The Suicide Effect

by L. J. Sellers

  The best defense was a good offense, he remembered as he crossed the courtyard into the corporate office. A few sales and marketing people who occupied the offices on the first floor were gathered in the hallway. He hoped to get by them without wasting too much time responding to their compulsive butt kissing. That particular behavior made them good at their jobs, but it annoyed him, even on his good days. Today did not fall into that category.

  “Mr. Rudker.” One of the men spoke first.

  “How was your flight?” a woman asked.

  “It was fine. The merger is moving along efficiently.”

  They fell silent for a moment. Talk of the merger reminded them that their jobs were on the line.

  Alicia, a tall redhead with plenty of cleavage, said, “It’s too bad about Diane Warner.”

  The comment took him by surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t heard?” Alicia looked uncomfortable.

  “Heard what?”

  The marketer who had spoke first, Kyle he remembered, said softly, “She’s dead, sir. They found her body near the river. They think a homeless man killed her while she was jogging.”

  Rudker scanned his brain for the right response, choosing, “That’s terrible. When did this happen?”

  “We don’t know for sure.” Alicia spoke up again. “Sula identified her body this morning, but apparently she’s been dead for a few days.”

  “This is tragic news.” Rudker blinked a few times to convey he was having an emotional reaction. “You’ll have to excuse me.” He walked away and boarded the elevator. As the doors closed, he saw them lean together to continue the gossip. He thought he’d pulled off the right reaction, but maybe not. Often when he believed his behavior to be perfectly appropriate, it turned out to be characterized as offensive or odd. For a long stretch, that offended person had been his first wife.

  On the third floor, he hurried to his big corner office. Eventually, he would have to talk to the HR director about whether to replace Warner. With the merger, it might not be necessary. Marcy would handle the details, the flowers and financials and such. Rudker unlocked his office door, tossed his travel bag on the floor, and plopped in his custom-made Italian leather chair.

  He closed his eyes and tried not to think about anything for a minute. He knew it was important to quiet his mind on occasion. Especially when he had critical decisions to make.

  Sula, that PR girl, was a wild card. How had she accessed Warner’s office and what had she found? Someone in the hallway group, Alicia maybe, had said Sula had identified the body. Was that why she’d gone into the R&D director’s office? Was the girl looking for Warner’s genetic data or was she just a busybody?

  If she had the nerve to show her face around here again, he would fire her on the spot. She must not be allowed to access any of the buildings or offices. That wasn’t enough though. Rudker wanted the paperwork back, whatever it was. It belonged to Prolabs and Sula no longer worked for Prolabs. He would have to talk to Marcy about that too, but first things first.

  He buzzed the receptionist in the front office. No one answered. Damn, he needed her to find a phone number for him. Since when did everyone go home so early? He dialed 911. A dispatcher asked calmly, “What is your emergency?”

  “I don’t have an emergency, but I would like to speak to the police chief.”

  “Please hang up and dial 682-5111.”

  Rudker dialed the number. A woman’s voice answered. “Eugene Police Department. How can I help you?”

  “I’d like to report a theft.”

  Chapter 14

  After forty minutes in the dark supply room, Sula finally heard Peterson leave. She waited another ten minutes, then crept out into the nearly dark building. Exhausted and shaky, she passed an office with light showing and knew she wasn’t alone in the building. She moved quickly and left by the side exit.

  She wanted to go straight home, but her purse and truck keys were in her office. The thought of running into Rudker terrified her, so she considered walking, but she needed her house key too. Sula crossed the courtyard and used the master key to enter the main building. Hallway lights were on, but no one appeared to be in the facility. Despite her fatigue, she skipped the elevator and took the stairs to avoid encountering anyone. Sula had never been in the building this late before, but she knew that some salespeople worked odd hours.

  She ran from the stairwell to her office, picked up her things, and ran back. Once on the cement stairs, she moved more slowly, not wanting to slip and fall in her muddy heels. In the parking lot, she discovered Rudker’s Jeep was still there. Dear God, he was still in the building. Sula’s legs shook so hard she could barely stand.

  At home, she was too distressed to think about dinner, so she cleaned her shoes, showered, and put on fresh clothes. Washing away the fear, sweat, and mud of the day failed to give her a sense that everything would turn out all right.

  The thought that she might have blown her job, and chance for custody, make her sick with despair. How could she have been so reckless? It was one thing to be concerned about a group of patients, but it was whole new step to risk everything that was important to her. What if her concern for those patients was pointless? Peterson thought it was. Yet Sula had heard Dr. Warner plead her case, and she had read too many news stories about antidepressants and suicides to dismiss the idea that an ethnic population could be at risk. She still held hope the documents she’d pilfered from Warner’s office would reveal something.

  Sitting down at her computer desk, Sula turned on a reading light and begin to scan through the papers. They were intake files with patient names, medical histories, prescription histories, and the clinicians’ assessment. She soon realized none of the patients had any antidepressants in their drug histories and none of the notes said any thing about depression.

  These subjects were from the Phase I trials, when they tested the drug in healthy people just to make sure it was safe. Disappointed, Sula kept reading. No Phase II data appeared. No Puerto Rican research center was named in the pages. It was interesting to note that several of the Phase I patients complained of headaches and irritability after taking the drug for a few weeks, but it apparently hadn’t been cause for concern.

  She gave up on the photocopied files and pulled the disk out of its unmarked case. It was plain silver and could have been anything. The fact that Warner had hidden the disk, then died shortly after, gave Sula goose bumps.

  She popped it into her computer and crossed her fingers that her CD drive would work well this evening. Everything in her setup was out of date, but saving up for the duplex had kept her from buying the laptop she wanted. She clicked the icon and waited while it loaded.

  The list of contents was short: Miguel Rios, Luis Rios, mr DNA, lr DNA. Sula’s stomach fluttered. These must be the cousins in the Puerto Rican trial who had committed suicide. Warner must have made the disk after her fight with Rudker. She’d copied everything she thought was important and hidden it, clearly worried that Rudker would destroy the files in the database. Sula thought it likely that he already had.

  She clicked on the folder labeled Miguel Rios. The opening pages resembled the documents she’d photocopied. Personal history, followed by medical history, followed by physical exam. Miguel Rios had not been a happy man. He had been diagnosed with depression at age twenty-three and had taken seven different medications during the next nineteen years. At one point, he’d been on Depakote and Prozac at the same time. Depakote was a powerful anti-psychotic that was also used to control epilepsy. Her father had taken it for a while, but he’d hated it. He said it took away his spirit.

  According to Miguel’s intake interview, he often had thoughts of suicide but in all those years of depression he had never tried it. Yet after three weeks of taking Nexapra, the man had killed himself. No wonder Warner had been concerned.

  Luis’ file was similar, although he had not become depressed, or at least hadn’t been diagnosed that way,
until age twenty-nine. So he’d only been taking meds for five years. He also reported occasional suicide thoughts but according to his intake notes, he had never attempted it. Five weeks into his Nexapra trial, he had killed himself.

  Sula’s heart went out to the family who had lost two people in two weeks to self-destruction. The parents would never recover. The kids would never understand. It was such a mystery how the same drug could help one person and kill another. It was true of many medications, not just mental health drugs. Working for Prolabs, Sula had learned a great deal about genomic breakthroughs in medical science. She was convinced pharma companies could do a better job of predicting how people would react to medicines. In the case of Nexapra, Rudker had learned they could predict a patient response and he refused to make it part of the prescription process.

  It infuriated her.

  Sula couldn’t get the DNA files to open. She’s suspected they might be too big for her system. She turned off the computer, laid down on her bed, and tried to figure what her chances were for keeping her job.

  It seemed certain Rudker would want to fire her. She’d known since Monday when he threatened her. Yet she clung to the idea that she could salvage her job, that Marcy would fight for her. On the surface, Rudker had no grounds for termination, she told herself.

  He hadn’t seen her inside Warner’s office. The papers in her hand could have been anything. She would say she had been distributing the memo she’d written about Warner’s death. Running from Rudker was weird behavior, but so what? It had been a tough day for her, with identifying Warner’s body and all. Firing her after she had experienced such a thing on behalf of the company would make Prolabs look bad.

  Not that Rudker cared.

  Sula got up and watched the eleven o’clock news. She was stunned to see the clips of protesters in Prolabs’ parking lot. They had demonstrated in front of the company while she was searching Warner’s office. She should have been out there making a statement. That was her job. People had probably looked for her. Dereliction of duty was grounds for termination.

  She went to bed at midnight but was unable to sleep. She couldn’t stop thinking about Tate. About how badly she wanted him back in her life, and how badly she might have blown her chances. How could she have been so reckless? Why made her think she could go up against someone like Karl Rudker? Or actually alter the course of a company as big as JB Pharma?

  Sula tossed and turned and mapped out what she would say to people at work the next day. Around two, she got up and took a Xanax, hoping it wouldn’t make her sleep through her alarm.

  Chapter 15

  Friday, April 16th, 7:45 a.m

  Sula pulled into the Prolabs lot and parked her truck in its usual spot. She was struck by how calm and pretty the campus seemed. A blue sky and morning sun bathed the buildings in postcard-perfect light. Yesterday’s events—the trip to the morgue, running from Rudker, protesters in front of the building—seemed surreal now, as if they had all been part of a crazy dream.

  It was no dream, and it wasn’t over.

  Paralyzed with fear, she was unable to get out of the truck. She wanted desperately to walk away and avoid the confrontation she knew was coming. The chance that she could salvage her job was so slim, it hardly seemed worth the humiliation of going back in there. Because the chance existed at all, she had to try. Sula willed herself to open the door and step out. Once she had the momentum going, she kept moving.

  Inside the building, Cliff stood at his usual spot next to the metal detector walk-through. Sula braced herself for the possibility that he would hand her a small box containing her personal items and turn her away. Instead, he greeted her cheerfully. Sula smiled and asked about his family. He said everyone was just dandy. She grabbed her backpack and moved on. She shared the elevator with the company’s vice-president, who made pleasant small talk. So far so good.

  She made a cup of fresh-brewed coffee in the break room as usual. Two sales people came in, greeted her briefly, then went back to their own conversation. Sula couldn’t detect anything quirky or standoffish in their behavior. Coffee in hand, she trudged to her office and sat down to open e-mails. Her watch said 7:58. Her computer clock said 8:05, but it gained time like crazy.

  She needed to go see Marcy—about so many things—but first she had to send out the e-mail she had prepared about Diane Warner’s tragic death. In the correspondence, she promised her co-workers she would follow up with a time and place for the memorial service. Sula hoped Marcy would handle it. The thought of attending a funeral filled her with dread.

  With an image of Warner’s pale face floating in her brain, Sula was already on edge when Marcy appeared at her door with a police officer.

  Because of her experience at the department the day before, Sula assumed, for a moment, that he was there to follow up with Warner’s death. But as soon as the good-looking officer opened his mouth and said, “Sula Moreno?” her heart started hammering like she’d just run up a flight of stairs. Her throat was dry and she couldn’t speak, so she nodded.

  “I’m Officer Hutchison. You’re under arrest for theft of company property.” The young man looked as if it pained him to say it.

  Sula closed her eyes and took a deep breath. This could not be happening. And yet, it was. She locked eyes on the HR director. “Marcy, help me. You know this charge is ludicrous.”

  Marcy looked as if she would cry. “I know it is, Sula, but Rudker filed a complaint. He wants you arrested, and I couldn’t talk him out of it. I tried, believe me, I tried.”

  Sula turned to the officer. “On what basis?”

  “Miss, I have to escort you out of the building now. We can discuss the circumstances at the station.”

  Sula was too upset to argue. There seemed to be no point. She grabbed her purse and sweater and stood. Her legs buckled and she sat back down.

  “Are you all right?” Marcy rushed to comfort her.

  “Not really.” Sula stood again, legs still trembling. “Marcy, I’m sorry about all this. It really is a misunderstanding.”

  “I know. But before you go, I have to ask for the key.”

  Sula pointed to her desktop, where it lay, waiting to be returned. Marcy picked it up and pocketed it. Sula looked at the officer. “You’re not going to cuff me.” She had meant it as question, but it didn’t come out that way.

  “Not if you come willingly.”

  Sula moved toward the door and the officer stepped out of her way. She realized she would probably never set foot in this office again. But she didn’t look back. Nor did she cry. It was only a job, she told herself. As they walked toward the elevator, Officer Hutchison recited her rights. Then they boarded the elevator and exited the building in silence.

  Inside the police department, she was taken to a small windowless room with pale, dirty gray walls and a scarred wooden table. A second cop followed her and Officer Hutchison into the small room. She introduced herself as Officer Whitstone, then the two cops sat across from her and began to ask questions. Sula was glad she had prepared what to say in hopes of salvaging her job. Now it might keep her out of jail.

  “What were you doing in the–” Hutchison looked down at his notes, “the R&D building?”

  “Looking for Steve Peterson. I wanted to tell him about Diane Warner.”

  “What about Warner?”

  “That she was dead. She hadn’t come to work in a few days, and he and I had both been concerned. I wanted to let him know what had happened to her.”

  Whitstone spoke up. “What happened to her?”

  “She was killed. Officer Rice said something about a homeless man.”

  The cops looked at each other. Then Hutchison said, “The body in the park.” Sula didn’t know if he was asking her a question or not. She waited.

  Whitstone put it together. “So the woman whose office you took something from is the same woman who was found dead on the bike path?”

  “Her name is Diane Warner, and I didn’t take any
thing from her office.” Sula silently apologized to her counselor for lying. She sincerely believed Diane Warner would want her to have the disk and to take it to the FDA.

  “Your boss says he saw you leave the office with papers in your hand.”

  “I’m a public relations person. I always have papers in my hand. Notes, press releases, memos. It’s my job.”

  “He says you ran when he saw you.”

  “He scares me. And I’d had a bad day. I had to identify Diane’s body in the morgue, and I was feeling a little skittish.”

  The cops gave each other a quick look. Sula didn’t think they bought her story, but she would stick with it.

  “He says you disappeared after that.” Whitstone’s voice was monotone.

  “It was after four o’clock. I went home.”

  Whitstone leaned forward. “Why would your boss accuse you of theft?”

  “I don’t know. People say he’s vindictive.”

  “What were you doing in Warner’s office?” Hutchison asked abruptly.

  “I wasn’t in her office.”

  “Rudker says he saw you coming out.”

  “Not true. I was passing by. Perhaps he’s reacting to Diane’s death in an odd way too.”

  They were all silent for a moment. Hutchison stood and Whitstone followed suit. “We have to book you into the jail,” he said with a trace of regret. “You’ll probably be arraigned and released in the morning.”

  Sula bit her lip to keep from swearing. This was insane. Rudker must be throwing his clout around. Dread filled her stomach. She told herself one night in jail wouldn’t kill her. She had survived much worse.

  As she followed the officers out, anger replaced the dread. Rudker had made it personal. If he wanted a fight, he would get one. She would send a copy of the disk with Warner’s files to the FDA. She would hire a lawyer and sue the company to get her job back. By having her arrested, he’d shown his hand. He obviously had something to hide and she intended to shine a light on it.