s, you’ll see lots of anatomy.” A wicked chuckle. “Take notes.”

      “If Kevin’s party is like last year’s, I’ll have a two-day hangover. Can’t do it.”

      “Gawd … when did you get so serious? Listen, a few of us are going to the Grotto tonight, just a few drinkies. Here’s an idea: close the fucking book and grab your pretty ass.”

      Pictures of the Grotto flashed through Patrick’s head: dark corners, flashing lights, splashing drinks and sweaty dancing bodies, eyes scoping from every direction. It was a pick-up bar, raw sex seeping from the dingy, paint-peeling walls, the bathroom air bitter with the scent of amyl nitrite, any conversation quashed under waves of bass-heavy dance tunes.

      The Grotto was Billy’s kind of place, but not Patrick’s. Not any more.

      “I’m not doing the Grotto, Billy. No way.”

      “You want a study break, Nurse White, have a real one.”

      “How about D’Artagnan’s instead?” Patrick said.

      “Oh, puh-lease,” Prestwick pouted. “Darts is so lame. All people do there is talk.”

      “I’ll go to Darts, Billy. Not the Grotto.”

      “Oh, all right, little Miss Picky. if you’re not there, I’m gonna strangle you with your own stethoscope.”

      Patrick flipped the textbook closed. “I’ll see you around nine, Billy. But when the clock strikes ten-thirty …”

      “You’ll become a pumpkin and mice will pull you home. Buh-byeee.”

      Gershwin and I were grabbing a fast taco from a downtown street vendor when word arrived that Gary Ocampo’s DNA sample was running through the new machine and the results were nearly analyzed. We used the siren to move traffic aside and I think there were a couple times I cornered on two wheels.

      At the lab we found Roy frowning at the ceiling, arms crossed as his fingers twitched the need for a cigar. Deb Clayton had turned away to take a phone call.

      “Who is it?” Gershwin asked Roy.

      Roy shook his head. “You ain’t gonna believe it.”

      “Out with it,” I said. “Who’s the perp?”

      “The DNA says it’s Gary Ocampo,” Roy said, passing me the printout of test results. “Still.”

      “No way,” I said, staring at the report. “No way in hell.”

      “The perp’s DNA matches Ocampo’s DNA,” Roy said. “Somehow your quarter-ton comic-book salesman has abducted and assaulted at least two healthy men.”

      Gershwin thought a moment, snapped his fingers. “Maybe Ocampo’s got some crazy accomplice who’s … it’s too weird.”

      “What?”

      “Squirting Ocampo’s juice into the victims. Ocampo jacks off and puts it in a turkey baster. The rapist …”

      Roy held up a hand. “Let’s wait for Deb to get off the phone before we spin off the planet. She’s checking with a DNA expert.”

      She hung up and turned to us. “It can’t be Ocampo, Deb,” I said, feeling like the world was upside-down. “There is no way the guy could assault anyone.”

      “Yet it’s his DNA, Carson,” she said, a twinkle in her eyes. “And at the same time, it isn’t. Ever study biology?”

      A long-ago memory interceded. I slapped my forehead.

      “What?” Roy said, cigar-denied fingers twitching like he was typing.

      “He’s a twin,” I said. “Ocampo’s got an identical twin.”

      We were back at Gary’s Fantasy World in twenty minutes, the time almost nine o’clock, the shop window bright against the dark. Ocampo was sitting and tapping at a laptop, setting it aside as we entered. The room had recently been dosed with a pine-scented air freshener, but nothing removes the undertone of too much body in too little space.

      I pulled

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