Mimema: The Troxell Files, #1

By Sloane Swinton

It is often stated that imitation is the highest form of flattery. In the case of Chicago journalist, Malinda Skoda, expecting such sycophancy would be a proverbial waste of time. Simply put, she's the last of a dying breed.

In a time where press and media are largely controlled by corporate interests, what the general public is offered to read and watch can no longer be considered objective and unbiased, but rehearsed and prejudiced, all in an effort to sway.

This reality is not lost on Skoda, who continues to forge her own path, making powerful enemies at almost every turn. Her goal being the same as it ever was: To get to the truth! No matter the cost!

A chance encounter with the chairman and CEO of Mimema, brings her face to face with her toughest assignment yet—the newest player in the global race to eradicate neural abnormalities.

On the surface, everything about the company sounds like a lark. Brain regeneration, memory restoration and enhancement. For the millions of families affected, however, it's like a dream come true.

Unlike the rest of the hopefuls—hypnotized by the hype that Mimema is "changing lives, one patient at a time," Skoda remains unconvinced; her instincts warning her that something more ominous is afoot.

The burden of truth is often misery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darn Pretty Books
• Release date: Feb 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781955476126

Sloane Swinton

A native New Yorker, writing has been a passion for Sloane Swinton since pubescence. Instructors in high school and college alike noticed the raw talent and creative enthusiasm Sloane displayed, encouraging the author to pursue fiction as a trade. Little did the author know that a bohemian lifestyle of low wages and even lesser praise awaited. Swinton is an avid basketball fan and lover of mathematics, classical music, sweatpants, Black Cherry soda, Fruit Punch Snapple, fried plantains, the New York Mets, and the occasional ham, egg and cheese on a French roll for breakfast. For the latest information regarding this author and more, please be sure to follow @darnprettybooks on Instagram and X.

Book preview

MIMEMAMedical Conspiracy TechnothrillerBy Sloane SwintonChanging lives. One patient a time.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2022 by Sloane Swinton

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

First Edition: February 2022

Cover Design by Micaela Alcaino

Library of Congress: 2021922888

ISBN: 978-1-955476-12-6 (e-book)

ISBN: 978-1-955476-11-9 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-955476-13-3 (hardcover)

Published by Darn Pretty Books

Instagram: @darnprettybooks

PREFACE

The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable.

— ​James A. Garfield

APPRECIATIONS

To the ride or dies:

Miss Deb, my brother Dap, Mr. Nichs, the Notorious LVJ, the real Larry, Miss Addie and Junior.

So much love and gratitude. Thanks for hanging in there with me when most people would have long since given up. It was, is and continues to be cherished.

-SS-

JADE WAS HER NAME

CHAPTER 1

M

onday. Arguably the most discouraging term in the modern working world. Once again, the weekend relaxation had found its conclusion without ever having officially begun. American society was singular in that way. The vast majority of its citizens lived to work. Although, not by choice. Living a life of leisure was reserved for the moneyed classes or the impoverished. For the guys and gals smack dab in the middle—they were obligated to overexert themselves for the benefit of both spectrums. All for the opportunity to tell their friends and family that they were employed. Thus was the harsh existence of a cog in society’s meat-grinding machine. A thingamajig in human form.

A dense fog had coated the tallest towers under the grey sky. The heavy rain, coupled with the above-average winds, aided by Lake Michigan, were making this particular morning a real drag. An elevated train pulled into the Irving Park station. The doors opened. Audible groans were followed by anxious commuters—who fought like a prime Iron Mike Tyson to board the crowded L train. Amid the water-logged passengers was special agent, Eric Troxell, a seasoned veteran of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, Chicago branch.

Troxell squeezed in just before the door closed for good. He attempted to move before realizing that his overcoat had gotten caught within the doors. Better for him to wait until they reached the next stop, then ruin it by trying to yank it through. This coat had run him almost three hundred bucks. He took a cursory glance around. The misery index was off the charts with this lot—to call it depressing would have been a gross underestimation on his part.

There weren’t many experiences quite like a Chicagoland winter. Someone would have to endure it for themselves to know just how awful it truly was. The cool, yet bizarre moistness that was accentuated by the pungent aroma of stale urine—from one of the city’s delightful unhoused no doubt. Just another recurring problem that not more than a handful of aldermen seemed the least bit interested in solving. The gap between the haves and the have-nots had never been wider in this city and yet for some strange reason—the beat of the legacy politicians went on without a hitch.

Originally from Wichita Falls, Texas, being recruited into the bureau was like a dream come true for Troxell. There was no higher honor in the world of U.S. law enforcement than the FBI. Now, if he had displayed a predilection for playing by his own rules and straddling the line between asset and traitor, he might have pursued a career in the CIA instead. At least in that situation, he probably would have been given a better assignment—climate wise.

As such, even with over ten years in the profession, the best opportunity he was able to obtain was Chicago. While there was nothing wrong with the city per se, it simply didn’t have the sex appeal of several other cities in the States. Sex appeal being a synonym for warm weather. His previous transfer requests to El Paso, San Diego, Houston and Phoenix were all rejected. Even Jacksonville, of all places, had passed on his services. ‘Twas a definite blow to his ego.

Troxell was a dedicated agent who rarely missed a day. However, he also was blocked into a supporting role rather than being able to shine as the main attraction. He had seen lesser agents come and go, while he was still deemed not worthy enough to play in the big leagues of New York, Los Angeles, D.C. and Miami. Apparently, his nose was never quite brown enough for those specific posts.

Stop it.

He observed a middle-aged woman pulling on her pre-pubescent son. The kid looked like he was just yearning to be mischievous. Troxell didn’t envy her. Not on a day like this. He could feel the energy surging towards him as the train slowed. They were about to hit Grand and he was standing in their way.

The moment the doors opened, he jumped off and stepped aside, avoiding the crush. He watched as hoodies went up and umbrellas opened. He checked the part of his overcoat that had been experiencing the elements outside of the train. It was just as filthy as he imagined it would be.

Great.

Troxell took out his j-handled umbrella, which had been draped over his shoulder while still inside his coat. A neat trick a former colleague from Portland had shown him. He flipped the umbrella upside down and unfurled it as the train doors closed behind him. He walked to the exit to rejoin the city’s denizens.

Puddles formed in the plentiful potholes the city’s officials seemed uninterested in fixing as traffic moved at a snail’s pace. The streets were flooded with as many people as there were raindrops—with more umbrellas and hoodies as far as Troxell could see. If only it had been twelve degrees cooler—the snow flurries might’ve seen the majority of these folks calling in sick.

He approached a newsstand, which was shielded by a clear plastic tarp. There were three stacks of newspapers out front. The Sun Times, the Tribune and the Chronicle. Each paper was held in place by a thick red brick over the tarp.

Troxell leaned closer. The front page of the Chronicle had captured his attention. The main graphic was a silhouette of what appeared to be a young woman, profiled from the left side. While the copy was black and white, the woman’s hair was a vibrant green. The headline underneath it read: JADE WAS MY NAME. Written by: MALINDA SKODA.

Definitely catches the eye.

He tried to hold his umbrella while also moving the tarp, which caused a little bit of rainwater to drip onto several of the papers.

Hey, come on. The fuck are you doing, man? The stand operator shouted.

Sorry. I got it. I’m gonna take two of ‘em.

He let go of the tarp and reached into his pocket with his free hand. He found a couple of bucks and dropped the wet currency on the counter as the operator snatched it.

Keep the change.

Yeah, thanks.

That good ole Chi-town sarcasm. It just couldn’t be beat. He reached under the tarp once more and grabbed one copy of the Sun Times and the Chronicle. He folded and tucked them under his umbrella arm before going on his merry way.

Hey, sorry I’m late. Getting here was a bitch. You really couldn’t have picked a place closer to the office?

Troxell’s newest colleague, Melonie Montoya, was dis-robing her copious layers as he glanced up from his pre-breakfast reading. She sat opposite him and wasted zero-time diving into the diner menu.

What can I say? I like the food here.

Did you order already?

Just tea.

Just tea? No coffee?

He folded the paper and extended it to her.

Take a look at this.

Montoya accepted the paper from him.

Since when do you read the Chronicle?

Will you just look at it please?

She shrugged, holding it out away from her face which was still damp from the weather outside.

Jade was my name. Definitely clickbait if I was scrolling on my phone.

She set the paper down on an empty chair to the side of them. The headline must have been the only thing she had read.

You should read it. He said.

Can I at least order some breakfast first? I’m starving.

Troxell gestured for her to have at it. Either Montoya had forgotten to eat the night before or she was secretly hiding a pregnancy from him as she ordered more than enough food for the both of them. Scrambled eggs, sausage, pancakes, toast, coffee and a fruit cup that he was pretty sure was not going to be eaten. His breakfast burrito with sliced avocado on the side paled in comparison.

So you wanna tell me what’s so special about this article or what?

How he would ever be able to keep her attention while she was engorging herself on all this high-caloric food would be a mystery in and of itself.

I want you to read it.

Just give me the bullet points already, damn Troxell.

Okay. Well, according to this scathing piece, what we have here is a firsthand account of—young girls. Some of age, some not. Sex trafficking and Chicago PD. Some of whom may be involved as the traffickers themselves.

Montoya stopped chewing and put down her fork. It clanged against the plate. Her whole persona flipped in an instant. She took a deep breath before finishing her chew and swallowing.

And that’s in that paper?

Yes ma’am.

Montoya reached for her napkin and cleaned her fingers before grabbing the paper to give it an appropriate once over. He patiently waited as she scanned the words penned by the journalist, Skoda. She looked up from the paper—clearly shaken by what she had just read.

This is fucked up Eric.

He nodded. There was no doubt about that. Her response was all he needed to hear. If there was even a shred of truth to this story, they would have to investigate it. Corruption may have been standard operating procedure since this city’s founding, but they still had to draw the line somewhere.

Dirty cops moonlighting as sex traffickers would simply be too reprehensible an act for them to turn a blind eye to.

The smell of hazelnut filled the break room. Troxell stood in front of the microwave—bathing in the radiation. There was less than twenty seconds remaining on the timer. It chimed upon completion. He opened the ancient machine and patted the mug with his right index finger. It was definitely hot, but not enough to burn him. He pulled the mug out and emptied it into a nearby thermos—the kind one might find at a Target or Walmart. Troxell filled the thermos to the brim—having already placed two bags of Earl Grey, six packets of stevia and four spritzes of hazelnut creamer inside.

He put the lid back on and shook it up. There was a photo list of the ten most wanted fugitives adorning the wall closest to him. A few had red X’s over them indicating that they had been captured. One in particular always seemed to catch his eye. Ernest Petrilak. A senior no less. He was still at large.

Petrilak had murdered his daughter-in-law in cold blood and had been on the run for almost a decade. He was in his eighties now, if he was even still alive. None of the east coast branches had made a dent in the case. It would be a shame if this dangerous man was never brought to justice.

Troxell popped the snap-seal and blew on it before taking a strong sip.

Ah. Nothing like some fresh tea.

He exited the break room and re-entered the main office. It was about half-full. Which was normal—especially on a day like today. On any given day, their office had anywhere from ten to twenty-five different ongoing investigations.

Troxell approached his desk and sat down. He tapped the mouse and woke up the desktop display. His web browser and search bar was all about Malinda Skoda. Her article was an eye-opener, but he would’ve been remiss if he didn’t do his due diligence on her. He combed through her archives. She displayed a rather unique and surprisingly recurring ability in uncovering CPD misconduct.

Nowadays, there were far too many journalists who simply printed what they were told to by the powers that be. Slimming margins and even slimmer readerships were two of the main culprits in an ever-shrinking career field. Genuine investigative reporting was at an all-time low. More like paid propagandists than anything else. That industry had seen way too much media consolidation to ever return to its roots. Even the worldwide web—which had branded itself as a bastion of speaking truth to power—had devolved into an unending web of disinformation.

He noticed a blinking instant message on his display bar. He clicked on it. He had a message from James Lasswell, the special agent in charge. The message read: IMO, PLEASE! Or in my office. He never received a message from Lasswell that wasn’t in all-caps. The chief simply didn’t understand the concept of yelling in digital form. Judging by that man’s IM’s, every situation would have been considered significant.

Troxell took another sip from his thermos and closed the snap-seal. He rose to his feet and walked to Lasswell’s office. The door was ajar as he knocked on it.

Close it behind you.

He pushed the door open to find Lasswell sitting in the dark, save for his exotic desk lamp. It looked expensive and European. If Troxell didn’t know any better, he might have assumed the chief was a vampire. He closed the door and approached the desk. He noticed that the Chronicle article he had read earlier was unfurled in front of Lasswell.

What’s up, chief? Troxell took a seat.

Lasswell sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. The man’s wheels were obviously turning.

So I read this article. Twice.

Uh huh.

This is problematic. For a myriad of reasons.

Why do I get the feeling he’s not gonna let me do this?

Troxell sat quiet. The chief abhorred being interrupted.

If this article is even twenty-percent accurate, we’d have a big problem on our hands. Our relationship with CPD is tenuous at best. Their dislike of the bureau couldn’t be more obvious and they definitely don’t appreciate their officers being investigated.

Troxell nodded in agreement.

Having said that. This is disturbing. I’m legitimately sickened by it. I have three girls of my own and I worry about them every minute of every day. This world’s getting worse and worse, it seems.

Lasswell double-tapped his finger against the desk.

If it were actually fair and just, things like this wouldn’t be happening.

So what do you wanna do, chief?

Lasswell sighed again.

Any investigation into CPD would need to be low-key and deliberate. Which means—a very small team. Otherwise, all you’re gonna get is obstruction and obfuscation. There are a lot of people in this branch who are from this city. Now, I’m not trying to denigrate anybody’s character here, but it’s not always obvious where folk’s loyalties lie. You’d be wise to remember that.

Melonie’s on board, if you are.

Good. Cause you’re gonna need all the help you can get with this one. But you’re also gonna need to get in the mud with them—

Troxell’s eyes widened.

Which means potentially buying and using prostitutes. Some of whom might be underage. Are you sure you’re gonna be okay with that?

Troxell swallowed. The thought of doing something like that made him want to puke. Still, he didn’t have any other options. It was either get in the mud with the dirtbags or let the fuckery continue unabated.

I’m as disgusted as you are about this, chief. I wanna do what I can to help.

Lasswell nodded.

Okay. Put together a packet and show me what you plan to do. I’ll expect it by the end of the week.

Yes sir.

Troxell rose out of the chair. He headed for the exit.

Oh and Eric.

Troxell turned back.

You do understand that should you break this case, it might preclude you from receiving that transfer you’ve been seeking, don’t you? The life of a whistleblower is a long and lonely road—especially in law enforcement.

Troxell remained silent. This potential investigation was bigger than any prestigious posting on either of the coasts. All he cared about was bringing these pieces of shit to justice. This was why he joined the bureau in the first place. To make a difference.

You should have the packet by Friday morning.

Looking forward to it.

Troxell resumed his approach towards the exit and shut the door behind him. He took a moment and exhaled. This case was either going to make or break him. There would be no two ways about it.

THE PRICE OF DESPERATION

CHAPTER 2

R

aul groaned in frustration. He cracked his left eye open and reached for his nearby cell phone. He clicked on the display to discover that it wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning yet. The traditional music of his ancestors was blasting for what seemed like the fiftieth day in a row.

He had love for all of his Rican brothers and sisters, but God damn, these motherfuckers next door didn’t give a shit about anybody but themselves. To make matters worse, the same six or seven songs played on repeat for hours on end. The least they could have done was mix it up every once and a while with some Hip-Hop or R&B.

He rose from his pull-out couch and sighed—stretching his arms high above his head. Whether he liked it or not, there would be no getting back to sleep. Not today anyway. His dreams were quickly becoming the last comfortable place he had left in this city. Society had become really effective at kicking him while he was down.

A rapid banging against his front door broke Raul out of his misery-induced funk. He looked towards it.

Hello. Raul?

He froze. It was his landlady, Mrs. Adilovic. He just knew she was outside wearing that damn pink bonnet to hide her disappearing silver hair. She had an accent, although he couldn’t pinpoint exactly where she came from. He just knew it was from one of those old war-torn eastern bloc nations. Felt like a growing number of buildings in Humboldt Park were being taken over by these Euro-immigrants. This was supposed to be a community ran by his hermanos.

The gentrifiers around the neighborhood had long since moved past the stereotypes of wealthy white yuppie-types—who were on their own for the first time in their young adult lives—seeking some good ole fashioned urban culture to provide them with the necessary street cred to the folks back home. He tiptoed to the bathroom and sat on the toilet. He took his time closing the creaky door, keeping it cracked just enough so he would still be able to hear her.

Raul, are you home? She went on. It’s the twelfth—in case you’ve forgotten.

She banged on the door again. He ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. He had never been late on his rent before, but now he was two months and counting. His business was languishing while his other bills continued the dogpile. His life was falling apart at the seams. He listened to the pitter-patter of the rain landing against the building’s façade. He swiped his phone and turned on the flashlight. The banging from Mrs. Adilovic had stopped. He opened the bathroom door and looked out. Slivers of light were peeking through his blinds—they had been turned upward. A Puerto Rican flag was draped over the back of his pull-out couch.

His studio was cluttered. All of his photography gear and framed photographs had been bunched up in a corner where his Nikon D6 resided. He shook his head. Over six thousand dollars down the drain for a fuckin’ camera. He should’ve listened to his dad and became a plumber. Sure his back would have probably been all jacked up, but at least his rent would have been paid. He noticed a folded white paper that had been slid underneath the front door. He walked to the door and picked it up.

He unfurled the paper and immediately sighed. He owed eighteen hundred bucks and if he didn’t pay by the fifteenth, they would begin the eviction process.

Fuck me.

He tossed the paper away and reached for his umbrella, which hung from a hook adjacent to the door. He quietly un-latched all three locks and opened the door. He looked out to see that Mrs. Adilovic had left. The hallway was empty even though the music was still going strong. It was even louder out here.

He exited his apartment and locked the door. He headed towards the rear of the building. Her unit was on the other side—so hopefully she would miss him dipping out. Since his recent financial troubles he had been forced to park his beat-up Honda on the street as opposed to his parking space.

He unfurled his umbrella and departed the premises. A few short steps towards his car revealed a bright yellow boot on the driver’s side tire.

Jesus fuckin’ Christ.

When it rained, it poured. He was literally drowning in debt. If he didn’t pay this bill within the next three weeks, it would be the city who owned this piece of shit.

The demographics underwent a drastic transformation since Raul boarded the Southside-bound city bus. Other than him, every other passenger was black. Many of them looked just as frustrated with life as he was, albeit probably for vastly different reasons. A police siren could be heard blaring in the distance every fifth or sixth block. This was no way to live.

His stop was the next one as he stood up. There were a handful of unsavory characters who had recently got on the bus. They were mean-mugging anyone who looked in their direction, thus his prudent decision to remain seated upfront a few rows behind the driver. He had enough problems in his life and he definitely didn’t need any new ones.

The bus came to a stop as he moved towards the door. He waited for two passengers to board first before getting off. They seemed to be highly motivated to get out of the rain. He opened his umbrella and began walking. He was still a few blocks from his destination according to his phone’s GPS. He maneuvered around several large puddles on the sidewalk. The infrastructure of this city needed a total revamp. If