Old Story
I wrote this months ago, I didn't even have lj back then.
It's kinda rough, I think.
In Chicago, just south of the 55 interstate, there resides a rather large indiscriminate building, housing a subsidiary research facility for a top biotech company, Iris Research Group. On the 4th level, a lanky man in rectangular specs, clad in khakis and a rather putrid argyle sweater padded through a thin bleach white corridor, stretching between a vast set of laboratories, with varying degrees of biohazard guard measures, and a single staircase leading to offices above. Dr. Garret Jones he was.
Jones reached his office in due time. It was a Friday afternoon; the entire complex was fairly empty in fact, with the exception of a few, including Dr. Jones himself and the power just above him, Dr. Basinger. Their offices on the fifth floor were directly aside one another and with paper thin walls, each could hear the other’s movement, the opening and shutting of drawers, and the occasional pulling of blinds. Sometimes, when Jones reached a strangle point in paperwork, he would press his ear against the wall and listen; carefully, quietly, allowing his mind to stir up corresponding events for any noise produced from the brother office.
Today, Basinger was in his office. The door to his spacious corner office was thrown open (August heat a factor, most likely), and Jones gave a small comical salute on his way.
On his desk were a constant assortment of papers.
And papers.
And a lone pen.
Jones began to rifle through the tower of articles, briefings, lab reports, and assignments. A few minutes of sorting, however arborous the task may be, resulted in the discovery of a single sheet which did not belong. It was off-white, thicker, and specifically used by the higher management. Definitely worth investigating.
The silence which followed his read for several minutes was unnerving at best. Jones’ attainment of this document was most certainly an accident. A slip. One which could not be helped by the scarlet stamp reading CONFIDENTIAL pressed across it, nor the image watermarked behind. The lab had produced a cure for type-2 diabetes with a 91.6% positive results rate, with virtually no side effects. Oh, this was definitely a slip. Jones was well aware the lab could make billions with an advancement like this, but the government was pressing the biotech companies to prevent the release of news of any ‘miracle’ drug if it could possibly have a negative impact on the economy. We’re already struggling enough, aren’t we? We’re drawing cuts that are damaging communities and entire classes to fix million dollar deficits. Yes, and with over 1.2 million Americans diagnosed with cancers each year, the economy is in big trouble.
Jones was very much against how the government had been interfering lately. Inspections had become a biweekly practice and production was slowing.
Perhaps losing his employment would only be a small price to pay for saving thousands. Conceivably?
By 3:30, Jones had scheduled a conference with a Chicago Tribune writer for coffee at a secluded bistro, only a few blocks away from Iris on E 29th St, called Visions.
At 3:51, Jones left the building.
“Where ya goin’ Jones?” called the receptionist.
scratchy-scratch
Filing her nails. How Gloria.
“Nowhere, Gloria,” Jones played over his shoulder.
Onto E 26th, pacing noiselessly past Mercy Hospital -
Basinger had not heard the scratch of pen or the familiar ruffle of paper emanate fro Jones’ office for some time.
“Jones? Still here?” Basinger called. “Jones?”
He slides past the doorway in Jones’ office and pauses behind his desk. He scans. On the corner of the oak surface was a generic post-it. It read:
4:15 - Kim Westermund @ Visions
Westermund. Basinger knew it.
The café he was acquainted with…but.
And then it came to him. She wrote the science column in the paper every Wednesday. His eyes wandered from the post-it. To the left, he discovered the high-quality cream sheet detailing lab results of their diabetes advancements. And then Basinger began to visibly vibrate. The sheet fluttered from his grasp to the oak counter and all color drained from Basinger’s face. In a blur, Basinger bolted to his office and pummeled the speaking key on his phone.
“It’s leaked. Less than a week in god damn it! Get Jones.”
- down South Indiana -
At 4:08 Garret Jones fell on the corner of Indiana and 29th, a single sniper wound to the chest.