MemoryMen Read online

  “MemoryMen”

  Michael J. Binkley

  Prologue

  The white-coated lab attendant, clipboard in hand, walked along the bank of monitors. As lights flashed, needles twitched and polychrome displays blinked rapidly, the attendant entered data at a feverish pace on a small pad. Each stop at a terminal screen was an exercise in intense scrutiny and study, followed by a flurry of tapping by the diminutive figure. Occasionally, the woman would plug the pad directly into a port, watch the screen, then move on to the next bank of monitors. However, in this room, the machines held court over any human activity, as the steady hum of white noise was the dominant sound.

  Across the room, behind a glass panel nearly as large as the wall itself, a figure shrouded in a large voluminous white suit barely identifiable as human save for the basic shape, sat frozen in a large throne-like reclining chair. Coaxial cable and assorted wires ran to and from the figure in serpentine fashion, making a connection between the form and the endless array of monitors and machines. The oversized mittens at the end of each bulky sleeve were plugged into another battery of screens at the chair’s side.

  A large white hood, voluminous in scope, covered what seemed to be the figure’s head. It protruded with wires and receptors, which led to another conglomerate of sensors, screens and terminals on the floor. So large and bulky was the hood, it covered any identifiable facial features the person might have had, if they had any at all. The uneducated eye could liken the whole affair to an ancient diving bell and suit. Massive in scope, it would dwarf the figure within.

  The trained eye however, might have been able to discern from the myriad of cables and wires, that the existence of an IV drip and a catheter line, offered up the sole evidence that the figure in the chair might actually be a real person.

  Almost as immobile, but obviously more recognizable as human, but not any more pleasant to see, sat Oliver Harcourt in a corner of the laboratory. A huge man, well over six feet tall and over three hundred pounds with a long drooping mustache and large wide feet splayed outward, he imparted a first impression akin to that of a walrus. When standing, with the bulk of his girth settled around his waist and hips, his body tapered to narrow rounded shoulders with a long neck and smallish head. His cartoonish image was supported by the nickname ‘Wally’, given him by less congenial colleagues behind his back. Oliver Harcourt did not see himself in that fashion. The height and massive girth made him feel almost larger than life, as though he projected an image of power and strength, rather than scorn and ridicule. Those who didn’t know Harcourt might think upon first impression he was slow and dim-witted.

  He was anything but that.

  Poring over several files in his lap, his own smug thoughts rained praise upon himself on how well his project was going. The data and reports he had collected were starting to reflect a pattern, just as he had surmised all along. He mused to himself, there was definitely publishable evidence in the results of his experiments. If nothing, at least a few journal articles were possible, if not a book itself.

  “Someday,” he thought, “the book will write itself.”

  Slowly as if he was breaking out of a hardened mold, Harcourt brought his feet to the floor, turned to the small computer on the desk and began rapidly entering data. The sureness of his fingers and the rapidness of his touch depicted a man more graceful and confident in his work than he generally appeared in life. Lost in the reverie of his diligence, he missed the first two times the lab assistant called his name.

  “Professor Harcourt,” the exasperated young woman called for a third time. By the time he turned his attention away from his data entry, she had called again. “Professor Harcourt, I don't mean to disturb you but you need to see this immediately.”

  “Cindy, what on earth could be so damned important that you would interrupt me after I told you that I was not to be disturbed,” he snapped with a display of arrogance and exasperation not lost on the young subordinate. The casual use of her first name, yet his insistence on always being called “Professor” was a tribute to the lesser esteem, which he inflicted upon her. He felt, after all she was such a mousy creature, how could he not be annoyed by her very presence, let alone her inclination to disturb him. Like all graduate students, she had neither the brains nor the drive to work alongside him, he thought. If he spent more time on it, he was sure he could prove some jealousy on the part of the various department heads and deans for sending him such cretins to work with in the laboratories. “Maybe,” he thought, “it was sabotage.” He was sure one of those pompous academics upstairs wanted his position, “not that any of them had the skill set to do what he was doing,” so he thought.

  Hurriedly lest Harcourt drift away in thought too far, the young assistant blurted, “He moved, sir. The subject moved. I thought I saw something unusual on monitor five, while you were doing your other work.” She could not help but emphasize the ‘other work’. While a sense of urgency prevailed upon her to report the findings, she could not help but take the time to let Harcourt know she knew he was doing something unrelated to the task at hand.

  “I replayed the video sir, and you can see a slight movement within the left mitten. Not only that, but monitor six notes an increase in the subject's synaptic responses consistent with a gross motor movement, such as a hand closing and then reopening. I replayed everything twice, three times, before I disturbed you, sir. I watched carefully and I think the mitten on the gel-suit actually moved. Sorry to disturb you Professor, but I thought it was important.”

  “Important,” Harcourt snapped, with a bluster of air and spittle, “I'll tell you what's important. Important is you doing exactly as I say, when I say it. Disturbing me for some silly little movement, if there really was such a thing, is not classified as important in my frame of reference. Do you understand?”

  Stammering, “B-b-but, sir,” she hated herself for slipping into the stutter, after all she knew she had no real reason to be nervous around Harcourt. He was a buffoon, a pompous, blow-hard buffoon. Always so wrapped up in his damned sex studies, he forgot what he was really here for, what they were all here for, so she shouldn't be afraid. After all Cindy had read his files when he wasn't around. His clumsy attempt at coding his computer, so as to keep out prying eyes was as poor as the work he put into it. She had a half of mind to report his little study to the Director, after all not only was he not putting in his full time to the project, but he was using the project for his own gains and in violation of the prescribed programming.

  Despite all this, despite the clumsy and oafish exterior, he still intimidated her. The long years of study made her vulnerable to the “Ph.D.-As-God” syndrome that all graduate students experienced at some point in their studies, causing a thin veil of involuntary deference to the title whether the holder deserved it or not. His hold over her academic success was even more pervasive and much stronger than usual, but even without that she would have still deferred to his position. Maybe it was his size, maybe it was a gender thing, but whatever it was, it annoyed her that she subordinated herself to him.

  Harcourt ever blunt, snapped, “Stop stuttering and listen to me. Who has the doctorate here? As a lab assistant, you will follow my instructions, exactly as I give them. A simple hand movement is insignificant in the wider scope of our work. It's not even worth noting, if for no other reason than I said it's not worth noting. Do you understand?”

  In defense she retorted, almost a bit too quickly, too sharply, “But Professor, the Director specifically said that we needed to note any response from the subject to the programming, including movements. Even if they are involuntary. He told me at the orientation that the subject's response to the programming was to be completely and utterly passive. We should never see a visible respo
nse.”

  Exasperated by her defense and the veracity of it, he again took a verbal charge at the young woman. “Look, the Director isn't a nuts and bolts kind of scientist, he's a theorist. That's precisely why I'm in charge of actual programming,” he said with a sense of disdain. “I make the decisions as they come up in the field.”

  Actually, he hated and resented the fact that he was the working grunt stuck here in a lab with another over-zealous graduate student and the near cadaver behind the glass panel. His better day dreams always found him fashioning a fantasy where he exchanged places with his boss and he became the Project Director, the well-known theorist, the dashing scientist speaking before conventions and seminars, the high profile executive out wheeling and dealing on the behalf of a leading research company. His dream was nearing fruition though; things would change...he felt sure. His new entire programming hardware would propel him into national recognition and prominence. It would give him more money and more power than he gave himself in his fantasies. “After all, what sells better than simplicity of application?” he mused.

  Needing to put the young girl in her place, as he always did with subordinates and those he perceived to be in a lesser position or holding a lower station in life, he drew himself up to his full height and towered over the diminutive figure. Jabbing at her with a torrent of crisp bitter words, he reveled in the exercise. “Do keep in mind that I am also in charge of your graduate committee. I would have to say that having an antagonistic student, who seems to be so inflexible as to be unable to adapt to the ever-changing needs of a laboratory situation and who challenges those associates who are obviously superior in both clinical and academic credentials is not the kind of student who could easily breeze through a dissertation defense...” The torrent of words left him nearly breathless. Regrouping with a long, slow breath he launched his tirade once more. “...let alone satisfactorily complete a simple lab practicum such as this. If you persist in challenging where you lack the knowledge, where you lack the facts, where you lack the expertise, I cannot in all good professional faith recommend you for degree completion.”

  The final words almost spat from his lips.

  Cindy shrunk within herself. She hated it, but she could not confront Harcourt. He'd blast her in her graduate committee if she got out of line too far. Even if he did not outright blow her dissertation defense out of the water, he could easily bring up enough questions to grossly embarrass her. Questions she would not be able to answer sufficiently. Questions that would call her capabilities into question, questions that would raise suspicions about her skills, research and credibility with the rest of the committee. It would take her at least another semester of research and writing to continue a defense and then he still could wash her out on the committee on the next round. Or worse, much worse, if he had the nerve he could give her an unsatisfactory in this lab course and she'd end up having to do it over again, spending the next fall semester with him. She couldn't do that, she just couldn't, it would be too much for her. She had to get it done this semester and get the hell out of there and as far away from this pig as she could.

  Defeated, a tiny voice whispered, “I-I'm s-s-sorry.”

  “Of course you are. It's understandable. You graduate students get so excited about the littlest things,” the condescending response came as Harcourt sensed the power struggle was won. Wanting to show his latest conquest it wasn't just personal conflict but good old fashioned professional hardball, he softened his tone and offered his explanation, “The Director was concerned about gross body movements, such as attempts at walking, thrashing about, attempts at speech, and the like. Not these petty little motor movements you are seeing. I see them all the time with various subjects, it's nothing to be concerned about, they've all done it at some point. Hell, Cindy, look at the current programming he's going through. The poor bastard's getting laid. He should be moving something. Shouldn't he?”

  Cindy stared off at the cloaked figure behind the partition. She inhaled deeply; her jaw muscles tighten until her teeth ground together. Strangely the pain helped her suppress the urge to cry. “The bastard,” she thought, “the arrogant bastard. Hopefully what goes around, comes around.” Somewhere along the line Harcourt had turned into a jerk, then again she thought he probably had been born a jerk. That thought alone, amused her and comforted her. The thought of the little walrus-like child, shunned and laughed at by his classmates, gave her the strength to turn and face her antagonist and do what she needed to do to survive.

  Feigning an air of apology, she turned to Harcourt and responded demurely, “Sorry Professor, you're right. I didn't think.”

  Feeling authoritarian, if not quite paternal, Harcourt smiled at the young girl and touched her shoulder. He was completely unashamed at the stained and broken teeth he displayed in a twisted leer. “Look you've got class in an hour. Why don't you wrap up now and run along? I've got to stay late anyway to work on a few other projects. There's no need for both of us to suffer here, so go out and catch a bite to eat or something. The two of us don't need to be here. I can finish up your recordings and I promise before I go, I'll plug in the memory maintenance programs so our little friend there can do a little driving and dining during the night. Maybe we can even throw in a little vacation or two. Tomorrow when you come in, we can take up with the regular program regimen. First thing in the morning, okay? We're in no hurry anyway. We are nearly a month ahead of schedule with him. Trust me, he's okay. They are always okay. I've done this before and believe me, I haven't lost one subject yet. “

  Trying not to recoil from the acrid breath generated by the lurid grin, Cindy nodded her head in assent. She thought he probably wanted to be alone so he can plug himself into some of his damn sex scenarios. She knew he did it all the time. She wondered if he was so stupid as to think the recorders and cameras didn't monitor those kinds of things. Maybe he didn't care if she knew, maybe he wanted her to know. “Hell, he probably gets off on me knowing about it. Some kind of weird third party exhibitionism,” she thought with a sense of revulsion.

  Impatiently Harcourt watched as Cindy gathered up her things and left. He was indeed anxious to plug into a program and the moments it took the girl to find her books, rustle through the refrigerator for a nearly empty soda bottle, seemed indeterminate. He had been thinking of Lena. Such a classic Mediterranean beauty with her long dark hair, olive skin and full breasts. He waited a few minutes after locking the door to be sure that Cindy had actually left and hadn't forgotten something, only to return unexpectedly. That had happened once. Another graduate student, having forgotten his jacket came back to the lab unexpectedly. He caught Harcourt and Lena in the throes of a tremendous orgasm. The embarrassment Harcourt had suffered had been nearly impossible to overcome. Fortunately, he had managed to drop the student out of the practicum on some pretense of incomplete assignments, thus avoiding the day to day encounter Harcourt was loath to have had with him.

  With the lab safely to himself, he shivered with anticipation as he called up the program. Quickly he moved about the room, the deftness of his movements belied his bulk. He dimmed the lights and retreated to the couch near his desk. After setting the timer for the program, he checked the placement of his phone on the adjacent table so he would be able to locate it if it rang. He eschewed the bulky hood and gloves, normally used for this kind of entertainment. Carefully, he moved a small flap of skin behind his left ear. Gingerly he found the port, and moved the jack from the terminal until he made the connection. The wet wire technology was his own creation, the one he hoped would make him rich and famous. Clutching the remote control in his right hand he shifted his weight around on the supple leather until he was comfortable and relaxed. Satisfied that everything was ready, he slid the visor for the light blocking shield down over his face. With a slight shudder of anticipation, he pressed the remote ‘ON’ button.

  The silky black negligee fluttered to the floor. Her long black tresses cascaded over the smooth olive sho
ulders, ending in loose ringlets across her heaving chest. The strong taunt legs and buttocks drew added shape from the stiletto heels. She turned slowly, rhythmically before him. Her breasts swayed hypnotically, sensually, as slight rivulets of sweat formed between them and trickled down her rounded but firm stomach. Her hands stroked her outer thighs and twisted up towards her chest. Slowly, her delicate hands outlined the shape of her breasts. Her hips swayed as she walked towards Harcourt.

  “Mmmm,” Lena moaned breathlessly. “I was waiting for you. I've been thinking about you all day.

  Grabbing her with his large fleshy hands, he hissed, “Me too, baby. Me too.”

  Chapter One

  Denver, Colorado

  Carly was sound asleep when the phone nearly vibrated off the nightstand. Despite the deep sleep he had been enjoying, Carlton “Carly” Thompson had trained himself to recognize the hum of his police phone, even in a dead sleep. It was well after 1:00 a.m. and he had to be up early for work. It appeared work wasn’t going to wait for him to have a full night’s sleep. Between classes resuming and working his usual shifts he hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep the past couple of days, tonight was going to more of the same, much more. Joy was trained as well, as she mumbled sleepily, “What is it, Carly?”

  “Whatever it is, it had better be important,” he snapped, irritated work had intruded once again into their limited personal time.

  It was. It was going to be the most important case of his career.

  He answered the call quickly. A body had been found, and it looked like a homicide. It was his catch.

  Adrenaline took over and he was no longer tired. Carly started seeing the puzzle pieces of a new case. For a man six foot six inches tall, he was out of bed in a flash. He dressed quickly, holstered his gun and hurried out to the car. The cold of a January night in the mile-high altitude took away any remnants of sleep he might have had and by the time he made it to the crime scene he was fully alert and ready for anything, or so he thought. The area was covered with cop cars, ambulances and a seedy group of onlookers.