“You must make an appointment?”
“I’m sorry, I’ll have to call back at another time.”
Max at once brought up the clinic’s website and read from the screen. “They provide cutting-edge cancer treatments. What’s this?” As she skimmed the article, she learned the doctor created something called antineoplastons, a reported cure for a form of brain cancer. She skipped to the next line and read the statement: “Quality control of the clinical trials in which the Burzynski Clinic participates is maintained by strict adherence to written study protocols that are FDA reviewed and Institutional Review Board (IRB) approved prior to patient enrollment.” A few more paragraphs later she read: “Currently, new FDA-reviewed Phase II and III clinical trials utilizing Antineoplastons are undergoing Institutional Review Board (IRB) approval.”
So, they seem to get along, she thought, until she dug even deeper and found out that since the early ’90s the FDA had been pressuring the Texas Medical Board to revoke Burzynski’s medical license. At the time, Big PhRMA had 25 gene-targeted cancer drugs on the market and the assumption was that Burzynski’s cancer-curing breakthrough would funnel money out of the pockets of the pharmaceutical companies. Max stumbled on a quotation from the former FDA Bureau of Drugs Director, Dr. Richard Crout, that read: “I never have and never will approve a new drug to an individual, but only to a large pharmaceutical firm with unlimited finances.”
Sounds as though the FDA has no intention of ever letting the clinical trials succeed. Her conclusions began to paint a dark web. Then Max’s eye caught another passage from a New York Times review for the movie Burzynski. It read: “No one appears to contest the efficacy of his treatment. The problem, the film suggests, is a pharmaceutical industry with nothing to gain—and much to lose—from the introduction of a highly successful, nontoxic competitor to chemotherapy and radiation.”
“So, Dr. Burzynski’s plight continues. This is mind-blowing!” Max could not refrain from blurting out. “According to the FDA website, Burzynski Clinic had received a warning letter citing a list of infractions in December, 2013, after being inspected by the IRB.” It seems that there was additional correspondence in October, 2016, and May, 2017. Hmm, and the pot is still boiling.
Max leaned back in her chair and let her mind churn as she reassessed the situation. Jeff supposedly met with or spoke with four doctors, in four different cities across the US—all specializing in some form of alternative medicine. All on the FDA radar for one reason or another—and one committed suicide under suspicious circumstances. That revelation was devastating. But there was one more puzzling number on the phone listing—the one with an international country code that Max recognized. It was the code for Tokyo, Japan. But why on his personal cell? With a quick glance at her watch, she calculated it was eight-thirty in the morning in the Far East. “What the hell!” She dialed the number.
“Dr. Mizukami’s office,” answered the receptionist with the expected Asian accent.
“May I speak with the doctor?”
“I sorry, he travel out of country. You leave name, number; he return call.”
“I’ll call back. Thank you.” Max still did not know what she was looking for precisely and, until she did, she would limit the number of returned calls. For the time being she would rely on her cyber partner. She googled “dr mizukami tokyo.” On the screen, it displayed a link: https://www.beenefits.com/propolis-and-cancer.pdf, prefaced by “My experience for advanced cancer patients—Beenefits.”
“Man, oh, man!” She clicked on the link. “This is insane—Jeff was seeking a cure made from bee pollen—and then he’s killed by a bee.” She continued to skim the article in disbelief. Unfortunately, most of it made little sense.
In a rare moment, she resorted to shouting loudly. “Sam!”
Chapter 11
Beeeeszare
“What’s going on?” Sam rushed into her office, astounded by her unusual method of communication.
“Two weeks ago, Jeff traveled to New Mexico to visit someone at an apiary. The day after he returned he contacted a doctor in Japan who was curing cancer with bee pollen using a plant I can barely pronounce—Baccharis dracunculifolia. Then, last week Jeff was killed with bee venom in a hotel in Brazil. Do you have any stinging conclusions?”
“Other than its beeeeszare?”
“Clever!—Wait just a minute.”
Max hit a speed dial number on her phone. “Hey, Doc, do you still have the senator’s body?”
“Yes, I was just about to ship it off to the mortuary.”
“Did you find any growths or traces of a disease of any kind?”
“No, other than the erupted blood vessels. All organs were of normal weight with no signs of abnormality.”
“I need a huge favor. I need you to check again.”
“Max!”
“Doc, please.”
“I’m not opening it up again. The best I can do is a full body scan to make sure I didn’t miss anything. But as far as I’m concerned, it was an extremely healthy body before receiving a deadly injection.”
Max cringed at the thought that Jeff was reduced to an it, a body, a corpse, a thing. She relied on what little religion she could conjure up, hoping his soul was in a better place. “Thanks, Doc! I owe you one.”
“Back to you in an hour.”
“What was that about?”
“Allison, Jeff’s wife, suspected an affair. But maybe Jeff was suffering from a serious disease and was looking for a cure.” Not sure which is worse, she thought.
“You think he was stung by the very thing that he believed was going to save him?”
“Let’s wait until we hear from the coroner.” Max checked her watch. “It will be another thirty minutes.” She reluctantly switched to an even more unpleasant topic. “You know the funeral is tomorrow?”
“Are you going to be okay?” Sam assumed she would attend.
“I’ll need to be strong for Allison, but I might need someone to prop me up. How do you feel about being my escort?” Max despised funerals. The vivid memory of her mother’s funeral was still fresh in her mind, along with that horrible night a year later when her father was murdered. A night when she was swept into hiding by a stranger. Ironically, that stranger was seated in front of her today. Max understood that Sam was only protecting her, but it denied her the opportunity to lay her father to rest. She swore then that she would never attend another funeral.
“Max, nobody makes them tougher than you, but of course, I’ll be there if that’s what you want. Besides, I hear the senator served his country honorably, and for that I’d be delighted to pay tribute.”
Her phone rang, breaking the solemn moment.
“It’s the coroner. Give me a sec.”
“Hey, Doc, what did you find out?”
“The scan showed nothing, Max. Just as I said; it was a healthy body before it received a deadly injection of venom beyond human capacity.”
“There has to be something,” she mumbled.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing, just talking to myself. Have you notified the Capitol Police?”
“No, that was next on my list.”
“Do you think you can hold off until after the funeral tomorrow? It’s at nine in the morning.”
“Max, you know I can’t send the corpse to the mortuary, knowing the cause of death is murder without reporting it.”
“I need to be the one to tell his wife. Allison doesn’t need the chief throwing questions at her right now. Just give us a day.”
“Don’t ask me again. I can’t do this one for you. You better call her now.”
The line went dead.
“Shit!”
“No go?” From her sourpuss expression, it was obvious to Sam that she didn’t get her way.
“It’s not over yet. Hold on.” Max hit another speed dial button.
“Hey, Ray.”
“What do you want, Max?” The Capitol Police chief knew the familiar tone on the other end of the line. It always came with a bespoke catch.
“The coroner is about to call you to tell you that Senator Jeffrey Lance’s death was not caused by a heart attack, but was murder. I want you to hold the information until after the funeral tomorrow.”
“I don’t even want to know how you get your information. But what’s your interest in this case—assuming there is a case?”
“Jeff was a close friend. I want to be the one to tell his wife, who is my dearest friend. But not until after the funeral.”
“And that’s it?” the chief asked, overcome with that unsettled feeling he gets when Max is involved.
“That’s it—promise!”
“Let Mrs. Lance know I’ll be paying her a visit tomorrow afternoon around three.”
“Thanks, Chief. You’re the best.”
Ray heard the click. He knew she was lying through her pearly whites. He also knew she would most likely come up with something he could use to his advantage. In the information-trading game, favors came with a price. He beamed at the thought.
Max sat back with a self-assured expression, although she expected the chief would hound her later for information. But she got what she wanted for the moment.
“Your tenacity knows no bounds.” Sam shook his head.
Max grinned, accepting what she deemed a compliment. Then she shut down her computer, feigned a yawn, and announced, “It’s late, and I’m officially calling it a night. By the way, my flight to New Mexico leaves on Saturday morning.”
“You’re really following up on the apiary caper? As your newly beloved partner, I can go check it out for you.”
“Thanks, but this will be easy-peasy. I just want to find out why they closed the business in Clovis. I’ll be back in the office on Monday.”
“Max knows best.” Sam smiled and then in a more solemn tone, asked, “What time did you say the funeral begins?”
“Nine.”
“I’ll make the coffee.”
“Strong, please. And thanks for being here.”
“Hey, kid, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“Play it again, Sam.” Max gave a relaxed chuckle and then said, “C’mon, let’s get you settled in.”
Chapter 12
The Funeral Procession
The somber funeral matched the gray December sky looming over the Arlington National Cemetery. The full military gun salute only added to the solemnity in the air that reverberated throughout the Capitol city. It was a great tribute to Senator Jeffrey Lance with President Post in attendance, along with many members of Congress. While delivering the eulogy, the president lauded the senator’s bravery as a military hero and recipient of two Bronze Stars received during his tours in Afghanistan and Iraq. He praised the senator for continuing his fight for the betterment of the American people in the U.S. Congress. In his closing statement, President Post said, Senator Lance’s death “was a true heartbreak for our nation.”
It was impressive to see members from both sides of the aisle paying tribute, although Max thought it was sad that it took a tragedy to bring them together. She also suspected they would be out for each other’s jugular by sundown. How unfortunate for the American people, she thought. Then another jugular came to mind, noting Noble’s absence. Sam stood by her side as promised, but it did not stop that tiny bubble of anger from erupting inside. She knew at some point she would have to let the anger go—for now she refocused on Allison. All her angst was minor compared to what her dearest friend was enduring.
The newly minted widow stared straight ahead as two soldiers folded America’s precious symbol that moments earlier draped the coffin. Then with trembling hands, Allison received the flag and clutched it against her chest. As the coffin slowly descended into the dark earth, she wept uncontrollably.
Max felt helpless. She reached over and placed her hand on her friend’s shoulder, but the gesture seemed inadequate and hollow.
Sam noticed. “Are you okay?” he whispered.
Max nodded and inhaled, trying to fight back her own tears. The funeral was over, but the military protocol reintroduced bitter memories of her father’s life and his honor that had been robbed. She could hear Daniel and her father argue vividly in the recesses of her mind. The sounds of gunshots still rang in her ears. She shivered.
Sam felt the tremor as his arm pressed against hers. He reached over to hold her hand.
Stanton, standing near the president, noticed as well. He ached to be the one to console her, but knew it was too soon after Noble’s tragic death. Her nerves were still raw; he would give her the time she needed to heal. But who’s that guy with her? he wondered.
Fortunately, the site of the president being escorted by hordes of agents, signaled others in attendance that the service had officially ended.
“I’m going with Allison in the limo. I’ll meet you at their home.” Max was visibly ready to leave.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. Stop asking.”
“Then I’ll see you shortly.” Sam headed for the Uber, parked and waiting.
Allison remained trance-like still clasping the flag.
“Sweetie, we have to go now,” Max urged.
There was no response. She remained frozen in her seat. But with help from her children, they finally managed to escort Allison back to the limo. Silence prevailed during the twenty-minute drive from the cemetery to the senator’s family home, located only a few blocks from Max’s Victorian, near Lincoln Park.
As anticipated, the Lances’ home was filled with family, close friends, and colleagues. They were marking time by helping themselves to the catered affair of breakfast foods. Fortunately, during the quiet ride home, Allison pulled herself together enough to mingle with the crowd as they each paid their respects for a second time. The children wasted no time to gather plates of food and retire to their rooms. Computer games gave them the needed distraction from the day’s events. But within the hour, Allison became noticeably tired.
Max put off the inevitable, but now she had to inform Allison that the police chief would arrive in a few hours to bombard her with the usual banal questions. As she laid out her game plan, she spotted Sam in the corner chomping on a bagel.
He spotted her heading his way.
“Do you mind working the room? Encourage everyone to leave.”
Sam checked his watch; it was approaching noon. “I’ll take care of them—good luck with Allison.”
“Thanks! I’ll meet you back at the office.”
Chapter 13
A Rude Awakening
The house was quiet, and Max and Allison were finally alone. Now she had to face her dear friend and relay the tragic news. Death was difficult enough to grasp; murder was beyond the pale. Max had a little time to spare and chose to take it slow.
“My dear, how are you holding up?” Max asked.
“Horribly. You want some wine?”
“Why not?! It’s five o’clock somewhere. I’ll go pour us a glass; you go relax.”
Max was delighted to oblige. She needed a glass herself. While she walked into the kitchen, Allison walked over and sat down on the sofa. Minutes later, they were sharing fond memories and toasting Jeff.
“I know this is a horrible time, but we need to talk,” Max insisted.
“What’s so important that it can’t wait? I’d really like to sit here and just sip on my wine.”
Max hated to ignore her plea, but she had no choice. But first, there was something else she needed to know. Ignoring her original purpose for the moment, she asked, “Was Jeff ill?”
Allison recoiled. “Why would you ask that?”
Max picked up on her reaction and decided to use a careful, measu
red tone. “For the past several months, Jeff either spoke with or met with a series of doctors practicing alternative medicine. These appointments appeared not to be part of his official duties, but of a personal nature,” she explained, sharing what she had uncovered thus far.
Allison shook her head, still trying to grasp all that had happened. “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“What doesn’t matter?”
“A year and a half ago, Jeff was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer...”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Max could not refrain from interrupting and started to sound more as a friend and less of a detective.
“It was Jeff’s wishes. It happened during the previous campaign, and he assumed it would hurt his chances for reelection.”
“The last time I saw him he was in great shape. It was obvious he had lost a little weight, but I thought it was intentional. His spirits were certainly high.”
“That’s what’s so amazing! One year later, he was deemed cancer-free. Max, he was in perfect health. And after everything our family endured—he ends up dying of a fucking heart attack. I don’t buy it!” Allison’s grief instantly changed to understandable anger.
“Pancreatic cancer is a death sentence,” Max said, harboring doubts, recalling stats she had run across in the past. “Isn’t the survival rate around twenty percent?”
“That was my understanding when the doctor broke the news. Then we came to learn it was frighteningly lower if not caught early.” Allison hesitated. “The idea of losing someone I loved so dearly became unimaginable.”
Unfortunately, Max could empathize, although she still did not understand how he survived. “But…”
Allison cut her short and continued, “We researched endlessly for a cure. We ended up meeting with thirteen oncologists and six doctors who practice alternative medicine. Each oncologist offered similar procedures of chemotherapy, surgery, and then radiation in varying degrees, but in the end, everyone agreed that surgery was a necessary first step.”
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