Smart, But Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 3)

by Nancy G. West

  We trudged upstairs to Carmody’s class on the second floor. The Registrar’s Office probably assigned him a room close to the parking lot because of his out-of-shape condition. I felt sorry for him, having to routinely lumber up these stairs even in temperate weather.

  We shuffled in and found seats. Carmody stood in front of the class and peered through smeared lenses at his groundlings, looking like his old imperious self. I relaxed. He announced he was Professor Kermit Carmody, Ph.D. and sniffed, causing his nose hairs to disappear. Temporarily. I should have selected a seat farther back.

  He looked at the ceiling, took a deep breath and sighed before he started to lecture. “Welcome to Science of Aging. We’re going to learn how genes affect certain diseases and may, we believe, affect the aging process.”

  A wide smile spread across my face. This was why I came.

  “Since our class will be based on discoveries resulting from the Human Genome Project, the first step is understanding the genome,” he said, pivoting toward me and squinting a warning to remain silent.

  At least he recognized me. I sat straighter and forced down the corners of my mouth to appear serious and dedicated.

  “The genome is the blueprint for an organism written in a code,” Dr. Carmody continued. “This code is called deoxyribonucleic acid, DNA. To keep it simple, DNA is nothing more than a large molecule made up of four smaller molecules known by their initials: A, T, C, and G. These molecules always pair up: A always pairs with T, and C with G. The order of these pairs of molecules, called DNA sequences, creates the code for our genetic makeup. Using the analogy of a ship, the DNA code is the blueprint that determines whether the ship is a pleasure craft, tugboat or ocean liner.”

  Dr. Carmody had a tugboat design and a grouchy personality. But maybe he hadn’t always been that way. I started speculating. Could his lifestyle choices have altered his DNA? In Aspects of Aging, he taught us that diet and exercise were largely responsible for our health. Could his habits have changed his traits, his health and even how fast he aged? I was getting pretty far out, but I wanted to give Dr. Carmody the benefit of the doubt. I didn’t want to believe he was ill. I leaned forward in my chair, eager to hear whatever was coming.

  “DNA segments that carry genetic information are called genes,” he said.

  A young man shot his hand up. “What does DNA look like?”

  “DNA looks like two intertwined strands of a rope. Parts of each strand include the four molecules A, T, C, and G, paired up in various sequence,” he said. “After scientists discover the order of some of these pairs in DNA segments, they share their findings with other scientists, because the complete set of human DNA, called the human genome, has about three billion base pairs.”

  No wonder it could take fifteen years to map the genome.

  Meredith raised her hand. “Where is the DNA?”

  “Every cell in the human body has DNA, except for red blood cells. In the center of each cell are twenty-three pairs of chromosomes with tens of thousands of genes inside them which make up the DNA.”

  Locating specific genes must be like looking for needles in a haystack. How miraculous that humans have genes similar enough to be identified; yet billions of molecules interact to produce unique human beings.

  Dr. Carmody took a deep breath and put his hands against the desk to steady himself. His effort was taking a toll. He plopped in his chair, swiped his hand across his mouth, grabbed a tissue to wipe his perspiring forehead and took several sips of water. We waited to see if he could continue. I was surprised when he smiled.

  “We are very fortunate at UHT,” he said, “to be one of the universities participating in the Human Genome Project. All the universities and labs working together on the project are about halfway through decoding the order of three billion base pairs. The Human Genome Project should be completed by 2005.”

  My mind wandered to the future. That would be eight years from now. By 2005, Sam and I could be happily married. Or I might be a decrepit, lonely hag, wallowing in oblivion. I’d better learn all I could about the genetics of aging.

  “Let’s take a break,” he said with a heavy sigh.

  I hoped after the break he could continue.

  Three

  Meredith and I padded to the hall.

  “He’s really good, isn’t he?” she said between sips of water.

  “Fantastic. I wish I hadn’t disrupted his class last semester. I didn’t mean to. When I don’t understand, I simply have to ask questions until I do.”

  “It’s probably genetic, Aggie.”

  “Probably. Why should he get upset over questions? He undoubtedly knows all the answers.”

  When we filed back into the room, Carmody hadn’t budged. He cleared his throat and gathered himself to resume lecturing.

  “When scientists study aging, they use organisms that don’t live very long. Microscopic roundworms, called C. elegans, have simple body processes, easily manipulated genes, and a lifespan of two to three weeks.”

  I wondered what tiny roundworms had to do with anti-aging.

  Dr. Carmody explained. “Researcher Cynthia Kenyon showed that altering the worms’ daf-2 gene affected their ‘downstream’ genes. This allowed them to live twice as long as roundworms lacking the genetic mutation. The mutated daf-2 gene, they discovered, regulated not only aging, but also affected the worms’ resistance to stress, their metabolism and their development―all factors associated with aging.”

  I was ecstatic. These results were exactly what I wanted to hear. Scientists could eventually apply what they learned about roundworms to search for similar genetic processes in humans.

  Sam and I could have long, healthy lives to enjoy each other, which was good since we were getting a late start. Everyone could live longer, more productive lives. I could be learning about a breakthrough in this very class that would change the course of humanity. My skin prickled with goosebumps.

  Carmody, spent from his effort, spread deeper into his chair and ran a shaky finger down the paper on his desk. “Let’s take this opportunity to learn about our fellow classmates,” he said, as if he needed an excuse to take a longer break.

  I looked around. Our classmates were quite a variety. Tall, skinny professorial types, a middle-aged woman dressed to appear twenty (it wasn’t working), a girl with a skirt awfully short to wear to class, two young men who might be graduate or postgraduate students, and a batch of undergrads dressed in 1990s grunge…their last chance to look cool before they had to don interview garb and mold themselves into the next century.

  Across the classroom, a lean, bespectacled forty-ish man raised his arms, stretched back in his chair and pressed his head into his palms, a satisfied expression on his face. He looked too old to be a student. But then again, so did I. Maybe he was participating with Carmody in the genome project.

  Carmody stopped at a name. “Penelope Farquhar. Why don’t you introduce yourself?” He picked up an Afrin bottle, sprayed his nose and dabbed the cavernous entrance with Kleenex.

  Penelope stood slowly as if to make sure everyone appreciated her importance. Her Rachel haircut, straight and smooth, was a trendy choice for her mid-forties face. I wondered if she watched Friends and reruns of That Girl. A blue denim jacket covered her flowered shirt.

  My t-shirt and warm-up pants weren’t exactly fashionable. I was dressed for after-class, youth-preserving exercise. In case I felt the urge.

  “I write for Modern Maturity,” Penelope announced. “I studied cellular biology, so I try to give readers up-to-date information on staying young.”

  The magazine was published by AARP, the American Association of Retired Persons. The publication’s mission appeared to be buoying up innocent souls who turned fifty before they knew what hit them.

  “So far, my studies make me think that diet and exerci
se can cause people’s genes to change,” Penelope said.

  Maybe my thought about lifestyle being capable of changing genetics wasn’t so far-fetched after all. Penelope lifted her chin and looked around as if inviting challenges. Nobody responded, so she plopped into her chair.

  Carmody, pale and expressionless, gazed into space, then flipped his hand toward the bespectacled man. “Eric,” he said, “tell them who you are.”

  Eric unfolded himself in sections to a height over six feet. He ran his fingers through thinning hair.

  “I’m Eric Lager, Dr. Carmody’s research assistant. I did postdoctoral research at the University of Texas Health Science Center, then came here to work with Dr. Carmody. We hope to contribute to the genome project.”

  I hoped Dr. Carmody could still direct the research.

  “Tell them what we do in the lab, Eric.”

  “We cut pieces of DNA into fragments, take the fragment containing our gene of interest and put it into a plasmid that allows us to make copies. We mutate some of the copied genes. Then we study the normal version of the gene versus the mutated versions.”

  Students frowned, trying to fathom the concept that scientists could actually change genes.

  “We ask ourselves these questions,” Eric said. “Will our modifications cause disease? Can we alter a gene to prevent disease? Can modified DNA delay aging? We try to determine which gene variants or mutations cause disease or deterioration and how we might change those mutations to produce beneficial effects.”

  He continued. “Studying the genetic makeup of all organisms is the purpose of genetic research. Changing somebody’s DNA through gene therapy, even to cure a fatal genetic disease, differs from traditional medical remedies, so it’s frightening to some people. Assuming we could insert altered DNA back into an organism, how would it affect the organism?” He attempted to smile. His lip curled.

  The implications of what Eric said hit me. I jumped up. “Are you saying that after you insert substances into DNA to change genes in the lab, you can insert altered DNA back into people and change their genetic makeup?”

  Eyes snapped toward me as though I’d crashed a cymbal.

  A student to my right leaned toward me and whispered from the corner of his mouth, “That’s sort of what happens in the movie Gattaca.”

  Eric Lager stared at me, his brow furrowed. Carmody stood, raised one arm like a rifle and pointed it straight at me.

  “Don’t imply we’re into witchcraft here. We conduct legitimate scientific inquiry with the betterment of mankind uppermost in our minds!” His face turned red and he wobbled. “What are you doing in here anyway, Amanda…Augusta?”

  It was not the right moment to correct him about my name.

  Meredith popped up, a blond spire. “Aggie didn’t mean to imply anything. She was just trying to clarify the purpose of research done here.”

  Carmody turned redder by the second. Eric grasped his arm to steady him and lowered him into the chair. I felt uneasy, like I was watching my brilliant professor about to detonate.

  “Are you feeling bad again, Professor? Take it easy. Must be your allergies. Sit comfortably for a few minutes. I’ll take over until the end of class.”

  Carmody nodded, his mouth slack. Eric stood in front of Carmody’s desk, obscuring the professor’s face. Carmody’s broad outline bulged from behind the skinny research assistant.

  Eric, trying to appear relaxed, started to loll on the edge of Dr. Carmody’s desk. He stopped when a woman jutted her head inside the classroom door.

  “Did I hear Dr. Carmody shouting?” Her voice was high and strained. “Is something wrong?”

  Four

  Eric straightened to face the formidable woman planted in the doorframe. With her gray shirtdress, gray-striped brunette hair stretched back into a bun, pewter-framed glasses and bulky black tennis shoes, she resembled a concrete pillar with a bobble head. With effort, she could be attractive. She apparently preferred to focus on her intellectual image.

  “No, no, Dr. Bigsby. We’re fine,” Eric Lager explained. “We’re having a lively discussion about DNA.”

  Her gaze flew to Carmody.

  Eric continued, “He stood outside in the heat before class. His allergies are acting up. They’re even worse than mine. He and I are teaching class together.”

  Eric stepped between Carmody and Bigsby and extended his hand toward her. “May I introduce Dr. Hortense Bigsby, chair of the biology department.”

  Hortense looked uncomfortable but tried to smile. “Hello, everyone.” She was already backing into the hall. “Carry on. Carry on.”

  Meredith and I sank into our chairs. I hadn’t intended to start a ruckus. Thank goodness my logical friend defended me.

  “Dr. Carmody said we’d delve deeper into the genetics of aging,” Eric said, checking his watch. “Maybe we should save that for another class.”

  A young woman with spiked hair and lashes heavy with mascara batted her eyes at Eric. Grateful for the distraction, he smiled at her.

  “Brandy, uh, Barbara,” he corrected himself. “Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

  “I’m Barbara Crystal. I work in Dr. Carmody’s lab as assistant to Eric Lager.” Her pixie haircut spiked at intervals. Her dark-rimmed eyes were almost the size of her hoop earrings. A neon yellow t-shirt pasted her body. Below her miniskirt, she wore black opaque tights, slouch socks and white sneakers. How much did she know about Dr. Carmody’s experiments?

  “My parents are professors. Seems like everybody in Boston is either a student or professor. I got my doctorate there under Dr. Carmody, so I decided to move here and help him in the lab. It’s awfully far from Boston. This heat is suffocating, and we’re miles from the initial Genome Project. But Dr. C and Eric have made progress deciphering genetic effects of aging, so who knows?”

  She shrugged, suggesting that nothing important could come from outside the East Coast. She had reluctantly agreed to give the hinterlands a shot.

  “Friends call me Brandy,” she added, then sat back down.

  Other students introduced themselves, but after Brandy, no one was memorable. I was curious about the men who identified themselves as postdoctoral scientists. One, Stanley something, said he was interested in telomeres, whatever those were. The other man, Phillip, was interested in APOE genes linked to Alzheimer’s disease. They must be familiar with Dr. Carmody’s research, but they were vague about how closely they worked with him.

  Eric pointed a bony finger at Meredith. “How about you, Ms. Laughlin? Meredith, is it?”

  She stood. “I’m in the liberal arts graduate program at UHT studying counseling to help young people. With biologists making life-changing discoveries so fast, it will undoubtedly change our counseling perspective.” She smiled and took her seat.

  “Indeed.” Eric turned to me. His smile vanished. “Ms. Mundeen. Agatha?” He’d saved me for last. Carmody leaned forward and glared. I stood, feeling vulnerable and crummy in my t-shirt and warm-up pants.

  “Actually, I go by Aggie. I’m a graduate liberal arts major too, and I’m fascinated by the aging process. I write the newspaper column ‘Stay Young with Aggie.’ My readers want to know about current research that might keep them young. I’m looking for revelations to inspire them.”

  Penelope snapped her head in my direction. Did she think we were in competition for AARP articles?

  “Well, Agatha,” Eric said, “I hope we rise to your expectations.” I watched his lip curl and tried to decide if it was fish or frog-like.

  Dr. Carmody stretched his neck and pinned me with beady eyes. I was afraid he remembered my disrupting his previous class.

  Eric turned toward him. “We’ll delve more into genes and telomeres next week, right, Professor?”

  Carmody nodded, grabbed the Afrin bottle a
nd sprayed his nose. I’d never seen anybody use Afrin so frequently, especially when it didn’t seem to help.

  “Before class ends,” he said with a sniff, “I’ll have Eric pass out sheets with contact numbers for me and class members in case anyone has questions or wants to form study groups. Before Thursday’s class, I want you to study the history of genetics. You’ll see how mystifying diseases used to be. Conditions befell people and their children that were frightening and incomprehensible.”

  Drained from the effort, Dr. Carmody slumped in his chair. “Genetic associations with disease have proven nothing short of amazing.” He grew pale and licked his lips. Watching him loosen his collar and struggle to inhale, I was surprised he’d made it to the end of class.

  He stood unexpectedly, and Eric took his arm. Carmody’s brow popped with sweat. Liver-red coloration rose from his chins. He appeared confused, searching the room for someone he recognized. When his gaze settled back on Eric, he seemed comforted and sat.

  As soon as Meredith and I received our contact sheets, we bolted into the hall.

  “See what I mean?” I whispered. “He barely made it through one lecture.” I was dying to talk to other students to see if they knew what was wrong with our professor.

  “Maybe it’s the heat. Or a temporary bug,” she said.

  “I think it’s more than heat. He loses and regains concentration like there’s something wrong with his brain. Hey, thanks for defending me.”

  “Sure. He almost flew off the handle.” We bounced down the steps.

  “I have to learn to phrase questions so Dr. Carmody doesn’t feel challenged,” I said.

  “Good luck. Feeling awful must make him argumentative.”

  “I guess his allergies are the reason he keeps squirting that spray up his nose. He’d need a fire hose to get something far enough up that schnozzle.” I chuckled and immediately felt guilty. Worrying about him was making me snarky. “What if he can’t tolerate me the whole semester, no matter how diplomatic I manage to be? What if he gets sicker? Becomes irrational?”