Jason was surprised by what he found, and he began to mumble as he processed the information. “So, they manufacture monoclonal antibodies.”
Let’s see. A monoclonal is a type of protein similar to the antibodies made by the human body to fight infection and designed to act like a drug. Monoclonal antibodies are known for their specificity; they can be designed to stimulate specific cells, such as a specific cell population in the brain, decreasing the likelihood of undesirable side effects. Monoclonal antibodies are currently used to treat cancer by targeting cancer cells without affecting healthy cells. This is interesting stuff.
“But this doesn’t make a lot of sense. Monoclonal antibodies have to be given intravenously, and they don’t normally reach the brain. CureStuff must have developed some new technology to fix this because their website says they can be given in tablet form and are being used to treat depression. That’s actually pretty cool.” Jason realized he had been mumbling and looked around to make sure nobody heard him.
Jason sat for a few moments, staring off into space, trying to remember something he had seen recently. Then he started talking to himself again. “I remember seeing something on the news a couple of nights ago about a strange incident at a company in Research Triangle Park. Something happened to one of their senior vice presidents during a meeting of the higher-ups and she ended up in the ER; the report was kind of vague on the details. I wonder if it was CureStuff Pharmaceuticals. That’s probably why the name sounds so familiar. I need to check it out.”
• • •
That night, Chelsea brought Chinese takeout home for dinner and made chicken strips for the kids, their favorite. When Jason got home, she barely acknowledged him; she appeared to be preoccupied until they sat down to dinner. The girls were all chattering as usual, and the oldest, Lizzy was tormenting her younger sister, Lilly; nothing new there. Chelsea gave them her death stare and told them to behave, and things quieted down.
“Okay, monkeys, time to go upstairs, wash up and brush your teeth. I’ll be up in a few minutes.” The girls raced each other up the stairs, and when they were gone Chelsea turned her attention to Jason.
“So, how did work go this afternoon? Any more attacks from buxom brunettes, or was this a one-time thing? Are you still planning on carpooling with that woman? I’ve been thinking about it all day, and I still can’t, for the life of me, figure out what could have happened. I’m supposed to believe that she attacked you, a woman you just met, and you had to take her to the ER for . . . well, you know . . . spontaneous orgasms? That’s the craziest damned thing I’ve ever heard.”
Lizzy yelled from upstairs. “Mommy, Lilly’s picking on Lucy again.”
Lilly yelled, “Am not. Am not. Lizzy’s a big fat liar.”
Normally, all the kid chatter and fighting drove Jason nuts, but he was actually glad to hear the kids interrupt Chelsea. It provided a distraction from an even greater explosion that he was expecting. To his surprise, Chelsea apparently decided not to erupt any further, for now.
“I’m going to go upstairs, spend some time with the girls, and think about this carpool thing some more. It just doesn’t add up. I’ve been a nurse for twenty years, and I’ve never heard of such a thing as spontaneous orgasms. If I could manage such a thing myself, you might become unnecessary, in which case . . . well, who knows? Now could you please take care of the dishes?” With that, she got up and headed upstairs, an evil grin on her face.
Jason cringed. I know she loves me, but she has a temper, and I’m probably going to catch major hell later, when I least expect it. I’d better go into hypervigilance mode for the next couple of days, sleep with one eye open, and maybe buy some flowers.
The next day at work, Jason sat in his office, going through his files for the past five years, and he found a report that he’d written about a drug application he’d reviewed for a product named Pleasuria from CureStuff Pharmaceuticals.
Now I remember. They submitted the application to the FDA three years ago for treatment of depression. I’ve reviewed so many of these things that I can’t keep them straight anymore. According to my report, the product was a monoclonal antibody designed to affect the pleasure center of the brain, the idea being to stimulate the brain pleasure center in patients with depression in order to make them feel good.
According to his review, there weren’t any side effects reported, which was a good thing, but the drug just didn’t work. It was given as an oral tablet.
Jason had assumed that the technology didn’t work and the antibody never reached the brain to do its thing, so he had recommended against its approval. Based on his follow-up notes, FDA approval was never granted for this one.
He remembered that the original product wasn’t very effective at treating depression, although he didn’t recall reading about side effects like those Joanne experienced. I think I would have remembered that. Who, in God’s name, would design a drug that causes spontaneous orgasms as a way to combat depression, assuming that was the intended effect? Maybe it was a side effect, and they chose not to report it. If that were the case, the warning label should read, “Do not drive while taking Pleasuria,” or “if experiencing repeated orgasms for more than four hours, go see a doctor,” or perhaps “sudden death may occur due to intense pleasure.”
If they had listed spontaneous orgasms as one of the side effects, they would have probably sold the hell out of that drug. Jason doubted the drug was originally designed to have this effect; but what if they accidentally hit on something that stimulates the part of the brain that controls sexual arousal? That might explain how the SVP at CureStuff ended up in the ER and also what happened to Dr. Shipley.
Jason realized that whatever was involved, it may have almost killed someone at CureStuff and could have killed Joanne if he hadn’t gotten her to the ER. If she’d been the one driving, it could have killed both of them, although at least she would have had a smile on her face when they crashed. He mumbled, “I think this calls for an investigation.” Then he looked around his office and thought, I hope the NSA isn’t bugging my office. It wouldn’t be good for the authorities to hear some of the things that I mumble to myself; I might end up in jail.
Jason took out his cell phone and dialed Joanne Shipley. When she saw the caller ID, she almost didn’t answer out of embarrassment. When she did, she spoke timidly.
“Hello, Jason.”
“Hi, Joanne. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. They released me from the hospital yesterday afternoon, and Tom brought me home. I’ve been ordered by the doctor to take a few days off to rest. I think maybe we should wait a couple of weeks before going back to carpooling. That should give me enough time to get myself together again. I’m still mortified and baffled by what happened to me.”
“Joanne. Don’t worry about it. You were obviously under the influence of something, probably a drug. I’m guessing that someone slipped you something without your knowledge.” He eased into what he had to say next. “When I talked to your husband at the hospital, he told me you used to work at CureStuff Pharmaceuticals. He also said that he thought there was something odd going on at the company before you left. Can you tell me about that?”
Joanne sounded agitated. “Tom shouldn’t have said anything. Why do you want to know? What does that have to do with what happened to me?”
“No reason to worry. It’s just that the name CureStuff Pharmaceuticals seemed familiar to me for some reason, so I did a little digging when I got back to the office. I discovered that I reviewed one of their drugs a couple of years ago, an antidepressant named Pleasuria, designed to affect the pleasure center of the brain. It never received FDA approval. I also found out that there was an incident at that same company more recently, where one of their female SVPs ended up in the ER from a mysterious illness similar to yours. And now, I find out that you used to work for CureStuff before you moved to Northern Virginia. I can’t help but wonder if this is all connected somehow.”
; Jason heard silence from the other end of the phone for a long time before Joanne responded.
“Jason, we haven’t known each other very long, and I’m extremely embarrassed by what happened, but you might have some good points. I did work for CureStuff, and I knew Dr. Wendy Thompkins, the woman who ended up in the ER. I was told that she almost died of a heart attack, but she was in good health and the official details the company released were vague and suggested there was more to it.
“I also knew about Pleasuria; although, until you mentioned it, I didn’t make the connection to what happened to me yesterday. There’s no way that I can look into this. I didn’t leave the company on the best of terms, and I signed a confidentiality agreement saying that I wouldn’t talk to anyone about the work that was going on at CureStuff. I’m also pretty sure that no one in the company will speak to me, and I certainly will never be allowed back into the building. I’m not sure what to do.”
Jason smiled. “Joanne. You’re in luck. My day job is as a drug reviewer for the FDA, but I recently got my private investigator’s license, and I’m available for hire if you would like me to investigate your case. I assume that you’d like to know what happened to you, who’s responsible, and whether or not they were trying to kill you.”
Joanne thought that perhaps Dr. Jason Longfellow was nuts. She had heard from colleagues at the FDA that he was a very good drug reviewer, but now he was telling her that he was also a PI on nights and weekends. This was almost as crazy as what had happened to her on the way to work.
“No offense, Jason, but whatever possessed you to get a private investigator’s license? Wasn’t getting a PhD in pharmacology and working as a drug reviewer enough to keep you busy? Why would you want a second job, and as a private eye? Watch too much TV or read too many murder mysteries?”
“Actually, after twenty years of reviewing drug files, I got bored, and I decided that I needed a hobby. I do love murder mysteries, and I decided to study online to get my private investigator’s license, just for the hell of it. If it makes you feel any better, my wife also thinks I’m crazy, but what’s the harm? And you have to admit, what happened in the past day or two has dumped an interesting case into my lap. So what do you say? Do you want to hire me to investigate this thing for you? I charge thirty an hour plus expenses, and I can only work nights and weekends. I already have a leg up, because I know a lot about drugs and what happened to you, plus I’m familiar with CureStuff. What do you say?”
I’ll probably get fired by the government for taking this case, nosing around a drug company as part of a potential attempted murder investigation when I reviewed one of their drug applications. But who cares? I want to be a full-time PI anyhow, and Joanne probably won’t realize there’s a problem, since she’s only been with the FDA for a short time. He was obviously in denial where his wife was concerned; it was highly likely that Chelsea would care—a lot.
Joanne sighed before she said, “This is insane. But I have to admit, you do have a leg up on this mess, and you are the one who made the possible connection between what happened to me and my old job at CureStuff, although I’m not convinced they really had anything to do with it. So yeah, go ahead and investigate, see if you can figure out what happened to me and whether or not they had anything to do with it. Spend a couple of weeks on it, and then get back to Tom and me and let us know if you found anything.”
Jason was elated—his first case. But his mood immediately changed when he realized that he had no idea how to proceed.
He mumbled, “Oh well, what the heck. I’ll just ask myself WWJD. What would Jessica (Fletcher) do?” He thought some more, and then continued to mumble, a more serious tone to his mumbling. “On a less happy note, Chelsea is going to be pissed when she finds out that I’m really going through with this private eye thing. She’s already mad at me for doing this as a hobby, and she’s still furious at me for what happened yesterday with Joanne. And now I’m going to start working for this same woman on my first case as a private eye? Oh crap. What am I doing to myself? Next thing, the police are going to be investigating my murder. Oh well. They always suspect the spouse first, so they’ll probably catch her when she kills me.”
CHAPTER 6
Jason’s commute had only gotten worse. His current drive involved taking the Dulles Toll Road to I-495 North, across the Cabin John Bridge to Maryland, and on to the FDA White Oak Campus in Silver Spring, Maryland.
“My commute is torture,” he told his wife. “Every day I have another near-death experience, and my nerves are constantly frayed from driving the eight lanes of wall-to-wall, stop-and-go traffic of the Washington Beltway, where you can be going seventy, turn a corner and find traffic at a dead standstill. I really hate this.”
Chelsea was afraid he was using this as another excuse for quitting the FDA to become a private eye. “Well, dear, I suppose we could always move to Maryland. Then I could do the same commute in reverse.”
“Sounds like a fine idea. Maybe we could find something within walking distance of the FDA campus. That’d reduce my stress level considerably.”
“That’s what you think. First, the schools here are better. Second, I’d be pissed and stressed all the time, and you know what they say. ‘Happy wife, happy life.’”
“And an angry wife—sleep with one eye open? I know. I’m only kidding. More like wishful thinking. But between raising three girls, the stress of the commute and the boredom of the job, I’m losing my mind. There’s got to be a better way. That’s one of the things I like about the private eye gig. I can work from home.”
He wished he hadn’t said that, especially this early in the morning before Chelsea had her second cup of coffee. With her, coffee had a calming effect. But he actually thought he saw smoke coming out of her ears.
“Jason, I swear to God. If I hear anything else about private eyes, I’m going to scream so loud it’ll shatter the windows. I understand you’re bored; I get that it’s tough raising three girls, and I know your commute is a pain. But, let me repeat this again, we need your government salary. If you want to diddle around pretending to be a private eye on weekends, go for it. But don’t even think about quitting your day job right now! Go to work. I’ve got to get the girls up and ready for the day.”
On this particular Friday morning, he headed out at five thirty to avoid the heaviest of rush hour, but traffic was already heavier than normal. After going through the toll booth he took the exit toward the Beltway, where three lanes of traffic were forced to merge into a single lane that carried commuters from the toll road onto the monster eight-lane highway, the slow traffic from all three lanes aggressively jockeying for position. He called the office on his cell phone, speaking to the administrative assistant, Janice Henderson.
“Hey, Janice, traffic’s worse than usual. Must be an accident on the north Beltway. I may be a few minutes late for my first meeting.”
As his car approached the entrance onto the Beltway, he heard the roar of engines behind and beside him. To his right he saw a new BMW sedan whose driver thought it a good idea to pass him in the emergency lane with the intention of cutting him off. At the same time, a white Corvette pulled up on his left with a similar idea as the BMW. Earlier in his career, Jason would have shoved the accelerator to the floor and died rather than letting these two idiots get in front of him, but over the years his nerves had frayed to the point where he was more about surviving than racing.
“Janice, I’m about to die. A Corvette and a BMW are planning to defy physics, by occupying the same space in front of me at the same time. Tell everyone at the office I said goodbye.” With that, he closed his eyes, slammed on his brakes and prayed. To his surprise, he didn’t hear a crunch, and when he opened his eyes the BMW was directly in front of him with the Corvette in front of it.
He heard Janice say to someone, “It’s Dr. Longfellow. He’s on his way to work and being overly dramatic, as usual; something about an impending car crash.”
Jason s
aid into the phone, “Janice, I’m not being overly dramatic. I really thought that was the end. Instead, all involved magically ended up in line and exchanged the one-finger salute. I’ll still be there late, but I’m not dead yet.”
• • •
The workday was fairly standard, in that he started by reviewing about a billion pages of data, until his vision had blurred. Then, he attended three meetings with various drug companies, ate lunch in the cafeteria on campus, read another billion pages, and when he could no longer see, he got into his car to navigate through the nightmare of Friday afternoon rush hour traffic.
On his way home, he called Chelsea on his cell. “Hello, dear. I’m headed home at a fairly fast clip for Friday night. Thought I’d give you a call to see what’s for dinner.” He had a terrifying flashback to his last big Friday night dinner and almost drove off the road. The stress was really getting to him.
Chelsea was already home, having a twenty-minute commute from Fairfax Hospital. “Drive careful. You know traffic can stop abruptly at any time, and you aren’t leaving me to raise these three girls all by myself.”
“Thanks, dear. Your concern is underwhelming.” He realized she was probably still angry from this morning, but neither of them ever stayed mad for very long. All of a sudden, he yelled, “Oh shit!” and slammed on his brakes. He said to Chelsea, “Damn, that was close. I’m almost to the Cabin John Bridge, and all of a sudden traffic is at a dead stop. I had to set the 4Runner on its nose to avoid hitting the guy in front of me. It’s got to be an accident on my side, or rubberneckers. Would you take a quick look at the news for me, and see if they are reporting any accidents on the Beltway?”
“Not that thrilled about a Friday night traffic report, but I’ll take a look. Hang on while I turn on the TV. It doesn’t matter much anyway. You can nuke the pizza if it’s cold, if you ever get home. Friday night’s always a nightmare.” Chelsea was quiet for a couple of minutes and then came back on the phone and said, “No accidents reported near the Cabin John. You’ll have to figure it out for yourself.”
Pleasuria Page 5