He made it to a nearby convenience store and ignored the curious looks of the clerk while he got change for a dollar. Then he called the unit secretary on the clinical ward.
“I’m out of the hospital and won’t be in again tonight,” he told her. “Notify the cardiology resident on-call at White Memorial. Tell her she’ll have to function without the code-call beeper.”
He hung up without giving the secretary a chance to reply, then he flagged a cab and took it to Freeman Sharpe’s place. His ring of keys, including the ones the Sharpes had given him to their apartment, was in his briefcase in the on-call room. If Freeman and Marguerite were out, Brian would be wandering around the tough Roxbury section of the city at night, soaked to the skin in a surgical scrub suit. At that moment, the boredom of his year at Speedy Rent-A-Car didn’t seem all that bad.
The street outside the apartment building was deserted.
“Hello?” Freeman said through the intercom.
“Freeman, it’s Brian.”
“Uh-oh.”
Freeman buzzed him in. Marguerite clucked at Brian’s appearance.
“Someday you’re going to show up at my door in a nice business suit,” she said. “They’ll have to revive me with smelling salts.”
Brian showered and donned the jeans and sweatshirt he had taken from his place. Then he sat in their living room wrapped in a blanket, clutching a cup of steaming coffee, still trying to expunge the chill from his bones.
“I killed a man tonight at the hospital,” he said simply.
“One of them?” Freeman asked.
“The one from my house. I shot him in the chest with the gun I took from him this morning.”
“At least his head won’t hurt him anymore. I told you, Brian. These people have no soul, and they’re waging war on you. You’ve got to wage war right back at them; play by their rules, or lack of. Do you at least have a better understanding of what’s going on—why they’re so threatened by you?”
“Understanding, yes. Proof none. As for being threatened by me, they have every right to be.”
“Tell us.”
“There are still a few pieces missing, but basically, the key to the whole thing is that once a drug is on the market, it’s extremely difficult to get it off. And it’s virtually impossible to get a drug recalled just because it doesn’t work. In fact, most of the drugs on the market today don’t work all that well. Some of them don’t do anything at all. And the truth is, nobody cares. Nobody in research or even at the FDA has the time or the interest to run studies or follow-up research on most of those medications as long as they don’t hurt anyone. That’s the key. Primum non nocere is the Latin phrase they teach us in medical school—‘First do no harm.’ Most people get better from whatever’s wrong with them regardless of or even in spite of the medicine they take. Others, whose condition is more serious, are always on multiple treatments. It’s almost impossible to tell what’s working and what isn’t.”
“But this Vasclear drug does work,” Marguerite said.
Brian shook his head.
“That’s just it. It doesn’t,” he said. “The researchers at BHI have been faking their results. Vasclear doesn’t work at all. In fact, it did bad things to people who took it. Some of the earliest patients who were put on it got better at first, but then they developed a fatal lung problem.”
“So, why did they push ahead?” Freeman said.
“I think you know the answer as well as I do. It costs a hundred million dollars or more to develop a new drug, test it, and get it to the marketplace. If your pal Cedric is right about the men behind Newbury Pharmaceuticals, and I have no reason to think he isn’t, I don’t think they’d take a hundred-million-dollar hit with much grace. All they have to do is get the drug on the market, and the money will start rolling in. It will be a year, maybe more, before people even begin to suspect that the drug isn’t working, and years after that before it gets pulled.”
“As long as nobody gets hurt,” Marguerite said.
“They don’t count people like my father, who end up not getting the surgery they need because they’ve hitched their wagon to the Vasclear star, but yes—as long as nobody gets hurt.”
“And the people from Phase One? The ones who got sick?” Freeman asked.
“Loose ends. The longer they hung around, the more likely it became that someone was going to start questioning their strange lung conditions and the role Vasclear played in their illnesses. So I think someone, probably Weber, has been monitoring the Phase One blood tests. As soon as patients’ counts begin to get wacky, they have an accident.”
“But you have no proof at all?”
“I had proof in my hand—two films from the cath-lab library at the hospital.” He told them about Nellie Hennessey’s faked pictures. “That’s when I almost got killed. Speaking of which, we should turn on the news.”
“I’ll do it,” Marguerite said, “although the news doesn’t come on for fifteen minutes yet.”
There was no need to channel surf or wait the fifteen minutes. There was a news special on the first Boston channel Marguerite turned to. Mayhem at Boston Heart, the headline above the anchorwoman read. Brian and his two friends sat in bleak silence, watching as the coverage was turned over to a reporter on the scene.
“This is Lina Fallin reporting live from White Memorial Hospital in Boston, where two men have been shot to death and a portion of the Boston Heart Institute has been destroyed by fire. White Memorial is where, in just two days, the President is scheduled to sign approval of a new wonder drug developed and tested at Boston Heart. It is unclear whether these murders are related to that presidential visit or not.
“The identity of one of the victims, a security guard found in a basement hallway, has not yet been released. But the other, burned almost beyond recognition in the fire, is believed to be Dr. Philip Gianatasio of Boston, a cardiologist at Boston Heart who was reported missing earlier today. Although there has been no official confirmation of this, one policeman on the scene said that Gianatasio’s death appeared due to a gunshot wound, and not the fire, which completely destroyed the cardiac film library in the basement of the institute. The fire was apparently contained in that one area.”
“Oh, Jesus, no,” Brian said, burying his face in his hands. “Oh, Phil. Oh, shit. No!”
Marguerite squeezed Brian’s hand and pulled him close to her. None of them doubted what was coming next.
“Lina, do police have a suspect and a motive?” the anchorwoman asked.
“Details are sketchy, Paula, but police say they’re looking for a physician, also a cardiologist, named Dr. Brian Holbrook, who was on duty tonight at the hospital, but who called in a couple of hours ago to say he had abandoned his coverage at the hospital and wouldn’t be coming back.”
Brian changed the channel.
“… Superintendent of Police Dracut is on the scene now and will be making a statement to the media in just fifteen minutes. But to repeat, police have found what they believe may be the murder weapon—a handgun possibly dropped by the killer while fleeing the scene. There is a search underway for Dr. Holbrook, who apparently has had problems in the past with drugs, and who only recently got his medical license back from the Board of Registration in Medicine.”
“Bill, is there any word on whether the White House has been informed of this tragedy and how it will affect Saturday’s ceremony?”
“No. No word yet …”
Brian shut off the set, too shocked and too angry even to cry.
“Unlimited money, no regard for human life,” Freeman said. “It’s a bad combination.”
“Drug-crazed doctor goes berserk,” Brian said. “How perfect. You really have to hand it to them. You also have to believe that the moment I’m captured by the police, Weber and his friends will find some way to get to me.”
“I wish I could disagree with you,” Freeman said. “Do you have any cards to play? Any at all?”
“The charts a
re gone. The films are gone. Phil’s gone. And before I could ever get anyone to believe my story, I’ll be gone.”
He snatched up the phone and called Phoebe, who was asleep.
“Do your best to protect the kids,” he said, after begging her to believe that he wasn’t in relapse and had done nothing more than shoot a gunman in self-defense. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. I’m sorry this is happening.”
There was a shocked silence, but at least she wasn’t hurling accusations at him.
Brian watched for another hour and a half, but learned little more. The fire in the video library had been carried out with calculated skill. The smoke detectors had been taped over, then hundreds of angiograms had been dumped from their containers onto Phil Gianatasio’s body and set ablaze.
Around midnight, Ernest Pickard read a brief statement deploring what had happened and urging Brian to come forward. Later, White House Chief of Staff Stan Pomeroy read a statement saying that unless more information surrounding the double murder came to light, the President expected to go through with Saturday’s ceremonies as planned. However, he added, additional security measures might be taken.
At twelve-thirty, Freeman and Marguerite went to bed. Brian switched off the set and called Teri. She was wide-awake.
“Brian! I’ve been worried sick about you. I just got a call about what happened.”
“I didn’t set that fire, Teri, and the only man I killed was someone who was trying to kill me.”
“Well, then, who set the fire and killed your friend Phil?”
“The people from Newbury Pharmaceuticals.”
“Brian, what are you talking about?”
He recounted the evening’s events for her. She listened patiently, but when she responded, her tone was urgent.
“Brian, you’ve got to turn yourself in,” she said. “If what you’re saying is the truth, people will believe you.”
“I have no proof. None at all.”
“I can order random samples of Vasclear to be pulled and analyzed. Would that help?”
“Maybe, but I suspect there’ll be some chemical close to the original in the vials. These people are very careful.”
“I don’t know what to say, Brian. We’ve only known each other a short time, and … I’m not sure what to think. I still say you’ve got to turn yourself in.”
“I’m not turning myself in. If I do, they’ll get to me, I know they will. Teri, you’ve got to convince people to believe me.”
“Do you have any proof? Anything at all?”
“No, but—”
“Brian, please. Don’t put me on the spot like this. Turn yourself in.”
“If I do get proof, how can I get it to you?”
“Just bring it down to Maryland.”
“When will you be up here?”
“Saturday. The ceremony will be at eight in the Hippocrates Dome.”
“I’ll try to make contact. Teri, I didn’t do anything wrong. You’ve got to believe me.”
“I’m trying,” she said.
Brian set the receiver down and slumped across the couch. Five hours later, when he awoke, he was covered with a blanket. The aroma of fresh coffee and frying sausage filled the apartment.
“Hey, I’m glad you got some sleep,” Marguerite said. “Freeman’s just showering.”
“Thanks. Do you have the morning paper?”
“I do, but I’m not sure you want to see it.”
“If it’s the Globe, I’ll look at it. If it’s the Herald, I don’t know.”
“It’s the Globe, but the boundary between the two papers is sort of blurry with stories like this one.”
Brian poured a cup and stared down at his picture on the front page. Ironically, it was the photo he had submitted with his application for staff privileges at White Memorial.
“And to think, when I was playing ball, I used to be upset if I didn’t get enough press coverage,” he said. “This is going to be awful for the girls.”
Freeman, in his robe, emerged from the bedroom, toweling his hair.
“So,” he said, “another day.”
“I know the old AA saw—any day you don’t drink or drug is a good one—but I have serious doubts about yesterday.”
“I know. Have you got a plan yet?”
“Not really. But I’ve got to do something.”
Freeman sat down beside him and sipped at some juice.
“Is there anyone at your hospital you can trust?” he asked.
“Only Phil.” Brian gestured toward the news photo of Gianatasio. “And maybe that egomaniac surgeon who tried to save Jack. Everybody else has an enormous professional or financial stake in Vasclear. Why do you ask?”
“Well, I know the Russian Mafia is capable of gunning down a guy in a market, or blowing up a sick old man in his apartment. But it’s a little hard to believe that all these high-powered doctors are capable of it, or even condone it.”
“Or even know about it!” Brian said suddenly.
“What do you mean?”
Brian didn’t respond right away. If Freeman was right, there might well be a chink in the Vasclear armor—someone who knew part of what was going on, but not everything, especially not the part about the murders of the Phase One patients.
“Freeman, you keep saying that whatever it is you need, there’s a person somewhere in AA and NA who can get it.”
“That is true.”
“Well, if I gave you the name of a person with an unlisted phone number, do you think you could come up with somebody who’d get that phone number for me and the address that goes along with it?”
“You mean, like someone who works for the phone company?”
“Exactly.”
Freeman and his wife exchanged knowing grins.
“What’s the name and town?” Freeman said.
“She lives on the North Shore—Salem, Marblehead, Beverly, Gloucester—one of those. I’m not sure which.”
“And her name?”
“Dr. Carolyn Jessup.”
“I’ll see what I can do. It may take a while.”
“That’s okay. It’s not like I have anyplace to go. And Freeman, if you can manage it, there are three other things I’ll need.”
“As long as one of them isn’t a gun.”
“Actually—”
“I’m serious, my friend. If you’re thinking about going up against the Newbury people, I want you to take your chances with the police first. You get hold of a gun at this stage, and the only person I’m absolutely certain will be killed is you.”
“Okay, okay. Forget the gun.”
“In that case, just tell me what you need for your grand plan, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Nothing that exotic, actually. I need a rental car, three or four overnight-mail envelopes, and a cellular phone … plus a lot of luck.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
BOSTON HERALD
Drug Doc Wanted for
Double Murder
President Still Coming to Hub
Murder arrest warrants are out for former UMass football star Brian Holbrook, who is currently on the staff of Boston Heart Institute. Holbrook, who lost his medical license for eighteen months because of fraudulently prescribing narcotics to support his own drug addiction, is the prime suspect in a bizarre shooting spree at White Memorial Hospital, which left a part-time hospital guard and a prominent cardiologist both dead. The cardiologist, Dr. Philip Gianatasio, was also on the faculty at Boston Heart Institute.
In a related story, sources close to the President report that there are no plans to change the ceremony scheduled for tomorrow night at White Memorial.
BRIAN SPENT THE ENTIRE MORNING AT FREEMAN’S COMPUTER, typing out a detailed report of everything that had happened from the day Jack was brought to the White Memorial ER.
The hospital charts are missing, he wrote, and most, if not all, of the Phase One patients are dead. But I believe a close review of the autopsy of Wilh
elm Elovitz will reveal the changes of pulmonary hypertension in the arteries of his lungs, just as a careful review of the convenience-store video will show that his murder was deliberate and premeditated.…
It was almost one in the afternoon before he began printing out the eleven-page document. One copy to the Globe, one to the Herald, one for Phil Gianatasio’s parents, and the final one for Teri. He would not give a copy to Freeman and Marguerite. They had already put themselves on the line for him. As Freeman said, this was war. There was no way Brian would allow any more of his friends to become casualties.
An eleven-page report to the Globe and the Herald from a drug addict wanted for murder, backed up by nothing tangible, accusing the developers and manufacturers of a proven miracle drug of fraud and multiple murders—how crazy did that sound? The ramblings of a nutcase—and a dangerous nutcase at that. No chance, Brian thought. There was absolutely no chance anyone would take him seriously. And if someone did, a judiciously placed bribe or threat or bullet would surely take care of matters.
Outside, the steady rain continued into a second day. Five to seven days altogether, the forecasters were predicting. The rain, the sun, autumn, the kids, his one night with Teri, Freeman and Marguerite, his patients … they all seemed so precious now. Throwing a football … listening to a heart … breathing in the seasons. Brian wondered how differently he would have approached many things in his life had he known it was the last time he would ever be experiencing them.
How many last times with Jack passed by unappreciated during those final, frantic weeks?
The phone was ringing. Brian hesitated, then answered it. It was Freeman. A pipe had burst in the other building. He would be home within the hour with everything Brian needed.
“Once you turn those over to me,” Brian said, “I’m out of here and you’re done.”
“Hey, if you think I’m gonna argue with you about that, you’re wrong,” Freeman replied. “I ain’t the hero type.”
Brian dressed and pulled on his still-damp sneakers. It was time to begin preparations. If he was wrong about Carolyn Jessup, if she could not be swayed, he would have to be ready to turn himself in … or to run. The one remaining thing he needed to do was speak with Teri once more. He couldn’t leave her in the dark. But neither could he expect her to risk her credibility and even her career for him. He would take care of this business himself. And if he failed, he would fail alone.
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