The Suicide Effect

by L. J. Sellers

  “Román, I’m very busy right now. Please go watch the front desk and do not disturb me again.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.” He sheepishly backed out of the room.

  Felisa shook her head. “Please continue. I’m intrigued by your story.”

  Sula hesitated, ashamed of her night in jail. “Rudker had me arrested. While I was in jail, he broke into my home and took Warner’s disk.”

  The director leaned forward, disbelief evident in her expression. “The CEO of a pharmaceutical company broke into your house and stole a disk that you believe contained clinical trial data for Nexapra?”

  “Actually, it had their intake information and some kind of DNA files. I have no proof that it was Rudker, but the CD disappeared, and he is the only one who would have a reason to think I had it. Who else would break into my house and take only a disk with DNA information?”

  “Nothing else was stolen?”

  “No.”

  The director pushed her hair back with both hands. “This is ajeno.”

  Sula didn’t need a dictionary. “I know. Now I find out Dr. Hernandez is no longer with the clinic.”

  “That was a personal issue. I don’t think it’s related.”

  There was a long silence, both of them mulling over the question: What now?

  Sula spoke up. “There was also a suicide in the Portland arm of the trial. The clinician said he thought the girl was Hispanic. A lot of lives could be at stake. Hispanic lives.”

  Felisa jumped up. “David must have talked with Dr. Warner. If she analyzed the Rios men’s DNA, she got the samples from here.” Her gorgeous face was deeply troubled. She held out her hand. “Please excuse me. I have to check something.”

  The director strode out of the room, dark hair swinging. Sula stood and stretched her legs, checking her watch out of habit: 10:07. Would Felisa bring her a copy of Miguel and Luis’ files? It seemed too good to be true. Yet, even if she did, having the clinical trial records would not be enough. She needed a sample of their DNA, so that someone—maybe at FDA or even a university—could replicate Warner’s work.

  Sula paced the room, glancing at the art on the walls. The outdoor market scenes were colorful, but not particularly skillful or intriguing. She sat at the table and picked up her pen. She hadn’t taken a single note during their conversation. It had gone too quickly and had been too intense. Sula jotted down a few questions she still wanted answers to: 1) Was there any history of suicidal thoughts mentioned during either of the Rios’ intakes? 2) Why was the trial discontinued?

  Felisa was gone for eleven and a half minutes and came back with only a single piece of paper in her hands. Sula tried not to look disappointed.

  The director’s voice had the quiet tone of a conspirator. “Both Miguel and Luis Rios’ paper files are gone. Their blood samples are gone. I think David must have sent the samples to Warner. I have no idea what happened to the paperwork.”

  “Why was the trial discontinued?”

  “We failed to meet our goal for enrollment. And David was having problems at home and asked to take a leave of absence. So Prolabs shut it down.”

  “It wasn’t about the suicides?”

  “I didn’t think so at the time, but I’m starting to wonder.”

  “Did you file adverse drug reaction reports with FDA?”

  “We notified our advisory board and Prolabs.” Felisa sounded a little defensive, but in a moment she continued. “If data from this arm of the trial was never submitted to the Center for Drug Evaluation, then it probably never made it into the MedWatch database.”

  “Can you file an ADR now? I want the FDA to know about the suicides.”

  “Yes, I can and I will. But it’s not enough to get their attention. We need to get new DNA samples.”

  Sula noticed her use of the word we. “You believe me?

  “Do I think Rudker took the disk from your home? Maybe.” Felisa shook her head. “What I do believe is that David Hernandez and Diane Warner both thought there was a genetic vulnerability to Nexapra. If that’s true, as you said, a lot of lives are at stake.”

  “So what now?”

  “Go see their families and ask for a lock of hair or fingernail clippings they might have saved.”

  It seemed like such a long shot. Before Sula could protest, Felisa cut in.

  “Don’t worry. They’ll have something. When you combine Catholicism with Taino superstitions, you get a culture that never lets go of the dead.”

  Sula understood this. Their bodies had been cremated, but she still had things that belonged to each member of her family. Her father’s pocketwatch, a small red and yellow blanket her mother had kept over her legs when she watched TV, and her sister’s brown wool sweater that still smelled like the lilac-scented shampoo Calix always used.

  “How do I find their families if the files are gone?”

  Felisa held up the paper in her hand. “Their names and addresses were still in our database of initial call-ins.”

  “Will you go with me?”

  “I can’t. And you can’t tell them I gave you the information. It’s confidential and I could lose my license.”

  “What if they won’t talk to me? What if they don’t trust me?”

  “If you tell them you’re trying to stop Nexapra, they’ll help you. Both families have come here to vent their anger about the deaths. They blame the drug.”

  Sula’s stomach knotted up. She knew she had to do this, but it intimidated her. “What if they don’t speak English? What if I can’t find them?”

  Felisa dismissed her fears with a small wave of her hand. “Román will take you. He’ll interpret if he has to, but most people here speak some English.”

  Sula sighed with relief. “Thank you for helping me.”

  Felisa squeezed her arm. “Thank you for coming all this way to find the truth. There are not many who would get so involved.” The director gave her a quizzical look. “Why is this so important to you?”

  “My father committed suicide.” That simple statement didn’t even come close to describing the horror of what really happened that day, but it was all Felisa needed to know. “I couldn’t bear to do nothing and let others make that same tragic mistake.”

  The director escorted her out to the front lobby. Her young assistant chatted happily on the phone. Felisa walked up behind him and touched his shoulder. “Román.”

  He jumped, mumbled something, and hung up. “Yes?”

  “I need you to drive Ms. Moreno to these two addresses.” She handed him the paper. “Wait in the car unless she asks you to interpret for her.”

  Román glanced at the addresses and moaned. “One of these is in Bayamon. It’ll take half the day.”

  Felisa’s tone was patient, but firm, like a parent. “I’ll give you gas money. You get paid by the hour, so it makes no difference whether you sit on your ass here or in the car.” She smiled to take the sting out of her words.

  “What about lunch money?”

  “You test my patience.”

  Felisa retreated into a back office and returned with a twenty. “Drive nicely.” She turned to Sula. “Good luck.”

  Román scooted across the waiting area and held the door open. Sula stepped out into the bright sunshine. After the air-conditioned office, it seemed quite warm.

  “This way.” Román headed toward the corner and turned left. A parking lot behind the building contained his 1985 white Volkswagen bug. He grinned and opened the passenger door for her.

  After they were both buckled up, he turned to her and said. “I’m Román Batista.”

  “Sula Moreno. Thanks for driving me.”

  “No problem. I like to get out of the office.”

  “The name Batista, wasn’t he a famous artist?”

  Román pulled out into the street with a squeal. Sula braced herself.

  “He was a sculpturist.”

  “Are you related to him?”

  “I wish. I’d love to be a
n artist.”

  Sula liked his accent. It sounded more African than Spanish. “What’s stopping you?”

  “A wife and two kids.”

  The island was more mountainous and the vegetation was scrubbier and drier than Sula had expected. She’d thought it would be more lush and tropical, like Hawaii, which she’d never been to but had seen in plenty of photos and movies. Yet the countryside here was green and beautiful in its own way, and the sky was a perfect shade of blue.

  Sula tried to forget, for a moment, why she was here and soaked in the scenery like a tourist. Román occasionally played the part of tour guide, pointing out things of interest like two mountain peaks that looked like breasts, which the locals called, “Mt. Pechos.”

  Many of the homes that dotted the green hillsides were large and new with pink-painted stucco and red tile roofs. Mixed in were dilapidated shacks surrounded by broken down washing machines, car parts, and smaller shacks. In one yard, it looked as if the occupants were digging up the grass to bury their garbage. Sula wondered about the water supply. They were clearly outside the city limits. Were those people drinking from a well on their property?

  After thirty minutes or so, they turned off the well-maintained four-lane highway onto a narrow two-lane road. They were headed toward Bayamon to see Miguel Rios’ widow. Here, the houses were more tightly clustered and many had chickens in the front yard. After a few miles, Román pulled the paper Felisa had given him out of his shirt pocket.

  “We’re looking for 4940. See if you can spot an address.”

  She didn’t see numerals near any of the front doors so she tried to eyeball the mailboxes, but they were moving too fast. Suddenly Román slammed his breaks and shouted in Spanish. Sula looked up to see a black-and-white goat in the road. While the car was stopped, she took the opportunity to read a mail box.

  “This is 4752, so we must be close.”

  Román grunted and took off. “Hard to say.”

  Two minutes later, he made a sudden turn down a long dirt driveway. They passed the small home near the road and bumped their way back to a larger home, a pale blue two-story with a long balcony wrapping around the second floor. A boy of around five played with a dog in the front yard. He looked up and waved as they stopped in front of the carport.

  Román hopped out and spoke to the boy in Spanish. Sula thought she heard the word for mother. The boy grinned and ran inside, using both hands to push open the heavy wooden door. Sula reluctantly stepped out of the Volkswagen, her heart suddenly pounding with anxiety. A warm breeze played on her skin and instantly soothed her.

  A heavy-set woman in her late forties came out into the yard. Her black hair was streaked with grey and pulled back into a short ponytail. She wore cutoff jeans, a white man’s t-shirt, and worn out sandals.

  “Hola,” Román called out cheerfully. He obviously had no intention of sitting in the car as Felisa had directed.

  “Hola.” The woman glanced at Sula and raised an eyebrow.

  “Are you Lucia Rios?” Román asked.

  “Si.” Now she looked skeptical.

  “We’re from the Fernández Juncos Clinica.”

  Her face closed up. “Why do you come here?”

  Román turned to Sula. It was her turn. “I’m Sula Moreno. I used to work for Prolabs. I want to find out what happened to your husband Miguel.”

  “He killed himself. You know that already.” Her English was quite good.

  “I think the drug he was taking in the trial may have helped cause his death, but I can’t prove it without your help. Can I ask you some questions?”

  Lucia hesitated for a full minute. Finally she shrugged. “Come in.” The widow went back through the heavy door and held it open for Sula. She looked back to see if Román was coming. He waved and leaned against the hood of his car. She was on her own.

  Lucia led her to the dining room table. Sula found herself staring at the walls, which were painted in varying shades of burnt orange. One wall was lined with family photos, another had a large painting of Jesus on the cross. Through an open window, she could see plantains growing on a tree in the back yard. She vowed to come back to the island some day when she had time to explore.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” She was over her caffeine limit, but Sula wanted to be polite.

  She watched Lucia pour from a thermos, then add some kind of syrup and maybe cream. She wasn’t fond of sweet coffee, but she would be open-minded. Lucia brought the beverages in heavy white mugs, then sat across from her.

  “If you work for Prolabs, why do you want to prove the drug is bad? It’s called Nexapra, is that right?”

  “Yes. That’s right.” The way Lucia said it gave the word a whole new sound. “I don’t work for the company anymore. I’m here on my own. I don’t think Nexapra is bad for everybody, just some people who share a genetic mutation.”

  “Mutation?” Lucia frowned. “You’re saying something was wrong with my Miguel?”

  “Oh no. I just mean he had a certain genetic characteristic that made him react badly to the drug.” Sula pulled her recorder out of her big shoulder bag. “I would like to tape parts of our interview, as documentation. Is that all right?”

  Lucia shrugged. Sula took a sip of the coffee. It was surprisingly good, not too sweet, but with a peculiar flavor she didn’t recognize. She turned on the recorder and pushed it to the middle of the table. “Please state your name and your relationship to the deceased, Miguel Rios.”

  Lucia leaned forward. “I am Lucia Maria Sanchez Rios. Miguel Rios was my husband of twenty-three years.”

  “Before taking Nexapra, did Miguel ever talk about suicide? Or attempt to commit suicide?”

  “Never.” Lucia shook her head emphatically. “He loved his family. I know he was depressed and life was hard for him sometimes, but he never wanted to die.”

  “Did he receive any counseling for his depression?”

  “He went to a special doctor.” She tapped her head. “What’s the word?”

  “Psychiatrist.”

  “Yes. For a while, when the kids were young. The doctor gave him Prozac. It made Miguel feel better, so he stopped going.”

  “What year was that?”

  “1990.”

  “Was he still taking Prozac before he entered the Nexapra trial?”

  “No. He switched drugs many times. I think he was taking Zoloft before joining the study.”

  “Why did he enter the trial?”

  “The Zoloft wasn’t so good any more. Dr. Hernandez said the new drug was very good.”

  “Was he more depressed than usual?”

  “A little, but he had been like that many times before. He always tried to get better. That’s why he entered the study. He never talked about suicide.” Lucia’s eyes started to get watery. Sula felt bad for dwelling on such a painful subject.

  “Did you notice a change in his behavior after he started taking the Nexapra?”

  “Right away. At first, he had more energy. He was more like his old self.” Lucia’s dark eyes caught Sula’s and held them. She was trying to say something without saying it. Was she talking about sex?

  “Then what?”

  “Then he got irritable like he does sometimes when he drinks too much coffee.” She lifted her cup for emphasis. “He stayed that way for weeks. I asked him what was wrong. He didn’t know. I asked him if thought it was the new drug. He didn’t know.” She paused and took a long slug of coffee.

  “Then one Sunday, I came home from the market and he was dead on the floor of our bedroom. Part of his head was blown off.” Tears filled her eyes. “It tore my heart in a way that will never heal.”

  Sula knew. “I’m very sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry to put you through this. I won’t take up much more of your time.” She took another sip of coffee to be polite. “Do you have something that has Miguel’s DNA?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A lock of his h
air, or a toothbrush. Something like that?”

  Lucia gave her an odd look. “This will help you find out if the drug made him kill himself?”

  “Yes.”

  Lucia shrugged again. “Okay.”

  Sula clicked off the recorder as Lucia padded down the hallway. In a minute she came back with a small wooden box inlaid with colored glass. Lucia set the box on the table and opened it. Against red velour padding lay a thick lock of dark curly hair.

  “I only need part of it. Do you have a Ziplock baggie?”

  Miguel’s widow rummaged through a kitchen drawer and came back with a good-sized freezer bag with a sealing mechanism. “This is okay?”

  “It’s fine. How about some masking tape and a pen?”

  Another longer trip to the kitchen produced both.

  “Please write your husband’s name on a piece of tape and stick it on the bag, then transfer some of the hair to the bag and seal it. I’ll turn on the recorder, and I want you to say what you’re doing as you do it.”

  Lucia did as she’d been asked and tried not to smile at the silliness of it. Sula shut off the recorder and put the hair package into her shoulder bag. She hoped she didn’t get searched on her flights home.

  “Would you like me to contact you later and let you know what I found out?”

  “Please. It would be nice to know.”

  Lucia wrote down her phone number and address on Sula’s yellow tablet.

  “Thank you. Do you know Luis’ wife?”

  “Si. Are you going to see her?”

  “We’re going there next. Do you think she’ll talk to me?”

  “I don’t know. She’s moody. Marta’s at work now and doesn’t get off until three. I’ll call her and let her know you’re coming, so she’ll go straight home.” Lucia made a face. “Sometimes she stops at the taberna.”

  Sula wandered into the living room while Lucia made her call. The conversation was in Spanish, and although she didn’t understand the words, she could tell it became intense at one point. She stared at the patterns in a wall tapestry and worried that Luis’ widow didn’t want to cooperate. One set of DNA wouldn’t do any good. The FDA needed a pattern to show the link between the mutation and the behavior. She hoped the agency’s researchers would get samples from the young woman in the Portland trial who killed herself, the one named James who looked Hispanic.