Cheating God

By Marc Emrich

The year is 2058 and washed up detective Riley Profit is called upon to solve the biggest case in his career. Riley is approached by 129 year old billionaire Jack Glanville to solve a series of unexplained deaths.In order to do so he will have to forge a unique alliance as well as elicit the help of a crew of odd characters from his past.
From the mansions of Beverly Hills to the most remote regions of Canada, Riley's pursuit of the killer will have readers entralled.
"Cheating God" owes more to the Noir Detective novels of the mid twentieth century than Sci-fi novels set in the mid-twenty first century. You will have a great time reading this first novel of a planned series by talented newcomer Marc Emrich. It would not be too inaccurate to describe Cheating God as Blade Runner meets Lethal Weapon. In a previous platform, this novel had 100% 5 star ratings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marc Emrich
• Release date: Jul 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452459127

Marc Emrich

As a Creative Writing Major at Stanford, I had the honor of being one of less than a dozen students taught by Scott Turow. Scott was an MFA student at Stanford when I was a freshman. He had not yet gone to Harvard Law. He praised my work and called me a promising writer with an odd sensibility. Although I sent him my manuscript many years after our Stanford days, he did not read it. He probably forgot the promising comment. At the point of this writing I have had 100% positive 5 star reviews with "Cheating God". I hope that does not remain true for long since I know that the law of averages will kick in and someone in the next hundred thousand people that read my first novel will not like it. There is no accounting for bad taste. I have a beautiful wife and lovely daughter and call Denver, Colorado my home now. It would be a dream come true to be able to spend every day writing for my profession.

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Cheating God

Marc Emrich

Copyright Marc Emrich 2011

Published at Smashwords

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CHEATING GOD

PROLOGUE

Dr. Jack Glanville wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of a new transplant to replace his second pair of lungs. It wasn’t the cost. He did not give a second thought to anything concerning money. The lung transplants were even worse than the pancreas. The operation involved a wicked recovery time, and the procedure could damage his brain. God knows, the brain was one of the few organs that he’d been born with; and it had been acting sluggish lately, despite the heavy drug regimen he’d been using to keep it in shape.

Jack possessed one of the greatest brains of the last two centuries. He developed organ cloning and was instrumental in the monumental Supreme Court decision of the 21st century- The Glanville Amendment which outlawed the cloning of individuals. He would forever be known as The Man Who Drew the Line, a moniker bestowed upon him by Time magazine when the amendment was passed in 2017.

He considered himself a spiritual man, and had spent a good portion of his life grappling with the great genetic issues of his time. In 2009, at age 81, when he had perfected the organ cloning technique still being used 49 years later, he knew life on earth would never be the same. Most of the inevitable consequences of his discovery had taken place the way he envisioned. Jack knew the processes used would forever be available almost exclusively to the privileged upper class; he foresaw the riots and the violence that occurred in the early days. He knew the religious zealot terrorist acts would be far greater than those of the anti-abortion fanatics of the late 20th century. And he knew where he must draw the line. Despite all the wonderful consequences his discovery had wrought, to allow for the cloning of an entire individual was a recipe for the total destruction of mankind.

When asked after the amendment was passed if he felt that total cloning would be practiced in other countries his reply was, I will continue to do my best to make sure it does not happen in my lifetime.

And for that reason, at age 129, Dr. Jack Glanville prepared his third set of lungs.

...

One year earlier almost to the day, Ross Wahl stood in the kitchen of his sprawling Bel-Air estate sipping on a tasty concoction he had dubbed The Blues Eraser. He always drank one when he felt the malaise beginning, although, he wasn’t sure about the origin of his current funk.

Maybe I need a new set of eyes, he thought.

False lenses were not his style. He’d been blessed with genetically attractive and functioning eyes. Let the poor settle for lenses, he often thought. His genetic makeup was such that he could go between 36 and 40 years without needing a new pair, but he had just lost a triple set of tennis 6-2, 3-6, 0-6 to his 58-year-old great grandson, Carlton. He blamed it on his failing vision. It couldn’t have been his muscle tone. His legs were almost as strong now as when he had been a 20-year-old quarterback at Stanford. Maybe he was overreacting. Sometimes, he’d get depressed enough to consider dying, but he relished being the oldest man on earth.

He certainly didn’t look the part. No one would ever mistake him for being 50 or even 60, but he did appear to be in his mid to late 70's. Recent technology seemed to help his body rejuvenate. Ross looked younger now than at the turn of the century.

The drugs and the organ transplants had always kept him in near perfect health. During the last 50 years, he’d struggled with a brain exhausted from being saturated with longevity chemicals. Mild depression was a long accepted side effect of ingesting potent mind cocktails on a daily basis.

I’m not afraid to die, he would think. It’s just that I’ve got so much to live for.

He was still somewhat involved with the daily decisions at Pisces Microprocessors, where he was founder and CEO. It gave him a feeling of great self-worth to know his death could be costly for the 74-year-old multi-billion dollar company. The power transfer would be awkward at a time when the company was in the midst of repositioning itself and fending off a hostile takeover.

As he pondered his mortality, another reason for choosing life walked into his kitchen. His seventh wife Barbara, 33 years old, and except for enhanced lips, built with beauty that only God could create.

Honey come on upstairs and get the pump ready...The chairs a swinging’, Barbara purred to her billionaire husband.

Barb, I swear you’re trying to kill me with a heart attack.

Barbara certainly didn’t want him dead. She actually loved him. He was still a terrific lover. There’s no substitute for experience when everything is still working well. Besides, a man of his stature had priceless stories about his years on the planet.

Ross, your hearts only six years old, I hardly think that’s something to worry about. What’s wrong darlin’? Are you having one of your days?

One of my days...one of my days... he murmured, Yeah, I’m having one of my days.

Anything I can do to cheer you up? she asked as she approached and began massaging his weary shoulders.

Just looking at you cheers me up, he replied. Which was true, but what really cheered him up was the Blues Eraser kicking in. All his thoughts about death had instantly disappeared.

I’m starting to feel a lot better, Barb. I’m gonna take a quick hop in the sanitizer, and I’ll meet you at the chair.

The sanitizing session had relaxed him, and made him ready for another rather physical session with the chair. As he headed up to the chair room, he thought over the problem that had plagued men for the last 40 years- goggles or no goggles. Here he was 136 years old with a young wife and he still had to stimulate the pleasure centers of his brain with goggles.

Tonight’s going to be different. Screw the goggles; tonight we’re doing it the old fashioned way. We might even go missionary on the bed. No, that’s too much. Going to stick with the chair. Hell, the chair is no abuse. The chair is an actual triumph of technology. Though most users would agree the chair was truly a triumph of modern technology, it was a variation of an ancient Asian Sex Toy. Virtual reality and sophisticated hydraulics had elevated the item known as the Campano Chair (named after its inventor) to an essential possession amongst the sexually active upper class.

Barbara was already strapped in when Ross entered the room.

God she’s a gorgeous creature, he thought.

Darling, turn off the goggles. I want to enjoy your beauty alone this afternoon

Flattered by her husband’s words, inside she was slightly disappointed. Even though a careful regimen of drugs and countless plastic surgeries had kept Ross looking quite handsome, her fantasies didn't include men his age.

She removed her goggles so Ross could bask in the radiance of her long Auburn hair and perfect breasts. As he entered her, the vibrating chair began its rapid oscillations, whipping the two of them into a frenzy. In some ways the chair was even better without the goggles. The spinning room and the thrusts of her virile husband were causing Barbara to remember what real lovemaking was all about. She grabbed him in anticipation of an intense orgasm. She wasn’t disappointed, climaxing with a wail that drowned out the chair sounds. At that instant, the chair started to slow down, and Barbara began to regain her composure.

Marveling at her husband’s prowess, she bent down to kiss him and let out a wail of an entirely different sort. For at the moment of his orgasm, Ross’s six-year-old heart had stopped pumping. She watched in shock as his lifeless head fell back, his face frozen in a smile the size of his erection.

CHAPTER 1

Riley Profit was proud of the late 20th century knick-knacks cluttering his small Private Investigator office. So proud that for the last couple of years he had spent almost no time in his office. His collection had rendered the office space too claustrophobic. He found the living room of his one-bedroom apartment, attached to the office, much more conducive to work.

….

He owned both units of the late 1940's one- story bungalow. He rented the other unit to a beauty parlor catering to senior citizens. The tenants that owned the establishment chose not to live in their unit. Instead, they used all of the space for their business. Riley was happy with his tenants except for the occasional odors. Such fumes reminded everyone that a cheap dye job was once again wreaking havoc on a woman’s hair in a futile effort to disguise the ravages of time.

He had dreams of one day collecting enough memorabilia so he could actually turn the building into a DNA criminology museum, but those dreams, like most his dreams, would probably never materialize. Riley Profit was an Endo junkie.

His story was a classic Endo tale. He was the son of a prominent doctor and had planned to follow in his father’s footsteps. While at Yale in a premed program, he became involved with a woman who was hooked, and it didn’t take long before he experimented with Endo patches himself.

The most difficult drug to kick is Endo, not because the physical withdrawals even approach those experienced by alcoholics or opiate addicts, but because over 70 % of Endo junkies commit suicide when left without the drug for 90 days or more. The body loses its ability to create endorphins when it has been exposed to Endo patches for a very short amount of time. This creates an unbearable withdrawal depression. Most of the 30% who don’t kill themselves have a terrific struggle with life.

Riley had resigned himself to a life with government distributed Endo patches. The government patches had stopped getting him high years ago. They just made it so he could face his miserable life without a constant introspection of opportunities wasted, and Riley had certainly managed to waste his share of opportunities. A gifted athlete and brilliant scholar, his career post-Yale had begun as a glorified mercenary for the government and had wound down to his current role as a small time 21st century gumshoe.

Riley spent a substantial portion of his childhood in England, where his father was a leader of the DNA research being conducted at Oxford University. England had always surpassed the United States in DNA research, probably because their government and legal system were far less concerned with the ramifications of such research. Whatever the reason, Riley’s extensive background in DNA research garnered him respect at Yale as early as his freshman year. But three years of Endo abuse resulted in his being hired out of Yale by the U.S. Government to hunt down and destroy clones.

It was at a time when the evil manifestations of cloning had peaked, despite the efforts of the government to halt the activity. The year was 2028, and 20-year-old Riley Profit was scooped up by the CIA with promises of exciting research work.

Riley truly felt the CIA understood his Endo problem and agreed with his naïve feelings that it improved his productivity. No one has greater strength or physical gifts than a young Endo-junkie. But the CIA knew there is no candle that will burn out faster.

So Riley’s exciting research work entailed searching out and killing Ahmadinejad clones and their ilk. Some of the clones were probably good people, even a couple of the Hitler clones he destroyed. That is why the fanatics made so many likenesses of themselves; they knew DNA was just a springboard to one’s character, an extremely important indicator, but certainly not the only developmental index.

During his stint with the CIA, he learned the most sophisticated investigative techniques known to man. People leave their DNA fingerprints everywhere they go. The difficult part of most DNA investigations is the process of sorting out what often amounts to thousands of DNA clues in a single situation. But Riley became a master. He and his crew traveled worldwide for twenty years searching out perceived government enemies. Riley had personally assassinated over 150 clones during his CIA tenure. He had been long burned out when the government finally replaced him and most of his crew with younger mercenaries.

When he began his private investigation practice at the age of 40, he was a mere shell of the promising researcher that he embodied during his first year at Yale. He had resigned himself to finishing the second half of his life lonely and subdued. He would go weeks without a paycheck from his investigative practice, but his pension from the CIA combined with rent from the beauty parlor provided enough money to make ends meet.

Riley had not given much recent thought to his current state of affairs. He had just put on a new 3-day patch, and was more concerned about his current endeavor. It was a simple little DNA testing case, his first in several weeks.

He had just identified skin flakes attached to a blonde pubic hair from the bed of Tracy and Nancy Packard as belonging to Shauna Goldstein, a 19-year-old stripper. This as opposed to belonging to Nancy, a 46- year old rebuilt bottle blonde.

Riley’s clients always provided hair samples, even though the only method of deriving DNA directly from hair is a prohibitively expensive method known as mitochondrial DNA analysis. Mitochondrial DNA analysis or Mitotyping is also a far less accurate method of DNA analysis than the more common nuclear DNA analysis.

It is possible to derive DNA from the flakes of skin that are inevitably attached to hair. Hairs also have several identifiable traits that distinguish them from one another. Since Shauna was one of several dancers that Nancy had suspected might be sleeping with her husband, Riley was able to match the hair from the bed with hair he had collected from a table dance with Shauna. She was one of six women Nancy had suspected. Riley had thus added six table dances to his expense report, far less than Mr. Packer probably spent on such activities.

The guy's a multimillionaire, and he’s fucking 19 year olds in his house. Can’t the asshole afford a hotel room? Riley said to himself.

Nancy wasn’t going to like the news, or maybe she would. She stood to gain a lot from a divorce settlement and there were still a few more pubic hairs of varying colors to test. Not that they’d put any nails in Tracy’s coffin at divorce court.

On the contrary, Riley figured some of the evidence was probably from a man. He didn’t figure Tracy for swinging on both sides of the fence. He was thinking more along the lines of butler, chauffeur, or pool boy. He pondered what such information might be worth to Tracy Packard.

Don’t shoot me I’m only the messenger, he kept repeating in his head. He pondered the situation for several minutes, working the pros and cons of how to handle his little evidence cache.

The boring fucking life of a millionaire’s wife, he mumbled, at the precise moment Jack Glanville entered his apartment via the office.

Whose wife are you referring to, Mr. Profit? The famous doctor asked as he entered Riley’s living room.

Riley looked up, slightly frightened, and caught off guard by Jack’s quiet entrance. Son of a bitch, aren’t you dead yet?

You recognize me, I assume.

He quickly regained his composure. Of course, I recognize you. You’re probably single-handedly responsible for half the lousy shit going on in this world.

Jack Glanville was good at avoiding enemies. The majority of the world approached him with adulation. Those who didn’t revere him had every reason to avoid and perhaps even fear him. He wasn’t sure how Riley was going to receive him. He only knew that Riley seemed qualified for the task he was about to propose.

Well, you’re certainly a far cry from the young man I met forty years ago.

We’ve met? He worried about how he could forget having met Jack Glanville. A common Endo junkie affliction is long-term memory loss. Riley had always prided himself of his superior memory, and these increasingly common incidents were of great concern.

Twice, actually; your father and I did a fair amount of work at Oxford together at the end of my days of research there. I remember a precocious and inquisitive boy genius, a chip off the old block.

Had I killed anyone yet, Jack?

Doubt it. You were nine. How many people have you killed since?

Riley was silent for what seemed to Jack an eternity, his look a mixture of contempt and self-reflection.

What are you here for, and why didn’t you bother to ring the bell?

I knocked instead of rang. You didn’t answer, and the door was unlocked, so I walked in. I actually spent a few moments perusing your fascinating office. I assumed this slightly ajar door led into a second more substantial office, but lo and behold, it looks as if I’m in your kitchen and living room.

Don’t expect a dinner invite, Jack. Get to the point.

I don’t know how many people you’ve killed; but I do know a lot about you. I know you went on to Yale, and refined many of the genetic mapping codes my colleagues and I had developed; that you had idealistic dreams to make organ transplants affordable to everyone, that you became an Endo addict and strayed from research. I know your life has been nothing but a struggle.

Riley was put off by Jack’s candid analysis.

The only ‘struggle’ I’ve had during my adult life has been cleaning up the mess that you and your ‘colleagues’, my father included, have created by trying to play God.

Playing God, huh? I’ve got news for you, Mr. Profit ‘playing God’ is the last thing I ever wanted to do. But I think you know that. I think you know there’s quite a difference between the creation of a new soul and the creation of a new liver. I think you know that almost every significant technological advance creates a negative offshoot. Ever heard of the Glanville Amendment?

Sophisticated spin doctoring by a thoroughly corrupt government. C’mon doc you don’t really believe your own bullshit. You’re the Oppenheimer of our time. You knew what you were doing from minute one. Admit it, pal, it all comes down to the almighty dollar. How many patents do you own Saint Jack?

It had become clear to Jack that Profit’s contempt for him considerably exceeded his expectations, but he wasn’t about to give up. It was very rare that he gave up on anything he had attempted.

C’mon Riley, you don’t really believe your own bullshit? Jack mimicked the detective. Against my better judgment, I’m not going to turn around and walk out that door.

Please, do.

Jack didn’t move.

I’m going to give you a chance, Mr. Profit. A chance to help me solve what I believe are several related murders; a chance to make some decent money, and a chance to better mankind.

The money part sounds interesting, but the police are just a couple miles down the road. If your wife’s been screwing someone, or if you suspect someone on the inside is stealing a kidney or two from Glan-gen give me a call. But I don’t do murders and I gave up on bettering mankind at least thirty years ago.

Doctor Glanville debated whether it had been a smart idea to enter Riley’s office after all. He was well aware of his reputation for being a cynical anti-social burnout, but in some ways he felt stronger than ever that Riley was the man for the job.

Mr. Profit, give me your number and I’ll put five grand on your card for your time so far. I’ll transfer five grand more if you show up in my office at Glan-gen tomorrow morning at ten-thirty. Every minute that you’re late I’ll dock you one hundred dollars. Each day that you’re working for me I’ll transfer another five grand to your card. Accomplish everything I need accomplished and you get a half million bonus.

The interest in Riley’s eyes belied any cynical repartee he tried to muster, so he did not respond.

Jack continued. I’ll expect you tomorrow morning then?

Ten twenty-nine sharp. But why can’t we just go over everything now?

Ten twenty-nine sharp.

As Glanville left his office, Riley began to question whether he should just blow the whole thing off. Something didn’t seem right. It felt like a set-up. Why didn’t Glanville just go to the police? Why the huge sum of money? On the other hand, he could use the cash; and Dr. Glanville did not seem the devious type. In fact, Riley Profit actually admired Jack Glanville. He didn’t really blame him for the woes of the world. Truth be told, he was jealous that he hadn’t been born a generation or two earlier, before Endo, when he felt certain he would have been involved with the cutting edge research for genetic mapping. Which brought him to his final nagging thought on the situation; just how he was supposed to help Jack Glanville, in what was apt to be the Doctor’s last hurrah to better mankind?

CHAPTER 2

Glan-gen’s West Coast office was its world headquarters. The 40 acre site was home of over 50,000 organ Beds. The Beds were the sites that grew and nourished cloned organs. Once cloned they began their genetic life. Although exceptions had been made, Glan-gen did not as a rule allow organs under a year old to be transplanted. Problems were more likely to occur in organs under one year old, especially, the heart. Statistics concerning the success rate for cloning organs indicated an almost 100% success rate in 2058, due in part to the quality and strength of the Glan-gen clone. Experience had shown that it was best to try to stay as close to a recipient's genetic mapping as possible. For example, there wasn't a great deal of work being done with giving people the same genetically superior eyeballs when their eyes failed. Instead, Glan-gen would use recipients own DNA and only customize the cloned organs with slight genetic variations if necessary.

The primary reason the practice of organ transplantation evolved into personal genetic cloning, as opposed to the development of universal super organs, came down to rejection. After the transplant of a genetically cloned organ there is no need for any sort of anti-rejection drug therapy. Although significant advances had been made with non-cloned transplants, rejection and complications still required a lifetime of monitoring and drug therapy for most recipients.

The downside of the Glan-Gen process was that it put everybody on at least an 18-month waiting list to receive organs. Everyone except the extremely wealthy willing to pay for replacement organs every decade or so in anticipation of one day needing them.

It was Riley’s first visit to the Glan-gen facilities, and despite an effort to remain as aloof as possible; he felt the same rush of excitement he once felt as a young man at Yale. It was a feeling that nothing, not even Endo, had given him for years. He hoped that Glanville would give him an extensive tour of the facilities. He had followed the advances in DNA research over the years, especially, as they pertained to forensic science, but he knew there were cutting edge projects going on at Glen-gen, and he was anxious to learn more about them.

Jack’s huge office was adorned with awards and photos from the last hundred years. There were photos of him with eight different presidents, as well as most of the great minds of the 21st century, and behind his desk was a photo of himself with the grandmother of all clones - Dolly the Sheep.

Following the obligatory exchange of good mornings, Riley took a minute to examine the photographic history of the doctor’s life; then pointed at Dolly and asked, Which wife is that, Jack?

I must be thinking, Mr. Profit, that no matter how I felt about someone, if they were paying me five-thousand per day for my services, I would show them at least a modicum of respect. Regardless of my accomplishments, I would think that you might defer to my advanced age.

You have a point, doc. I suppose I sometimes carry things a bit too far. Riley knew he often turned on the cynicism well beyond what was appropriate.

A shrink, whom he desperately needed but would never hire, would attribute the cynicism to Riley’s attempt to mask a plethora of inner feelings. Riley felt he was an expert in self-analysis, and practically everything else. His self-analysis led him to conclude his cynicism helped add excitement to an otherwise dull existence.

Riley continued. Let’s discuss what I’m here for, and I hope it somehow involves a tour of the facilities.

I’m sure it can be arranged. Jack replied. I’m encouraged that something actually interests you, but I didn’t bring you here for a tour. I brought you here to discuss a recent spate of deaths; four to be exact, wealthy Glan-gen organ recipients all over a century old.

Riley lowered his head in mock remorse. Tragic to have died so young. To think what great potential the world may have lost due to the cruelty of fate. Cut down in their prime....

Jack ignored Riley. They had already achieved their potential, Mr. Profit. All but one of them was a billionaire. Three were CEO’s from Tech 50 companies; the fourth was my patent attorney. He wasn’t a billionaire but he was certainly well off. They have all died within the last three years. It is precisely their age, coupled with the natural looking circumstances of their death that has kept the police from investigating further. But all of their deaths stem from the failure of a Glan-gen heart.

Riley moved away from Jack’s wall of fame and took a seat at Jack’s desk.

I have several reasons for investigating. All of the deceased were friends. All of them were both clients and colleagues; and finally, I fit the victims profile perfectly. I’m probably the last man on earth that really does. I’m wondering if my heart is going to go. I’ve done study after study. I’ve even considered another transplant. I’m beginning to lack trust in my own product.

He paused and briefly placed his hand on a replica of a human heart on his desk.

Ross Wahl, whom I’m sure you remember died about a year ago, had an autopsy, and that is only because he happened to be the world’s oldest man.

Ross Wahl, huh? I should have figured. So what did the autopsy reveal?

The autopsy showed a massive coronary stemming from apparent heart disease, but he’d only had his heart for six years. It was genetically mapped eight years ago. The kind of abuse necessary to cause a massive coronary on that heart would have certainly shown up in other tissue, but it didn’t show up in any significant way. Nothing makes sense, and I have little doubt the same findings would have arisen had the other three been examined.

And they’ve all been cremated, I take it?

They’ve all been cremated. Jack said.

Burial was a rarity. Though the wealthy could certainly afford a plot of land, it was considered to be a gauche statement to be