by Meg Perry
"Oceanside."
He looked puzzled. "I'm from eastern Oregon. Where's Oceanside?"
"Just north of San Diego, just south of Camp Pendleton."
"Ah." He looked around the apartment and spotted a picture of Jeff, Kevin, and me on the mantel. "Hey. That's Detective Brodie."
"Yeah. He's my roommate. And my brother."
"Oho." He looked back at me, appraising. "I can see the resemblance now. Where is he?"
"Out with his girlfriend. They probably went to the movies. Do you want me to call him?"
"Yeah, if you would."
I got my cell and called. Kevin and Abby had gone to the movies and were now in the car on the way home. Abby answered. I filled her in. She told Kevin what I was saying, and I heard him swearing in the background.
"We're on our way. Probably only five minutes." I heard more swearing. "Make that three minutes."
It was more like two and a half. Kevin, Abby and the forensics team all came through the front door at the same time. A small crowd had gathered now at the foot of the building, looking up at our balcony. The officers who were searching for the burglar weren't having any success. Kevin talked to the officer in the living room while I filled Abby in on all the details.
I was still hanging on to the baseball bat.
It took about another hour. Forensics finished up. The officers who were searching found nothing. Everyone said goodbye and cleared out. Kevin went around locking all the doors again and double checking everything. Then he turned to me.
I was still holding the baseball bat. He reached out for it. "I think you can let go of that now."
I handed it to him and flexed my fingers. My grip would probably be sore in the morning.
"That scared you some, huh?" Kevin got a beer out of the fridge and handed it to me.
"Yeah. It did."
He nodded. "Would have scared me too."
"No, it wouldn't. You'd have just shot the guy."
He laughed. "Well, not without getting some information out of him first." He got serious. "After tonight, I’m convinced that all of your incidents are related somehow. Someone must be after you, if not to harm you personally then at least to discourage you from doing whatever it is you're doing." He went into his bedroom with the baseball bat and returned with his current service weapon, a Glock 9mm, and an older model of the same gun that he'd started his career with. He handed me the older one and its clip. "Until this all gets straightened out, we keep these handy when we're home. Okay?"
"Yep." I'd learned to shoot as a kid; Master Gunnery Sgt. David Brodie, USMC, had made sure all his offspring could handle weapons. I didn't own one personally. I was starting to think that might need to change.
Sunday June 3
On Sunday, Kevin and Abby went for a drive up the coast with some friends. I spent the morning doing laundry, cleaning my bathroom, and doing all the little stuff that has to get done on the weekends. Around 10:30, I called Pete. He said he'd come over to look at the statistics section of the Oliver/Wray/Goldstein article, and bring lunch.
At noon, there was a knock on the door. I made sure it was Pete through the peephole, then opened the door. He handed me a big bag from In-N-Out. “What’s with that sign in your elevator?”
“What sign?”
“The one that says, ‘If the elevator stops, do not be alarmed, just push the alarm.’ Somebody’s being funny?”
“A little elevator humor, I guess.”
“Yeah, very little.”
“Oh, come on. That’s a little funny.”
“Okay, okay…”
We ate, then went to the living room. Pete had a book that he'd used as his stats bible when he was writing his dissertation. He set it to one side, got a notepad and pen, and started making notes while reading the statistics section of the article. I just watched him. He was such a gorgeous guy. He glanced over at me once, saw me looking at him, and kind of gave me a sideways grin. I grinned back.
It took him about 20 minutes, then he set down his pen and stretched. "It will be interesting to get the Welsh article, with the original procedure, to see if those authors used these same parameters to test for statistical significance. Because they've used some incredibly generous parameters."
"Okay, explain that to me."
"Look here." He showed me a chart. "Here's where they're measuring the number of cells that reacted the way they hoped, and this column is for the number of cells total. When you're running an experiment, it's not enough just to add up the results. You have to test for statistical significance.”
“Statistical significance?”
“Yeah.” He looked at me quizzically. “Didn’t you have to take stats at Oxford? Or at least Berkeley?”
“I did at Berkeley, but that was fourteen years ago. And I didn’t at Oxford.”
“Really?”
“Really. Why would I? Historians don’t do double-blind studies. We just dwell on the past.”
Pete snorted. “Funny. Okay, then. The p-value, here, is the test that's often used for statistical significance in this kind of trial. You can set the p-value at whatever you like, but in general, the smaller it is, the better. The usual p-values are either .05 or .01. If your experiment is statistically significant at p less than or equal to .01, then there's less than a 1% chance that your results were due to chance. These guys," he pointed at a number, "have used a p-value of .25. That's awfully high."
"So their results aren't statistically significant?"
"There's still a 75% chance that their results were due to their experimental manipulations, and not due to chance. But I'm surprised that they got this published, with a p-value at that level."
"Huh." I thought for a minute. "You know, academic publishing is changing. There are a lot of second-and third-tier journals out there now that will take a paper that the top tier journals won't. I haven't looked at the specifics of this journal, whether it's even peer reviewed or not."
"Then maybe you should." Pete stood up. "I'm gonna get a beer. Want one?"
"Sure." I turned on my laptop. Pete brought me an open bottle, and we clinked our bottles together. "Here's to research."
Pete laughed. "You're such a nerd."
"Yep. Out and proud, dude."
We both laughed at that. My laptop was ready, so I got online and did a search for the Journal of Stem Cell Biology. Its website appeared. I swung the laptop around so Pete could see it too.
"The first thing to check is the publisher. And the publisher here is called..." I had to click in a couple of pages. "...Biology Journals Publishers. Okay, never heard of them, so it's not one of the big publishing houses. Let's see where they're located..." another click "...Sri Lanka. Okay, that's not a good sign. Next question, is it peer reviewed?"
Pete pointed to the screen. "It says there that it is."
"Yeah, but just because they say it doesn't make it true. I need to look at the instructions for authors." I read through those. "See, here, it doesn't say anything about the author's submitted paper going through the peer review process. Which means it's extremely likely that the peer review process doesn't happen."
"Wow." Pete leaned back. "So, pretty much anyone can start their own journal now and publish anything they want?"
"Yep." I clicked on the contents page for the current issue. "Look at this. Most of the articles are written by the same two guys in this issue. It looks to me like this is mostly a vanity publication for these guys, who happen to be the editors, with an occasional contribution from elsewhere."
"So how does a journal like that get indexed in a medical database?"
"Well, it was in an obscure database. That's why I couldn't find the full text myself. If it had been in Medline or one of the other major medical databases, I could have printed it out myself."
Pete snorted softly. "And had Oliver at your doorstep even sooner than he was."
"True." I stretched. "Okay. So. Oliver comes back from Cambridge, and he and Wray want to
open a lab. The profile I read said that they got a grant to open it at first. I wonder if they're still getting grant money?"
"You could find out." Pete gestured to my laptop. "Federal grants have to be listed somewhere. It might take some digging."
"Yeah. But the grants also could be private. The newspaper story kind of implied that they were privately funded now."
"Those grants might be hard to uncover. Although, if they were made from private, not-for-profit organizations, those organizations might list them."
I mused. "You know, the first thing that struck me about both Oliver and Ben Goldstein, when I met them, was how well they were dressed. They were both wearing Armani suits that run about two grand each, and thousand dollar shoes. That's when it occurred to me to check on their backgrounds because I couldn't believe that research paid that well."
Pete shrugged. "Maybe they have family money. Or married well."
"Yeah, maybe. Either way, if they opened the lab with a grant, they'd have to have something to show for the money if they were going to keep the grant or get new ones. And their procedure works, but it doesn't work as well as it should. So they get a paper published, in a journal of questionable reputation, that lets them report their results as successful with p values that are set too high."
Pete nodded. "If their grants are from private foundations that are sloppy about their due diligence, then maybe all they need is a paper published in a supposedly peer-reviewed journal that says the procedure works. The foundations don't know any better, they just read the abstract, and they keep forking over the dough."
"So it's almost like they're running a scam."
"Yeah. Did you find anything to indicate whether they're treating patients or not?"
"No. I didn't get that impression." An idea occurred to me. "You know...it might be instructive to pay a visit to the lab. Dr. Oliver told me to contact him if I had any more questions. So he wouldn't think anything about it if I did call him. I could look around, see if I can find any patients in the place."
"Whoa." Pete frowned. "That might not be safe."
"You could come with me."
Pete groaned. "No, no way. What excuse would you give for me being there?"
"Um...we could say that you were trying to decide whether to give to a foundation that supports stem cell research, and you wanted to see what kind of thing your money would be going to?"
Pete laughed. "I had no idea you were so devious."
"Yeah, you did. That would work, right?"
"Sure. Whatever. If it'll keep you from charging off by yourself. But we can't tell Kevin."
"Oh, God no. He'd toss us both off the balcony."
Pete leaned back, crossed his arms, and gave me a stern look. "Now. I want to know how you knew those suits were Armani."
I laughed. "Scott was into clothes. Everywhere we went, he'd point out what all the other men were wearing. I got so I could recognize brands pretty well. If we were out somewhere he'd actually quiz me."
"Geez." Pete looked at me critically. "That's kind of shallow for your taste, isn't it?"
I shrugged. "He had other good qualities. And, see, now that information has come in handy."
"Yeah, yeah. I'll give him that." Pete stood up. "Okay. So, back to your case here. If we're right, do you suppose what they've done constitutes fraud?"
I considered. "I don't see how. It's the fault of the granting agencies if they don't do their due diligence. The information was there for them to find; if they didn't look hard enough to find it, I don't see how that would be fraudulent. Unethical, yes, but legally fraudulent? My guess would be no."
Pete sighed. "Yeah, that sounds right." He went to look out the sliding glass door. "But there's no place in that scenario for the Welsh article. How does that fit?"
I shook my head. "I have no idea. And it's hard for me to imagine Dan getting worked up about a breach of ethics on someone else's part like this. Unless he was just trying to protect Ben. But in that case, why wouldn't he just tell Ben? Ben could quietly look for another job, and that would be that."
"Unless he thought Ben was involved."
"Yeah...we still have no idea about that. And even if he was trying to protect Ben, that still doesn't explain the Welsh article. And why Dan would enlist me to keep investigating this."
Pete went to the kitchen and brought back two more beers. "Still some unanswered questions."
"Yep." I took a drink. "And I'm out of answers for now." I picked up the remote. "Want to watch a movie?"
We watched a movie, then an episode of "Hoarders" that was on the DVR. Kevin's ex was a hoarder; it was one of the reasons they'd split. He hated the show, but I was fascinated by it. After the show, Pete yawned. "God. Now I feel like going home and throwing everything away."
"I could understand it if they hoarded books. Maybe. But it's never anything with value at all."
"But it's not about value, is it? With most of those folks, it seems to be about security. And as I remember, that's what it was for Kevin's ex."
"How much more secure can you get than living with a cop?"
"Beats me. Neurosis is not my area of expertise. Psychosis, now, you're singing my song."
I yawned too. "Speaking of psychosis, how's your textbook chapter coming?"
"It's coming along. There are a few more resources I have to check for updates, then I think I'll have all the research I need to start writing."
"Sounds like you need to spend more time at the library." I grinned.
"I do." Pete gave me a sideways look. "You telling me you'd like that?"
"Sure. I like having you around. It gives me a sense of security." I snickered. It crossed my mind that if I was amusing myself, I'd probably had a bit too much to drink.
Pete laughed. "I think you've had a little too much to drink." He stood up and stretched again. "And I'd better hit the road. Got a meeting at 8:00 tomorrow."
"Ugh. That's early."
"And you've gotta be at work at 8:00 tomorrow."
"8:30. That extra half hour makes all the difference."
"Right." He looked down at me, shaking his head but smiling. Right at that moment he looked like everything I wanted. I stood up and held out my hand. "I think you should stay a little longer."
He was suddenly serious. "I think that might be a bad idea."
"Why?" Then it hit me. "You're seeing someone else."
He made a "you've got to be kidding" face. "No, I'm not. When would I have time to do that?"
"I don't know." Then something worse hit me. "Or you just don't want me."
He sighed and shook his head. "You know that's not it. If I thought you were serious, I'd be on you in a heartbeat. But you have had too much to drink, at least to be making that kind of decision. I think you'd regret it in the morning. And I don't want to do anything with you that you're going to regret."
"Oh, fuck that. Why don't you let me decide what I might or might not regret?" I moved closer to him and slid my hands under his t-shirt. "Come on. Stay."
So he did.
Monday June 4
Pete left around 5:00 the next morning. During a break in the action, we’d had a discussion about just exactly what it was we thought we were doing by sleeping together. I’d voted for a best-friends-with-benefits relationship. Pete wanted more but was willing to try it my way for now. He didn’t understand why I didn’t want to date. I tried to explain that if we dated, then the potential was there to break up. If we weren’t dating, we couldn’t break up. It made sense to me at the time. Pete had just shaken his head, but he’d agreed.
I’d slept better than I had in weeks. When I woke up, the sun was coming up, and the birds were singing. I tried to decide whether I regretted last night. In the sense that I didn't want to lead Pete on, yes. But I’d explained myself to him, so I didn’t think I was giving him any false hope.
But if Pete regretted it, then I regretted that.
But physically? I didn't regret it at all. Aft
er four years, I'd forgotten how good it was to be with him.
From the standpoint of my asthma, I was feeling better, although not yet back to normal. My peak flow was only back up to 86%. The air quality in the city was still not great. I decided to leave for work early, to beat the traffic and avoid as much auto exhaust as possible, and go for a swim. The North Pool on campus opened for recreational swimming at 6:00 am. I was there by 6:30.
There were a limited number of people who regularly swam this early in the morning, and I knew them all. I waved hello to a couple of familiar faces as I walked onto the pool deck, then got into the water. I swam for 45 minutes, long enough for a good workout, then climbed out and retrieved my towel. As I did, I saw a face that I didn’t recognize. An attractive woman, a few years older than me, shaking her hair out of her swim cap. She saw me looking at her and smiled. “Hi.”