Page 123 of Vital Signs

The classic excuse of monsters throughout history. Just following orders. Just doing their jobs.

Misha circled behind Wright's chair, hands trailing across the metal back. "And you coordinated all of this?"

"I provided consultation and training," Wright answered, flinching whenever anyone moved near him. "Standardized protocols ensure data compatibility across sites. The network is... it's quite elegant, actually. From a research perspective."

He caught himself again, realizing how he sounded. "Not that I... I mean, I was just doing my job. Following Nash's directives."

War approached with a pair of surgical pliers. Wright's facade completely collapsed.

"No more, please," he sobbed openly now, no trace of the dignified doctor remaining. "I've told you everything I know."

His voice broke on the last word. The reality of his situation had finally, completely registered. He wasn't walking away from this. No amount of scientific jargon or professional detachment would save him.

"I have a family," he tried, desperation making him reckless. "Please… My wife doesn't know what I do. Please. I'll disappear. I'll turn state's evidence. Anything."

Even in his terror, he was still calculating, still looking for leverage. Still using the humanity of others—a son who might mourn him—as currency while denying that same humanity to his "research subjects."

"Victoria Nash," Misha said quietly, setting the pliers against Wright's front tooth. "Tell us everything."

Wright's eyes bulged with terror. The pliers closed on his incisor, applying just enough pressure to send pain shooting through his jaw.

"CEO of Meridian BioSystems!" he shrieked, the words garbled against the metal. "The holding company above Empirical! She created the entire program!"

War took over, keeping the pliers steady while Misha stepped back. Wright's entire body trembled now, his remaining composure completely gone.

"Federal connections?" Shepherd prompted.

"Her husband," Wright gasped as War twisted the pliers slightly. "Senator Robert Nash. Colorado. Health committee. Any investigation gets buried. Please, the tooth, not the tooth."

Sweat poured down his face, mingling with tears and blood. "I'm telling you everything. Nash identified healthcare deserts and vulnerable populations. 'Human resource optimization,' she calls it. Finding subjects who won't be missed. Won't be investigated."

"Say his name," I demanded, stepping closer. "Not 4-5-8-G-21. His name."

War applied more pressure to the pliers. Wright's eyes rolled back in agony.

"Tyler Graham," he whimpered, words slurred around the pliers. "Tyler Graham. Please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about Tyler."

The apology was meaningless, born of fear rather than remorse, but hearing Tyler's name from his mouth felt important somehow. An acknowledgment, however forced, of Tyler's humanity.

"You murdered him," Misha said.

"I followed protocols!" Wright sobbed. "I had quotas. Nash expected results!"

"Bullshit." I moved closer, towering over Wright. "You killed him because you could. Because no one gave a fuck about somehomeless trans kid. Because his life was worth less to you than whatever your pharmaceutical buddies were paying per body."

"People like Tyler die anyway," he said, voice breaking. "On the streets. From overdoses. From violence. From neglect." A note of desperate justification entered his tone. "At least through my research, their deaths meant something. Served a purpose. Advanced medicine."

"Tyler wasn't dying," I said quietly. "He was fighting. Saving money. Planning for surgery, for housing, for a future. You murdered someone who was trying to live."

A flicker of genuine guilt crossed Wright's face, there and gone in an instant. Then his self-preservation instinct took over again.

"I can help you," he pleaded, eyes darting between us. "I know where every site is. Every researcher. Every protocol. I can testify. I can wear a wire. I can do whatever you want. Just please. Please don't kill me."

His pleas might have been convincing if I hadn't seen the way his face lit up when talking about his methodology or the pride in his voice when describing how neatly they'd targeted vulnerable communities.

"Tyler Graham was twenty-six years old," I said quietly, each word a knife. "He worried about me when I was using too much. He was kind and brave and real."

Wright's body went limp in the chair, resignation finally replacing terror. "I know," he whispered. "I remember him now. He kept saying he needed to leave early during that last session. Said you'd worry if he was late. I told him he'd lose his bonus if he left before the protocol was complete."