by Rick Acker
“But it will be a burden. There are some big projects in the works right now, and I just wouldn’t feel right asking you to work on them,” countered Emily. “I’m going to have to put my foot down, Noelle. You know you need some time off, and we know it too. We’d like you to step down and let someone with a less-hectic schedule fill in for you.”
Noelle realized what was happening and felt sick to her stomach. “Emily, be honest with me. Does the lawsuit against Karl Bjornsen have anything to do with this?”
“Well, I know that must be taking a big bite out of your schedule,” Emily acknowledged, “and it must be stressful to see Gwen Bjornsen at meetings.”
And having me on the committee makes it less likely that Karl will make any more big donations. “I understand. I . . . I think it would be best if I resigned, effective immediately.” She hung up the phone and started to cry.
Tweedledee still gazed out from the back of Tweedledum’s cage, ignoring his gruesome handiwork. A padded restraint slipped quickly over Tweedledee’s head and pulled him to the side of the cage, where it held him fast. He didn’t resist. A heavily gloved hand holding a syringe expertly injected him with enough morphine to kill an adult man. Tweedledee flinched as the needle went in, but he made no noise and didn’t struggle. He was used to injections.
The hand withdrew and the restraint slipped off the monkey’s neck. He sat quietly for several minutes. Then he closed his eyes and lay down. A few minutes later, his breathing became uneven. A few minutes after that, it stopped completely.
The hands, now wearing only latex gloves, returned and checked for a pulse and other signs of life. Finding none, they picked up Tweedledee’s body and carried it to a garbage can bearing the words “CAUTION: BIOLOGICAL WASTE.” The can was already nearly full of the bodies of dead rats and beagles, which had been sacrificed and necropsied as part of other drug tests. The hands dropped Tweedledee’s remains on top of the other dead animals and wheeled the can to a loading dock, where a row of similarly marked trash containers awaited proper disposal.
Ordinarily, dead animals would wait undisturbed until the next morning, when a truck would pick them up and take them to a nearby disposal facility to be incinerated. But one last indignity awaited Tweedledee’s corpse.
During the night, another set of gloved hands opened the can containing his body and shone a flashlight inside. Once his body was identified, the hands checked the number tattooed on his corpse. Then his corpse was photographed several times. Finally, a scalpel appeared and expertly sliced open his belly. Plastic-coated fingers quickly found his liver, excised part of it with the knife, and dropped it into a plastic bag. Then the light winked out, the lid went back on the can, and Tweedledee’s remains were left in peace to await their cremation.
“How did the first day of the deposition go?” asked Noelle as she and Ben drove home from the office the next day.
The deposition of Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals’ CFO had started that afternoon at two o’clock. Illinois Supreme Court Rule 206 limited depositions to three hours, but Bert Siwell had persuaded Judge Reilly to waive the rule in this case. Ben had objected, but in retrospect he was glad he could take as much time as he wanted to question witnesses. He rarely had more than two hours’ worth of questions for a particular witness, but Siwell rarely had less than three hours’ worth of objections, arguments, and delaying tactics.
“Actually, we’re done,” replied Ben.
“Really? Sergei and I had over forty documents for you to ask him about. Were you able to get through all of them? Did he have any explanation for why it looks like there’s extra money coming in through that Norwegian subsidiary?”
Ben shook his head. “Siwell must have given him a memory pill that kicked in about ten minutes into the deposition, because he started answering every question with some version of ‘I don’t recall.’ After that, Siwell objected to every question on the grounds that it called for speculation. When I pushed, he instructed the witness not to answer.”
“What a crock! Can he do that?”
“No. If the witness doesn’t know the answer to a question, he has to say so. His lawyer can’t just tell him not to answer. Siwell and I argued about that for about half an hour, and I threatened to call the judge before he finally gave in. After that, I asked about ten minutes’ of questions to establish that the CFO has no idea where the extra money came from or how Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals’ Norwegian subsidiary keeps its books—other than that he assumes they comply with Norwegian law.”
“So who knows, then?”
Ben shrugged. “Someone in Norway; the CFO claimed not to know who. And Siwell made it very clear that he’s not going to let me depose anyone there until after the preliminary-injunction hearing.”
“So he’s completely stonewalling you. Unbelievable.”
“Oh, it’s very believable. Unfortunately, there’s not much I can do about it between now and the hearing.” Ben turned into their cul-de-sac and pushed the garage-door opener. “So, how was your day?” he asked as they pulled in. “Did Gwen Bjornsen say anything to you at the committee meeting this afternoon?”
“Actually, I . . . well, I resigned from the committee yesterday.”
Ben stared at her in shock and nearly crashed into the back of the garage. “Huh? Why?”
She sighed. “Because they asked me to.”
“They asked you to? Why?”
“I got a very nice call from Emily Marshall telling me how she and the other board members thought I was overloaded and needed a break. They were all worried about me because I’m pregnant and working so hard, you see.”
“A little overprotective, but I see her point,” Ben interjected.
She glared at him. “That wasn’t her real point. I told her I was fine, but she told me I didn’t have any choice. Then she made it pretty clear that what’s really going on is that they don’t want me on the committee because you’re representing Gunnar in this lawsuit.”
“So? Why do they care?”
“Because Karl and Gwen donated two million dollars to the museum last year, and Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals donated another three to fund the Viking exhibit. That’s why.”
“Oh.” He rolled his eyes. “At least now you can stop working so hard getting to know people who aren’t worth knowing.”
“You know, when I got off the phone with Emily, I really wanted to talk to you. But I didn’t, because I was afraid you might say something like that. I’ve kept this bottled up inside for the past day and a half because I knew I couldn’t talk to you.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Seriously, sometimes you have a real gift for saying exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong moment!”
“I really am sorry.” He opened his mouth as if to say something more, but then shut it.
She looked at him hard. “But . . . ?”
“No. No buts now. Let’s go in and have dinner. I’ll make that chicken Caesar salad you like so much.”
He started to get out of the car, but she stopped him. “No you don’t! Tell me what you were going to say.”
“You sure you want to hear it?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I don’t want to have some big ‘but’ hanging over me all night.”
“Okay.” He hesitated and ran his fingers through his thick brown hair. “I was going to say that if you’re going to be donating a lot of time to an organization, maybe you should pick an orphanage or something. And not one run by rich society types.”
“What’s wrong with them? They’re not all like Emily Marshall. Just because someone has money and style doesn’t make them evil. Look at the Gossards or the Bishops or the—”
Ben raised his hand. “I’m not saying that they’re bad, just that they might be bad for you. You should be putting time into a charity because you want to help people, not because you want to meet people.”
“That’s not what I was doing!” Tears started to roll down her cheeks. She wiped them
away furiously, leaving little mascara smears under her eyes. “You don’t understand; you never have!”
“What don’t I understand?”
“That this isn’t about me. It isn’t even about us.” She put a hand on her belly. “It’s about our baby and the babies we’ll have after this one. I’ve been working so hard to make sure doors will be open for our children.”
“We did just fine before we knew the Gossards and Bishops, and I’m sure our kids will too.”
“‘Fine’ isn’t good enough for my children. They’re going to have the best we can give them! There won’t be any doors that won’t open for them. Not if I can help it. And that means having connections.”
“In other words, they’ll have everything you didn’t, right?”
“Yes. Is that so terrible? You think opportunities magically appear for everyone, because they did for you. Well, that’s not how this world works, Ben. We’re not all lucky enough to have parents who can pay our way through college and law school. We didn’t all get golf lessons when we were growing up so that we could impress clients and senior partners on the links.”
Ben sighed. “Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying we shouldn’t try to give our kids every possible advantage. I’m just saying that’s not what should drive who we know and why. For one thing, we won’t be setting a very good example for our kids, will we? They’ll go to Sunday school and learn that they should love their neighbors. Then they’ll watch us in action and learn that they should really only love the right neighbors.”
Noelle rolled her eyes. “Thank you for that sermon, Reverend Corbin. I’ll keep those words of wisdom in mind.”
Later that evening, Gunnar sat in the recliner in his den, reading through the deposition of Gene Kleinbaum. Gunnar had hired Dr. Kleinbaum ten years ago to head Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals’ animal-testing labs, and had considered him a friend and a good scientist. But based on Dr. Kleinbaum’s testimony, the man’s morals or his memory were more flexible than Gunnar would have expected. Ben Corbin had caught him “misremembering” often enough that Gunnar was confident the judge and jury wouldn’t believe anything Dr. Kleinbaum said. Still, it pained Gunnar to see a former colleague and friend corrupting himself to curry favor with Karl. He mentally added Dr. Kleinbaum to the list of executives who would have to go once Karl was out of power. It was depressing how many good men and women had prostituted themselves for Karl’s stock-option offers and fat bonuses.
He was about to put the transcript down and go to bed, when his home-office line rang. He looked over and saw that the number on the caller ID had the 572 prefix that all Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals numbers shared. He didn’t recognize the last four digits, however. He picked up the phone. “Hello?”
“Hello, Mr. Bjornsen,” said a vaguely familiar female voice, speaking in hushed tones. “This is Kathy Chatterton. I work in testing and development at Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals.”
He sat up and searched for a pen and some paper so he could take notes. “Oh, yes. Hello, Kathy. What can I do for you?”
“I’m working on the Neur—XD-463 animal-testing program,” she said, speaking rapidly and quietly. “One of the monkeys killed and dismembered another monkey. We put down the first monkey, but Gene Kleinbaum wouldn’t let me do a necropsy.”
He stopped writing. “What? Why not? They’re required by the FDA.”
“He said it was because both animals were in the control group, but I thought the killer monkey might have been accidentally switched with one of the monkeys from the test group, from the cohort receiving the highest dose. So after the monkey was dead, I went very discreetly out to the biowaste disposal area and checked the ID tattoo. It was a monkey from the high-dose group. I also took tissue samples from the liver.”
“Where’s the animal’s body?” demanded Gunnar, his voice sharp and commanding.
“They . . . All the waste would be incinerated by now. I’m sorry. I . . . Well, someone could have seen me taking the body. I did take some pictures of the tattoo with my cell-phone camera, though.”
Gunnar smiled. “Good. What about the tissue samples? Have you had them tested yet?”
“Yes. I just got the results back a couple of hours ago. There were high levels of both XD-463 and its known metabolites in the monkey’s body. I called Gene at home to tell him, and he was just furious. He said I was going behind his back and trying to destroy the company. He also said I must have screwed up the test and told me to save the rest of the tissue for him so that he could test it personally. I—”
“I need that tissue!” Gunnar cut her off. “I also need your cell-phone pictures, the test results, and the lab notes from the attack incident.”
“I was really hoping you’d say that, Mr. Bjornsen,” she replied, her voice trembling slightly. “I knew Mr. Bjornsen—the other Mr. Bjornsen—wouldn’t . . . well, I didn’t think he’d listen to me, and I didn’t want to go to the FDA and have them shut down the whole R&D department; but this can’t get swept under the rug—not when we’re getting ready to start human testing.”
“Oh, it won’t be,” replied Gunnar. “You can trust me on that. I’ll meet you in the east parking lot in half an hour.”
“No, wait,” she said hesitantly. “The security guards will recognize you, and they might not let you in. Also, it will be all over the company by morning that you were here.” She paused and then went on more confidently. “Maybe I should come over to your house instead. I have your address from last year’s company directory.”
“Good thinking. When will you be here?”
“It’ll take me a little while to get everything together. I should be at your front door in forty-five minutes.”
“Excellent. I’ll be waiting for you.”
Gunnar hung up the phone and smiled. He had a pretty good idea who would be replacing Dr. Kleinbaum after the litigation was over.
He tried to go back to reading the deposition transcript as he waited for Dr. Chatterton to arrive. He couldn’t focus, though, so he got up and walked out to the living room. He turned off the lights for a better view and took a seat in an armchair across from a wide bay window facing the street. He looked out expectantly across the dark lawn to the quiet, twisting road, watching for a pair of headlights to appear around the bend.
“Gunnar, why are you sitting down there in the dark?”
He jumped in his seat and turned to see his wife at the top of the stairs in her nightgown. Her brown hair hung loose on her shoulders, framing her fine-boned face and long neck. “Anne, I thought you were asleep. I’m waiting for someone to drop off a package.”
“Who delivers packages at eleven o’clock at night?”
“Someone who doesn’t want to be seen by Karl’s cronies,” replied Gunnar. “Her name is Kathy Chatterton. I think you met her at the company Christmas party a couple of years ago.”
“Yes, I remember her. She seemed very nice,” said Anne as she came down the stairs. “What’s in the package she’s bringing?”
“Karl’s head on a platter,” he said with a grin. He looked at his watch. “I wonder what’s keeping her. She said she’d be here five minutes ago.”
Anne chuckled and patted him on the shoulder. “Patience has never been your strong suit, dear. I’m going to make myself a cup of peppermint tea. Would you like some?”
“Yes, thanks.”
She disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared five minutes later bearing two steaming mugs. She handed one to her husband, who accepted it wordlessly. “I’m heading to bed,” she informed him. “Give Kathy my best.”
“I will, if she ever shows up.”
“I’m sure she’s coming as fast as she can,” Anne replied. “Good night.” She kissed Gunnar and went back upstairs.
At eleven-thirty, Gunnar went back into his den and dialed the number that had appeared on his phone’s caller-ID screen. No one answered. He hung up without leaving a message.
At midnight, he was pacing in the living room
and muttering to himself, a half-full mug of cold peppermint tea still clutched in one massive fist.
By one o’clock, he was toying with the idea of driving up to Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals to look for Dr. Chatterton. He ultimately decided against it, and he finally went to bed at one thirty.
The next morning, he was in a foul mood. He wasn’t sure what had happened the night before, but he was beginning to think that Dr. Chatterton’s story had been too good to be true. Maybe she’d realized there was something wrong with the tissue tests after she got off the phone with him. Maybe the whole thing had been a childish prank by Karl’s toadies. Whatever had happened, Gunnar had gotten his hopes up. He had even foolishly bragged to Anne that he was about to get Karl’s head on a platter. That memory grated on him as he showered and shaved. He muttered angrily to himself as he dressed, and avoided Anne when he went downstairs.
After his usual breakfast of grapefruit, toast, and brown goat cheese, Gunnar retired to the den. After he left, Anne turned on the TV. The local news was on, and Gunnar could hear a perky female voice discussing the Cubs’ relief pitching and other local disasters. He frowned and got up to close the den door, but then he froze with his hand on the knob.
“Police are investigating a fatal accident on the Eisenhower Expressway late last night,” the news anchor said with a slight note of solemnity in her otherwise-cheerful voice. “Katherine Chatterton, a Chicago research scientist, was killed in a single-car collision just west of Mannheim. Police are asking for witnesses to call the number at the bottom of the screen.”
CHAPTER SIX
HUMAN TRIALS
At Bjornsen Pharmaceuticals, Kim Young was having a slow day, which was fine with her. She’d had more than enough excitement over the past week. First, there had been the awful incident with the monkeys. Then she had been reassigned to the Neurostim clinical team just in time for the final frenzy, as they prepped senior management for an important meeting with the FDA, which was happening right now. She worked fifteen-hour days proofreading background memos, scurrying after documents that an executive VP suddenly decided he needed to see, double-checking data for PowerPoint slides, etc. And while she was caught up in the middle of all that, she got a broadcast e-mail announcement that Dr. Kathy Chatterton had died in a car crash.