Heaven, INC: Chapter 12: DOMINIC DUCROIX

NORCESTOR & IMPERIAL,
MARKET PARK
8:29 AM PDT

UNDER THE QUASI-WATCHFUL EYE of Deputy Inspector Rose— when the kid wasn’t text messaging, so less than half the time—Pope traced a finger along the street map spread across the hood of Margie’s car.

“Alright, let’s box out Skyline to Federal, and 86th to 105th Street. Coe and Cabral, your teams will take the immediate vicinity, starting with the towers— I don’t care what it takes, but find someone who saw something and get them talking. McKimbelroy, Rank, Foxwell and Hewitt, your teams will work the rest of the box.” Pope drew his finger out from the intersection of Norcestor and Imperial. “Harper and Schreiber, your people will work the transportation net— trolley, cab, bus, scooter, skateboard, if the kid voluntarily left the area and hasn’t reported in, I want to know how he left and where he went. We can figure the why later.” Pope looked from the map to the people he’d worked with for years. “If Ducroix’s inside the box, let’s bring him home. If he’s out of the box, let’s find out where he went. Alright, let’s get moving, people— daylight’s a-burning.”


POPE STUDIED the case-file’s black-and-white of Christian Ducroix, a good-looking kid in a
classically-cut suit and confident smile with dark hair parted on the side.

The file described a successful young man who’d graduated at the top of his class as the rarest of San Diego State grads, the captain of a championship sports team. If you know San Diego State’s dismal sports legacy, you know that captaining a championship at State, even one in badminton, is an almost singular achievement.

"Loser U,” Al called the school, “in the middle of Loser Town.”

After graduating from Loser U with a BS in Microbiology and minors in History and Photojournalism, the boy headed east, where he attended A.M.P., earning a masters in something called Germ-Line Engineering. Two years ago, he’d landed a posting at PharmaCon’s Vienna lab before being transferred back to the San Diego campus, working under his father. The file listed a Solana Beach address.

Brushing at a buzzing fly, Pope shifted his gaze shifted to the brooding towers of the Norcestor Arms and the newly risen sun now casting long shadows across the working class row-houses that lined St. Angela and La Raza streets; to Pope, the shadows of the grim monoliths portended a world running down, a no-man’s land of decay and despair 30 miles and a world away from Solana Beach.

Pope flipped the file to a U.S. Customs’ report detailing Christian Ducroix’s recent travel plans, including a trip to Paris and back this last July. It also showed Christian had three weeks ago left the states on a Buenos Aires flight from LAX before returning on a flight out of Caracas flight and into Lindbergh Field yesterday.

Kid’s really looking to rack up the frequent fliers . . .

Pope set aside Christian Ducroix’s file and opened that of his father’s, to a photograph of Dr. Ducroix— middle-aged, gun-metal grey hair, bushy eyebrows and sharp blue eyes. More than anything, Pope was struck by how much alike were father and son, the strong chins and piercing eyes.

Ambitious eyes.

The background report stated that Dominic Ducroix was born in Sao Paulo, Brazil, the only child of a Swiss diplomat. As a boy, Dominic attended a Jesuit’s school before heading to university in Vienna and, following graduation, landing a post at the French pharmaceutical giant Alcametre. In 1979, Ducroix left Alcametre to resurface in South Guyana, purportedly as a physician to the country’s dictator, Gen. Anton Salazar.

Dominic remained in North Guyana until 1988, leaving shortly before the regime fell to Left-wing revolutionaries. Dominic took his wife and young Christian to the States, where he landed a job at Long Island’s Oakmont Bay Laboratory. Curiously, less than a year later, Ducroix and his family were again moving, this time to Golden State and a posting at PharmaCon’s Torrey Pines campus. Eight years later, serving as Director of Genetic Studies, Dominic received the American Prize for Science. Now, Dr. Ducroix was something of a science rock star, or at least the Stephen Hawking of Genetics and without the wheelchair and voice box.

Ducroix also belonged to a lot of organizations. The file listed big names like the National Cancer Society, American Endowment for Medicine and the International Red Cross as well as smaller organizations like the Elder League, The Ares Project and something called the Strategic Population Research Council.


POPE CLOSED THE FILE as Linda Garcia appeared, one of his favorite agents looking as sharp as anyone can in an FBI windbreaker and knee-brace. “Agent Garcia, I wasn’t expecting you in the field so soon. How’s the knee?”

“Fine.” Linda shrugged. “Better than my head, anyway— Chief, I’m going nutty being cooped up in that office. I need to get out in the field and walk around.” She flexed her knee. “See? No pain at all.”

Pope smiled. “Glad to hear it, but you’re a terrible bluffer. Besides, I need your brilliant research abilities more than balky knee.” Sliding a glace Rose’s way— the Deputy Inspector was engrossed in a furious conversation with an unknown caller— Pope said, “Get me everything that’s not in these that should be.”

“Dump it . . . All of it. . . Then use that money to buy 10,000 January 8's . . .”

To which Al, looking on, interjected, “Jeez, end of the world and the guy’s calling his stock-broker. Goddamned government.”