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In the upper right-hand corner was a blank box. Max took his pen and made a simple mark—a large check. Dave and his candidate Daniel had made it to the next round.
Eight other trainers entered the room, one by one, and made similar presentations about their own candidates.
Once the entire process was complete, everyone was dismissed, and the painstaking, time-consuming assessment and elimination process began.
A day and a half later, the decisions had been made.
Everyone re-congregated, this time in one of the larger meeting rooms that would accommodate everyone. It was black, white, and austere. No beachfront views, no terrace, all business.
It was the first time all the attendees had been amassed as one. They scrutinized each other, wondering who might possibly have edged them out and who they themselves might have bested. And they were all wondering about Jim Robbins. Word travelled rapidly through their circuit. They’d all heard about Shannon Barker—about how close she was to becoming a champion and about what had happened to her. Whispered words had been exchanged about Jim’s potential misuse of the drugs. But no one dared speak their questions aloud—especially the one about what had happened to their fellow trainer.
The nervous tension in the room was palpable.
At the dais, Max cleared his throat, and the whole room snapped to attention. The announcements were about to be made.
“Before I begin, let me express my keen disappointment over the incident in Chicago and the gross misuse of my life’s work.” Max cut straight to the chase. He paused, his icy stare sweeping the room. “The situation has been dealt with. Jim Robbins is no longer with us.”
The underlying message hung in the air like a toxic gas.
“On to the business at hand,” Max continued, ignoring the terrified expressions on everyone’s faces. “We’ve seen some outstanding candidates. I’m extremely pleased. Here are my decisions.”
With that, Dave and two other trainers were asked to stand up and be recognized—which they did, beaming ear to ear amidst a round of polite but forced clapping. These three trainers would become part of the elite set of trainer-trainees working closely with Max and his scientists. The rest would go back to their respective cities and try their best to do better. Some athletes would be asked to find other trainers—and a few trainers who had tried and failed several times to join the elite ranks would be asked to find employment elsewhere.
Max felt his familiar rush at the meeting’s outcome. He was singularly responsible for honing the skills and maximizing the potential of all his candidates. And, someday, those candidates—and the rest of the world—would reward him for his success. He’d receive the Nobel Prize, his greatest dream. And he’d have the respect of every renowned scientist as he surpassed all their achievements.
He could see himself in Stockholm, receiving the gold medallion…
But not yet. Not until Max had a time-tested product and method, along with a long list of success stories. Then he’d be ready to publish and accept the accolades he deserved. And, oh, how the world would prosper from his work.
His formula would be sought after by every significant entity, both national and international. The militaries of the world. Corporations. Pharmaceutical and nutraceutical companies. They’d all be vying for it, even trying to steal it. He, and he alone, would dictate the terms. He’d retain ultimate control over the formula. Initially, the product would be in limited supply. He’d decide which endeavors and who were worthy enough to receive it. The quality, distribution, and pricing would all be under his control. No investors. No licensees. No one to tell him what to do. Only the needy and the greedy begging for his product.
A slow smile curved his lips.
Very soon, all this would be his.
Chicago, Illinois
Nineteenth Police District
Detective Paula Kline frowned in concentration as, yet again, she scanned the report the Montclair PD had emailed her after they’d met with Julie Forman. Something about the interview didn’t sit right. Julie Forman’s extreme agitation. The sudden appearance of Miles Parker, Lisa Barnes’ never-before-heard-from best friend. Stories so smoothly told. Actions that were questionable.
Added to that now was the disappearance of that Apex Center trainer, Jim Robbins, whose Olympic hopeful had also been training under Julie Forman.
All Paula’s professional warning bells were going off.
“Are you reading that Montclair PD interview again?” her partner, Detective Frank Bogart, asked. “Boy, you’re really fixated on this one, aren’t you? You’re like a dog with a bone.”
She shrugged. “I guess. I’m just not getting a good feeling about the whole thing. Doesn’t the series of coincidences raise any red flags to you?”
“Of course,” Frank said. “I’m not saying I disagree with you. This definitely feels off.”
“And is it tied to the Jim Robbins disappearance?” Paula asked. “Was he killed like Lisa, or did he take off like Julie? Either way, why?”
“We could ask the Montclair guys to check in on the Forman woman again and ask some questions about her teenage trainee—as well as if she herself had any personal contact with Jim Robbins.”
“I think that’s asking for more than just a favor. It’s asking the Montclair PD to do our job.” Paula was fiddling with her pen. “A cursory drop-by was one thing. But these cases are ours. Lisa Barnes was killed here in Chicago, and Robbins vanished from here, as well.”
“Yup,” Frank agreed thoughtfully. “So it’s you and me who need to interview Julie Forman. Problem is, the only way we’re going to get permission from the district commander to travel to New Jersey is if we can positively tie the two cases together.”
