Hypocrisy

by D. M. Annechino

  The rush hour traffic was unusually light this morning, which was as rare an event as a solar eclipse of the sun.

  “Want me to swing by Starbucks?” Dupree offered.

  “Don’t think my stomach could handle it.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Oh, by the way. Before I went home last night, I drove to the Better Blast Coffee Shop and Lentz’s story checked out. He was there all evening.”

  “I’m impressed by your tenacity. Are you turning over a new leaf?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far.”

  Dupree had much to say about their impending conversation with Dr. Mason, and she wanted to be sure that T.J. and she were on the same wavelength. But every time she glanced at him, about to speak, his eyes looked droopy and it appeared that he’d be sound asleep in a few minutes. For most of their six-month partnership, T.J. had been alert and ready to roll first thing in the morning. In fact, he was an energetic, cheery “morning person” who came to work singing. He annoyed the crap out of everyone around him who was still struggling to gradually wake up. But something recently changed. Something wasn’t quite right with him. She realized that she had to confront the issue, but now was not the time.

  Driving the side streets of the Bronx, watching kids enjoying their summer vacation—

  playing hopscotch and stick ball—reminded Dupree of a life less complicated. A life she abandoned when her teen years changed her from a sweet girl to an out of control and defiant young woman. She tried to blame it on her father, a worthless man who abandoned his wife and daughter when Dupree was only three years old. But the peer pressure in high school influenced her more than any other factor and set her on the wrong path.

  Why at this particular time she would be reminiscing about such things made no sense. But she not only had survived her teenage years, she’d fulfilled the promise she had whispered in her mother’s ear moments before she died.

  “I’m going to be somebody, Mom. I’m going to make you proud of me.”

  Dupree wasn’t sure if she’d kept her promise by getting into law enforcement. But she hoped that her mother looked down from the heavens with favor.

  Trying to clear her head of all these troubling thoughts, she pulled into the driveway of the ten-story office building and found a visitor’s spot. They got out of the car and headed for the entrance. Just inside the door, Dupree noticed the building directory. Horizon was located on the top floor.

  Dupree and T.J. stepped into the elevator. As soon as the door closed and the elevator moved upward, Dupree elbowed T.J. “Are you ready for this interview?”

  “Want the truth?”

  “No. I want you to bullshit me.”

  “I really don’t feel up to it.”

  Although annoyed, Dupree appreciated his honesty. “Tell you what. You just sit there and look pretty and I’ll ask the questions. Just don’t fall asleep.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  The elevator door opened and Dupree stepped out; T.J. lagged a few steps behind her. It appeared that Horizon Cancer Research Center occupied the entire floor, which was not what Dupree had anticipated. For some reason, after speaking to Mrs. Crawford, Dupree got the impression that Horizon would be in a small space the size of a janitor’s closet in the basement of a musty old building. But clearly, this was a first class operation, and whoever funded the project had wheelbarrows full of money. Just looking around, Dupree guessed that there had to be at least a couple dozen employees moving about. And she suspected there were many more “worker bees” out of sight.

  They approached the reception desk and a young woman greeted them with a big grin. She looked like someone who could be modeling a Versace evening gown on a fashion show runway. Her teeth were bright white and perfectly aligned. And her low-cut blouse left nothing to the imagination.

  “May I be of assistance?” she asked. Her eyes were fixed on T.J. Dupree felt as if she were invisible. This was not the first time Dupree witnessed a young woman making goo-goo eyes at T.J. Why wouldn’t they? He was trim, muscular, good looking, and he had a beautiful smile. What Dupree found peculiar, was that all the female attention never seemed to faze him.

  “We have an appointment with Dr. Mason,” Dupree said.

  Still not making eye contact, which was really starting to irritate Dupree, the young woman said, “May I have your names, please?”

  She flashed her badge and ID. “I’m Detective Dupree and this is Detective Brown.”

  The young woman grinned at T.J. and tossed her long, blonde hair to one side, fashion-model-style.

  “Please have a seat,” the receptionist said, pointing to a small reception area. “I’ll buzz Dr. Mason.”

  Once they were seated, Dupree, talking slightly louder than she intended to, said, “She seems quite taken with you.”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Seriously? You must be sleeping on your feet. She was almost drooling.”

  “I think you’re reading way too much into it. Besides, I’m not the least bit interested.”

  Curious, Dupree thought. During the six months she’d worked with T.J., she’d heard plenty about his sordid romantic life and his involvement with “loose” women; how he’d jump at the chance to exploit any opportunity. Of course, Dupree was not naïve. Locker-room-cop-talk—especially when it centered on a detective’s sexual escapades and latest triumphs—was almost always more fiction than fact. If what she’d heard about T.J. was, in fact, true, it did seem peculiar that he showed no interest in the obviously-smitten receptionist.

  They sat in silence for a minute. Dupree fussed with her hair, watching members of the staff hustling about. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry. She glanced at T.J. and his eyes were at half mast. She elbowed him in the arm. He opened his eyes and looked around as if he had no idea where he was.

  “Seriously, T.J. Are you kidding me or what?”

  “I’m really sorry, but—”

  “Call me a nagging bitch if you like, but being sorry doesn’t quite cut it. I don’t know what’s up with you lately, but you’d better get your head out of your ass. I don’t give a flying fuck what you do on your off-time. Drink yourself into oblivion. Shoot heroine. Screw yourself silly. Whatever turns your crank. But when you’re carrying a shield and sidearm, you’re on the clock, and you’re my partner, I need you on-board one-hundred percent.”

  A short stocky man with thinning silver hair approached the two detectives. Dupree gave him a onceover and noticed a slight limp. In spite of that, he moved with purpose in his step.

  “Hi,” the man said. “I’m Dr. Mason. Sorry you had to wait.”

  The detectives stood and introduced themselves.

  “Follow me,” Dr. Mason said. “We can go into my office and hopefully find some privacy.” As they walked, the doctor talked. “This place is always humming, but since Dr. Crawford’s terrible death, it’s been a madhouse. Excuse the cliché, but we’re operating like a ship without a rudder.”

  They passed cubicle after cubicle, computer after computer, lots of equipment foreign to Dupree. Along the back wall was an area enclosed in glass that ran the whole width of the floor. All the employees inside wore space age uniforms. Dupree felt like she was taking a tour of NASA.

  Dr. Mason led them into his office and asked them to have a seat. Checking out the office without making it too obvious, Dupree was surprised at its simplicity. But the distinct smell of stale cigarette smoke and the overflowing ashtray absolutely stunned her. The administrative leader of an organization involved in cancer research was a smoker? It was hard for Dupree to wrap her head around that one.

  “Please tell me that you have a suspect in Dr. Crawford’s murder,” Mason said.

  “At this point,” Dupree answered, “there’s no hard evidence pointing to anyone in particular. But as things unfold over the next few days, as we fit the pieces together and conduct more interviews, I think we’ll come up with a few possibilities.”

  “What can I do to help?” Mason o
ffered.

  “First off,” Dupree said, “do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Dr. Crawford? Any enemies here at the lab? Conflicts with other staff members? Vendettas? Professional jealousy, perhaps? Was there somebody who could gain something from Dr. Crawford’s death?”

  “Lauren ran a tight ship and she kept the staff toeing the line. I’m sure she offended people sometimes with her abruptness and obsession with perfection. She was a stickler for details and insisted that everyone live up to her lofty expectations. But all things considered, I can’t think of anyone who would have a motive to murder her.”

  “As the Executive Director of Horizon Cancer Research Center, what exactly is your role?” Dupree asked.

  “Although I do have a modest equity position in the company, Lauren ran the entire operation. I was merely a figure head—like the Queen of England. She was the one who secured the primary investor and kept the checks rolling in. She had all the power and all the authority to run the research center as she saw fit. She respected my feedback, of course, but ultimately made all major decisions.”

  “With all due respect,” Dupree said, “why did she hire you as her Executive Director? Why did she need you if she ran the whole operation?”

  “Lauren needed an oncologist on staff. I had just retired from my private practice, and frankly, after only a few months, I was bored to death. Don’t believe what people say about retirement. It’s not what it’s cracked up to be. Anyway, when Lauren offered me this opportunity, although somewhat skeptical, I found myself fascinated with the whole concept of what she was trying to accomplish. I’m talking about the possibility of developing the most significant medical discovery in the last hundred years.” He paused and blotted his forehead with a tissue. “If anyone else had tried to recruit me, I likely would have passed. But Lauren’s credentials in the medical research industry were impeccable. So, as a widower with no living relatives on the east coast, with nothing much to do but read and go fishing, I accepted on the condition that I not have to work more than fifteen or twenty hours a week.”

  “Dr. Crawford’s mother told us her daughter had scheduled a press conference that was supposed to take place yesterday morning,” Dupree said. “Do you know the nature of that press conference?”

  “Lauren had been working very closely with Dominic Gallo, Deputy Director of the Center for Drug Evaluation and Research, a division of the FDA responsible for reviewing data and clinical studies on proposed new drugs and treatments. With Gallo’s assistance, Lauren planned to announce that Horizon was only months away from submitting an application to the FDA for an extraordinary treatment that could lead to a cure for certain cancers.”

  “So, who’s going to follow through with this now that she’s out of the picture?”

  “Good question. Now that Lauren has paved the way, I’m sure there would be several takers in the research community. In fact, Hyland Laboratories, the biggest pharmaceutical company in the world, contacted us about a year ago with a proposal to form a partnership. With their resources, it would have dramatically improved our operation. But Lauren, strong willed and often stubborn, turned them down. Hyland may still be interested in a partnership, but at this particular juncture, we’re in crisis mode and to be honest, I’m not even thinking about a successor.”

  “Tell me something, Dr. Mason,” Dupree said. “Considering the sensitivity of the data and research you deal with every day, how do you protect it?”

  “All of the data, clinical trials, and the FDA application are stored on a secure server with what they call an Advanced Encryption Standard System similar to what the U.S. government uses for top secret files. It is also backed up through an independent data protection company. Only Lauren and I had authority to access the information on the server. Lauren regularly downloaded the latest data to her laptop. On the afternoon before Lauren was murdered, she and I downloaded virtually everything on the server to her laptop computer because she was planning to work from home on some very critical statistics and needed all the research data. Her goal was to submit some preliminary documents to the FDA before the end of the week. Unfortunately, when she was murdered, she was carrying her computer and also a back-up hard drive. So, whoever murdered her likely has the computer and hard drive with all of the statistics and clinical trials results.”

  “Did Dr. Crawford’s computer have a security system to protect the data?” Dupree asked.

  “Yes, a very sophisticated system. One that is nearly impossible to hack into.”

  “What does ‘nearly impossible’ mean?”

  “The system on Lauren’s computer has a unique feature. If someone tries to gain access and doesn’t input an exact series of passwords, the system is designed to crash the hard drive and make recovery of the data impossible. However, nothing is so secure that some computer whiz can’t override it.”

  “So what happens now?” Dupree asked. “Is the research project on hold?”

  Mason nodded. “First off, with Lauren gone, our funding ends. Our benefactor made it abundantly clear when he agreed to fund this project that he would only do so if Lauren ran the show. No Lauren, no money. In the spirit of science and medicine, I’ll appeal to him, of course, but I really don’t have much hope. We’ve got enough money to operate this place for another thirty days—not nearly enough time to prepare everything we need for the FDA. And even if we had funding, without Lauren, picking up where she left off would be very difficult. Lauren was, perhaps, the only person on earth qualified to complete this research. She had a handle on every aspect of the project. Even if a savior came down from the heavens and assumed Lauren’s role, we still need a financial partner or we’re out of business.”

  Dupree processed what Dr. Mason said. “I can understand how someone would benefit from stealing all the data and developing their own drugs using Dr. Crawford’s research. But why murder her?”

  “It’s feasible that the killer not only wanted Lauren’s computer, but also wanted to be sure that whatever sensitive information lived only in her brain and wasn’t yet recorded, went to the grave with her.” Mason paused and seemed to be gathering his thoughts. “We can’t ignore the possibility that whoever stole this information may have wanted to suppress it rather than develop it.”

  “Why in the name of all that’s reasonable would anyone want to suppress research that could result in developing a cure for cancer?” Dupree asked.

  “It’s no secret that the drug industry is a huge, multi-billion dollar money machine. They make most of their money treating diseases, not curing them.”

  “So,” Dupree said, “if Dr. Crawford’s research proved valid, and the treatment was effective, many cancer-treating drugs marketed by competing drug companies would become obsolete and they might stand to lose significant money?”

  “Billions. Once patented and approved by the FDA, the developer of the drug would have exclusive distribution rights for seven years.

  “That certainly adds another dimension to the investigation,” Dupree said. “Tell me, Dr. Mason, how did this whole research idea come about? When we spoke to Dr. Crawford’s mother, she told us about her pancreatic cancer and the treatment she received at the Century Nutrition Clinic in Tijuana. She said that three years ago the doctors in America gave her six months to live. Is there some kind of miracle treatment for cancer patients in Tijuana?”

  “Let me preface my answer by first giving you some background on Dr. Hulda Clark.”

  Dupree remembered Mrs. Crawford talking about her daughter’s relationship with Dr. Clark.

  Mason adjusted himself in the seat and rested his chin on his folded hands. “I’m not going to get too technical but here’s the story. Clark had a doctoral degree with an emphasis in biophysics and cell physiology. She wrote several books describing her methods of treating cancer and she operated a number of clinics in the U.S. Perhaps her most controversial book was titled, The Cure for all Cancers. Following a series of legal difficulties a
nd actions by the Federal Trade Commission, she was pretty much run out of the country and relocated to Tijuana, Mexico where she launched the Century Nutrition Clinic. One of her fundamental theories was that all cancer patients had two things in common. First, they all had parasites in their intestines called flukes. Second, they all had high levels of isopropyl alcohol in their bloodstream. For healthy people, the flukes pose no major problems because most parasitic eggs pass out of our bodies with bowel movements. But some eggs hatch and get into your blood stream.” Mason paused and drank some water.

  “Under normal conditions, our liver kills the hatchlings. However, for people who have a high level of isopropyl alcohol in their bodies, the liver is unable to trap and kill these flukes. So, they settle in any host organ that is unhealthy—like a smoker’s lungs, a breast with a benign tumor, an enlarged prostate, or low functioning kidneys. The hatchlings begin to reproduce at an out-of-control pace. Once they become adult parasites, they feed off the infected organs.

  “When adult parasites infest your liver, a growth factor called ortho-phospho-tyrosine appears. This causes normal cells to divide uncontrollably and ultimately produce cancer cells. The only way that the fluke parasite can live outside of your intestines and exponentially reproduce is if isopropyl alcohol is present in your body.

  “Clark’s theory was that three herbs: black walnut hulls, wormwood from the Artemisia shrub, and common cloves—administered in conjunction with a low dose chemotherapy drug—could rid your body of over one-hundred different types of parasites—including the cancer-causing fluke. And the treatments did not produce any major side effects.” Mason took another mouthful of water. “There’s more, of course, and I could go on for hours, but that’s a brief overview of Hulda Clark’s theory.”

  Dupree looked at T.J. and could sense he had a bunch of questions to ask, so she ever so slightly nodded her head and hoped he’d get the message.

  “How do these fluke parasites get into your body?” T.J. asked, glancing at Dupree. “Mostly from processed foods and undercooked beef. Poultry, believe it or not, could be the single biggest cause of parasite infestation.”