“Mine, too. He doesn’t strike me as being that good of a liar.”
“I suppose he could have some personal ax to grind with the university.”
“Maybe he wants to embarrass them to get even for some perceived wrongdoing against him.”
“Or maybe for attention. You know, the little guy finally snaps. Decides he’s going to do something totally outrageous, like take down the monolithic university so he’ll get his name in the paper.”
Loren shook her head. “If that’s the case, he’d have gone public. As it is, he’s trying to keep it as quiet as possible.”
“True.”
“And why would he drag in this thing about his buddy, Jimmy?”
Kent pushed his plate back. “He just seems to have too tight a story. Too many details worked out for it to be made up. And he’s got to know there are a thousand points in his story we can check to confirm it.”
“Jimmy getting fired, for one.”
“Right. My guess is Losiewicz is an honorable man sticking up for his friend.”
“I agree.”
“We owe it to him to follow through.”
Kent was surprised when Loren’s expression showed a mix of apprehension and concern instead of the feeling of conviction that was building in him. “What’s the matter?”
“It’s more complicated than you think,” she said.
“How?”
“I’ve worked for the government long enough to know when something’s cooking. Why do you figure I was handpicked for this case? There’s something big here.”
Kent shrugged. “Politics. You are head of Compliance Oversight. You said it yourself.”
“It’s more than that. Burman spends around three hundred and twenty million dollars annually on research. That’s not one time, that’s every year.”
“Serious money.”
“And a lot of it is federal or National Science Foundation money.”
Kent rolled his hands in front of himself, signifying a sequence. “Big scandal. University loses funding. There goes the jobs, the prestige, blah, blah, blah.”
“Correct. When I was reviewing the complaint before coming down here, I pulled Burman’s OCO file. Everything was in order, but there is one interesting wrinkle in the paperwork.”
“You don’t say.”
“The psychiatry department at the medical school has been sanctioned and no longer is included under Burman’s multiple project assurance.”
“Never heard of such an animal.”
Loren held up her glass in their waiter’s direction and rattled the ice. “Well, let me have the honor of bringing you up to speed on some of the government’s finest red tape. You see, there’s this thing called an assurance statement, which all institutes that get federal money file with the Public Health Service. It’s required, and it says the institution will comply with the Health Research Extension Act.”
“Okay. I know the OCO enforces that act or law, whatever.”
“Right. That’s why I’m here in the first place. But the glitch is that Burman filed an MPA, a Multiple Project Assurance, which is what just about all the big operations do. It says the institution agrees to the HRE Act for all their projects. Simplifies the paperwork.”
“Instead of doing one for each separate application.”
“Correct. It’s a big umbrella agreement. Well, Burman’s medical psychiatry people got in trouble for noncompliance a couple of years ago and were sanctioned by PHS. They are allowed to keep receiving federal money, but they are no longer covered under the MPA. They have to file their own separate assurance for each experiment.”
“Okay.”
Loren’s drink arrived and she took a long swallow. “Well, now things get dicey. Last year the psych department applied for money and submitted the assurance for supposed experiments that were nowhere near as inhumane as Losiewicz describes and even those got denied.”
She paused to let that thought sink in.
Kent rolled it around for a moment and said, “If that’s the case, since the experiments are happening, at least according to Losiewicz, the university must be using its own money to fund the experiments that Jimmy and Losiewicz blew the whistle on.”
Loren shook her head. “I wish.”
“No, huh?”
“No. First of all, those types of experiments are long, with lots of labor and special equipment. That makes them expensive. Contrary to what they would have you believe, universities stay away from ‘expensive’ when it’s their money. Second, if they got caught backing that sort of animal abuse, all hell would break loose. The student body would be up in arms, wealthy widows who love cats would stop donating. The university’s endowment would take a hit. The press would go nuts. There would be lawsuits out the ying-yang.”
“So where do they get the money?”
Loren took another pull on her Scotch and water. Then she chose her words carefully. “My guess is the federal government is still funding them, but indirectly. I’ll bet some other department in the medical school that falls under the MPA umbrella is getting the money and somehow funneling it to the psych department so they can run the experiments Jimmy and Losiewicz saw.”
“Not good.”
“Very not good. That would mean there is an organized effort or, dare I use the word, conspiracy to defraud the U.S. government. It’s got to involve high-ranking Burman people, and there’s got to be some OCO administrators looking the other way.”
Kent and Loren silently pondered the repercussions of exposing such a deception.
Finally, Kent said, “I want to see the lab for myself.”
For a long moment Loren remained submerged in thought, oblivious to Kent’s suggestion. Then, in an almost inaudible whisper, she said, “They are going to cover the whole thing up. That’s what they want. That’s why Huddleston tapped me for the investigation.”
“What did you say?”
Loren set her glass down hard. “I just figured it out. They want a cover-up.”
“Who?”
“The NIH, for one. That’s why they sent me.” She pushed her palm against her forehead. “They figure they’ve got me in their pocket.”
“That’s quite a theory.”
Loren was shaking her head. “They sent me down here to keep it hushed up.” She gave him a desperate look. “Holy shit.”
“Take it easy. Let’s go check out the Torture Lab.”
When they stood to leave the Garden Park Grill, Kent noticed that Loren had worked her salad around her plate, but she had not eaten a bite. Her lunch had been Scotch and water.
CHAPTER 4
It was four o’clock when Kent and Loren entered the majestic old Auburn Building, home of Burman A&M’s medical school. Not a soul in sight. The only sign of life was a plant with leaves the size of a horse’s shoulder blade, sitting in a neo-Native American clay pot. There was a grouping of chairs with matching couch in the center of the room. An aluminum cylinder of sand for butting cigarettes was in easy reach. On the wall opposite the entry was a larger than life-size portrait of a dignified man in a greenish suit. Doctor Auburn, Kent assumed. The reception desk was unmanned.
Loren took one last pull on her cigarette and mashed it into the sand. She stepped to a black felt directory on the wall and studied its neat white lettering. “Doctor E. Randolph Bentley, Psychology, Room 311,” she said, pointing toward the elevator. “Up three.”
The elevator opened on the third floor at the center of a long, institutional-looking hallway—fluorescent lighting, off-white tile floor, and egg-shell walls, broken up by light oak doors and an occasional corkboard. An arrow on the wall indicated the psychiatry department was to the right.
Kent pushed open the door to Room 311 and let Loren lead the way into a suite of offices. Its lighting was soft, its earth-tone color
scheme a relief from the starkness of the hallway.
A short, stout woman in her late fifties with dyed hair that matched the rest of the earth tones turned from the cabinet where she was filing. She pulled her glasses off her nose, flashed a gigantic smile, and drawled a syrupy Texas welcome.
Loren’s reply was less mellifluous. “My name is Loren Summer and this is Kent Stephenson. We are looking for Dr. Bentley.”
Kent was impressed by Loren’s ability to reveal so little information, yet make it sound like an important visit.
The secretary’s eyes flashed to a door at Kent’s left, then quickly back to Loren. “He’s on a conference call at the moment.”
Kent glanced at the telephone on her desk and, in fact, a line was lit.
The woman slid her glasses back onto her nose, studied an appointment book, and then asked what she already knew. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No,” Loren said, daring the woman to make her next move.
The secretary’s smile melted into the look of a homeless basset hound. “I’m sorry, Dr. Bentley’s very busy. Perhaps I could schedule you something, say tomorrow at…”
Loren cut her off with a raised palm. “No, now.”
Loren’s Yankee abruptness caused the woman to stutter. “But…”
Loren cut her off again. “This is an unannounced official NIH Office of Compliance inspection of your lab and animal care facility per Public Health Service regulations and policy.” She handed the woman an official-looking document that Kent didn’t even know existed.
The secretary wilted. “Let me slip in and see if I can get Dr. Bentley’s attention for a minute. I’m sure he will want to know you are here.”
“Thank you very much,” Loren said, as the woman bustled through the door to Dr. Bentley’s office, holding the document as if it were a dead mouse.
Kent caught a glimpse of a lean man with dark hair and a neatly groomed beard and was instantly reminded of Stonewall Jackson. The man had a phone to his ear, feet on his desk, and appeared perturbed when his secretary interrupted.
She closed the door. Kent and Loren waited. When she returned three minutes later, her cheeks were scarlet and she had dispensed with the folksy charm.
“Dr. Bentley will be with you in about twenty minutes,” she said flatly and hastily exited the room through a side door.
Kent checked the phone again. Lines began blinking furiously. He looked at Loren. “Do you think he’s making some kind of a move in there?”
Loren snatched from her lips the cigarette she had been about to light, returned it to its gold case, and snapped it shut with a loud pop.
“Yep. My thoughts exactly.”
The next thing Kent knew, Loren was barging into Bentley’s office. Kent followed.
Bentley looked up, expecting to see his secretary again, but instead saw Loren and Kent. His expression darkened. He pulled his feet off the desk, leaned forward, mumbling an apology into the mouthpiece, and placed the phone back on its hook, all with one slow, deliberate movement.
Loren said, “Dr. Bentley, are you aware of the sections in the Animal Welfare Act and the Health Research Extension Act that provide for unannounced lab inspections by the OCO and that stipulate all personnel of labs so inspected are to cooperate fully?”
“Of course, I am,” he said, with condescending calmness.
“You wouldn’t be trying to stall our inspection. Would you?”
E. Randolph Bentley’s teeth showed through his beard in a smile that was anything but cordial. “Now why,” he glanced at a notepad, recalling their names as he spoke, “Dr. Summer, would I want to do that?”
Loren lifted her shoulders in a grand shrug. “Oh, I don’t know. How ‘bout ‘cause you want to make a few phone calls and get the place cleaned up?”
“Cleaned up? Our housekeeping is immaculate.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I do not.”
Loren made a sweeping motion toward the door. “Then let’s go have a look.”
“My goodness,” Bentley said, still under control. “I believe Iris was right when she told me you people were rude.” He rose slowly, crossed his office to a coat tree, grabbed a white lab coat, and led them out the door. Three doors down the corridor, he fished a ring of keys from his pocket, and opened the door, motioning for his guests to enter.
Loren entered first and Kent scanned the room over her shoulder. He knew in an instant, and with nauseating certainty, he would never be able to erase the picture that was searing into his memory. Losiewicz had been right. It was worse than Kent could have imagined. He heard a moan escape Loren’s lips as her senses were bombarded with the same horrific sights, sounds, and odors.
Kent glanced over and saw Bentley calmly taking in their reaction and considered removing the man’s smug expression with his fist.
“Welcome to our lab,” Bentley said. “Some people around here call it the Torture Lab, but we refer to it as the Psychiatric Research Lab, although we don’t put the name on the door.”
The room was large. Kent estimated twenty workstations. Each one was set on a heavy soapstone lab bench, metal cabinets below, and manned by a grad student. Each one had an unfortunate animal subject as its centerpiece. All manner of scientific glassware, tubing, and monitoring equipment crowded the space. In spite of a roaring exhaust fan, the air was an acrid mix of sour animal feces, pungent chemicals, and hot electrical circuitry. Several students looked up when they intruded.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Kent said to Bentley.
“We are studying the effects of stress on performance and learning,” Bentley said, as if he were at a lawn party.
Kent stepped to the closest workstation. A student was watching a pair of rhesus monkeys that were strapped into chairs that tumbled and rolled in in all directions. One was unconscious, or dead, Kent could not tell. The other’s eyeballs flipped violently back and forth. Yellow vomit was dried on the tiny creature’s chest hair and lap.
“Shut that off!” Kent roared into the student’s ear.
The man jumped a foot off his stool and came down flipping switches frantically. The chairs stopped. The first monkey went limp, the second one’s head continued to fall forward, then left, back, right, and forward again in the rhythm the chair had ingrained in its brain.
Kent whirled at Bentley. “How long were these animals in this thing?”
Bentley glanced at a computer printout with infuriating calm. “Eleven hours, sixteen minutes,” he said. “And, I might add, that by turning that machine off, you have introduced error into several months of experimentation.”
“I’ll introduce you some error, you sonofabitch!”
Kent moved to a glass-front cage with its content obscured by droplets of condensation. He could see animals inside and jerked open the door. An icy blast of air rushed over his face, like a wintry morning back home. He squinted into the frigid cage and saw a pair of tricolored beagles huddled against the back wall shivering violently.
Kent ignored the wire monitors attached to the dogs and whisked them up into his arms. To a nearby student he said, “Warm these dogs up. Water bath, towels, whatever. Now.” His tone told the student she was in serious peril if she did not comply, and quickly.
As Kent tried to massage some circulation into the beagles’ extremities, he spied another glass-front cage a few feet from the one he had just invaded. It was emitting a supernatural red glow. He reached over and touched the glass. It felt like an oven on low. He could see two more beagles inside, parched purple tongues lolling, gasping for air. He ripped open the chamber and lay them on the counter.
He felt one dog’s ear. “This dog’s temperature must be a hundred and five.”
Bentley coolly studied another printout. “Our last reading core body temperature was 42 degrees Celsius at
four-thirty. Let’s see, that would be a little over a hundred and six Fahrenheit.”
Kent’s eyes became slits as he stared at a tiny blond woman whose face was a study in terror. “Put those poor creatures in the cold chamber.” Then, Kent wheeled, clutched Bentley’s lapels.
“This is not research. This is torture!” he screamed in the man’s face.
Bentley crashed backward into a lab counter, sending a computer monitor to the floor. He grunted as the counter edge cut across the small of his back, but Kent pressed him harder.
“Look at this! Are you crazy?” Kent spat the words at Bentley. “You can’t do this stuff. It’s not legal, and no research is worth this.” Kent released his grip with one hand and motioned with a sweeping arc around the lab. “Are you totally numb?” He grabbed a handful of Bentley’s beard and twisted. Bentley let out a cry of pain. He bent the man’s head around so he faced a cage of pigeons that pecked maniacally at a mylar mirror. Their beaks were cracked, and brown clots of blood hung from the tips. “Look at those birds. They’re killing themselves!”
Just then the monkey with the whirling head began to seizure.
Bentley cried out as Kent yanked his beard, forcing his face toward the monkey.
“Jesus Christ! Don’t you see what you’ve done to that animal?” He towed Bentley around the lab by his beard. “This cat is so thin it must not have eaten in weeks. Look at this maze full of rats, they are going crazy. That mother cat is frantic because she can’t get to her kittens on the other side of the glass. You can’t do this!” Kent screamed, and his grip shifted from Bentley’s beard to his neck.
Loren grabbed his arm. “Kent, this is not the way. Let him go.”
“Call Security,” a student said.
“No,” Bentley said, with the little air he could get out his throat. “No Security.”
Bentley stood, grasped his throat with one hand and raised the other. He flashed a nervous smile to show that he was okay. He smoothed his lapels.
“Now that you have that out of your system, Dr. Stephenson, can we be a little more civil?”
The Color of Wounds Page 3