Silent Epidemic (Book 1 - Carol Freeman Series)

by Jill Province

  “Someone took a shot at some of your employees, and Sam is on the phone."  She said this with very little change in her tone.  Charles shot to his feet and glared at his wife for being so indifferent. 

  Charles and Michelle Roman rarely crossed paths these days, much less engaged in conversation.  The only real conversation that Charles could remember had been about divorce.  His wife didn’t like his extracurricular activities.  And even when he was with her, he was never really with her.  Despite all that, Charles had stated adamantly that she would be in for the fight of her life.  He had no intention of dividing up his assets.  Especially since those assets had come from a company that had been in his family for a long time.  At the end of these arguments, Michelle would always give in.  The thought of an ugly battle scared her.  Staying with Charles was the lesser of the evils.  

  Charles grabbed the receiver up off the kitchen counter.  “Sam, what the hell is going on?” 

  “We don’t really know yet," Sam answered, “but you better get down here.  The police need to make a statement to the press and they want you here before they do that.” 

  “I’m on my way," Charles stated and pressed the switch hook for a new dial tone.  He stabbed a few buttons and waited for an answer.  “I need a ride back into the city." 

  When Charles reached the general vicinity of the office, he was stopped by a barricade of flashing lights.  The driver got out to speak to the officer that was waving for them to turn around.  After a few words, the driver got back into the car and proceeded through the barricade.“They’re expecting you, Mr. Roman," the driver explained, as he maneuvered into the front of the building.

  Sam Reynolds spotted him as he walked into the lobby of the building and escorted him into a small conference room.  The room was already occupied and active.  Charles identified the company attorney, Paul Pratt, and briskly crossed the room for an update with Sam on his heels.  “None of this makes any sense,” Pratt began.  “Apparently this young man was connected to your research study.” 

  “Was?" Charles repeated. 

  “Yes, we received word that his gunshot wound was fatal and he died shortly after they transported him to the hospital." 

  “Jesus," Charles said, running a nervous hand through his hair.  “Do we know who the man is…? I mean was?" 

  “They won’t release that information until the family has been contacted," Pratt answered. 

  “Who is Dr. Donovan?" the attorney prodded. 

  Charles looked at his partners in crime and stepped aside.  Here we go! 

  “We have a written statement from a few eye witnesses, who claim that the man was yelling profanities at a Dr. Donovan.  Here," the attorney offered, and handed Sam the written statement.  He read the recap of the witness’s version of what had happened. 

  A man drove up to the front of the parking lot and sped into a handicapped space.  He staggered out of the vehicle, holding a gun, and yelled the following: “You assholes are not going to get away with this.  You can’t quietly stick us under a rug.  You think shuffling us off to Donovan clears you?  The world knows what you’re doing… the world knows!”  Three shots were then fired in the direction of a few employees.  He turned the fourth shot on himself.  He collapse, repeating words, “The world knows.”    

  Sam stared at the statement with dread, as the homicide investigator entered the room. 

  “Okay, I need all unauthorized personnel to vacate the premises."  A few grateful individuals quickly made their escape.  No one wanted to be connected to such a potentially damaging disaster.

  “Now, we need to make some sense of this," the detective began.  “Who is Donovan?” 

  Sam cleared his throat and all eyes turned to him.  “He is treating our study volunteers.  A few were not able to discontinue their medication and they were sent to him for medical attention.” 

  The detective scribbled something in his notes.  “And why do you think this man named him specifically before he died?"  

  “Good question," Sam improvised.  “Some of them had a rougher time than others."  

  The detective nodded and wrote down some additional notes.

  “I assume you are keeping medical records on these people?"  

  Charles Roman, nerves of steel, began to squirm. Fortunately, no one saw him but Sam.  

  “Yes we have records on all the study volunteers," he said, wishing he could hide Charles in the closet. 

  “Fine," the homicide detective concluded.  “I will need this man’s records and a phone number for the good doctor.” 

  “No problem," Sam stated.  “I’ll have the records sent to your office in the morning."  The detective looked up from his notes and raised one eyebrow.  

  “Don’t you have the records here?" he inquired suspiciously. 

  “No, actually," Sam interjected.  “The final check-ins are all being done by Dr. Donovan.”  The detective looked at Sam inquisitively.  “Since a few were having problems, we wanted to provide better medical attention.  So, they are all being seen by the doctor.  The medical records are in his office." 

  “And I’m guessing his office is closed for the day," the detective stated.  

  Sam made a grand gesture of checking his watch. 

  “It’s eight-thirty on a Friday evening," he announced.  “That would be my guess as well." 

  “Okay," the detective said.  “But I will need that file first thing in the morning."  With that, the detective headed towards the door.  “Oh, I almost forgot.  Here’s the file we need.  But please keep it confidential.  We still haven‘t been able to contact the family.”  The detective handed Sam a slip of paper and went out the door followed by two police officers.  Sam looked down and read the name of the deceased gunman.  Who is Terry Sanders?

   

  Carol was frantically dialing Brian’s home number, when she remembered her last encounter with Brian’s wife.  “Josh," she yelled.  “Please take this," indicating the phone receiver, “and ask for Brian."  He gave her a confused look.  “Just do it," she said in a panic.  Josh grabbed the phone just in time to hear a male voice answer the call. 

  “Is this Brian?" he inquired.  Carol stared at him waiting for confirmation.  “Here," Josh said. “He’s obviously not the one."  

  Carol let out a long breath and grabbed the phone.

  “Brian, thank God." 

  “My wife would argue that point," Brian countered, “but gee, thanks.” 

  “Save it, funny guy," Carol said, sitting heavily on the chair by the phone. 

  “Okay, what’s wrong?"  

  “You should watch the news more often."  

  “I can’t,” Brian said.  “It wreaks havoc on my symptoms." 

  “Oh… Sorry," Carol said contritely.  “Then let me just give you the reader’s digest version.”

  Carol gave Brian a recap of what she had seen on the news.  “It isn’t much information, I know…” 

  “And you assumed it was me?" Brian added.  

  Carol didn’t answer him.  She was too busy feeling embarrassment and relief.  

  “I’ll tell you what I’ll do," Brian offered.  “I have some good contacts at the AJC." 

  “The Atlanta Journal Constitution?" Carol asked.  “Wow." 

  “Well, I used to work there," he explained.  “I guess technically, I still do.  I took a leave of absence.  I’ll see if I can find out anything." 

  “Great," Carol said.  “And Brian, promise me that if you get really frustrated with the withdrawal, you’ll call me." 

  “You’ll be the first to know."  

      

  Brian dialed the direct number to the newsroom.  “Jason Sample, please."  

  “Hey, how are you doing?" Jason inquired. 

  “You’d have
to run me over with a train to get a pulse."

  “Well, hurry up and get better.  We miss you coming down here and telling us what to write about."  

  Brian hadn’t exactly wanted to be a writer, but he enjoyed being a news critic. 

  “Well, I can still do that from here," he laughed.  “As a matter of fact…” Brian heard a groan at the other end of the phone.  He continued anyway.  “What do you know about that shooting in front of the Dominex building?"   

  “Not much," Jason answered.  “All we know so far is that a man started yelling something about how they can’t hide their victims under a rug and unloading them on a guy named Donovan wouldn’t save them"

  “Donovan?” Brian repeated incredulously. 

  “He fired three random shots over the heads of some of the employees that were leaving for the day," Jason continued, “and then turned the last one on himself." Brian was quietly trying to make sense of the whole scenario.  “The guy died before they could do anything," Jason added. 

  “The thing that makes no sense here," the newsman offered, “is that the guy purposely missed the employees. The shots went into the second story – way over their heads.  Why go to all that trouble before doing yourself in?" 

  “That’s a good question," Brian agreed.  “I can tell you that this illness turns your brain to mush." 

  “Whoa, wait a minute," Jason cut in.  “This guy was suffering from the same thing you are?" 

  Brian gave his friend a complete rundown of the research study, the problems some of the volunteers were having, and the part Dr. Donovan had played in the whole process.

  “So, more than likely," Jason speculated, “the guy was trying to make a public statement." 

  “Sounds that way to me," Brian agreed, “but he didn’t do a very good job of it." 

  “And then maybe he did," Jason stated.  “Hey, thanks for the info." Jason Sample was suddenly in a hurry.  “I’ll never give you shit about poking your nose in the news room again." 

  “Can I have that in writing?”

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

   

  Charles Roman was not very good at dealing with high stress situations.  And lately, there had been nothing but high stress to deal with.  It was taking its toll. When the business had been self-sufficient, he had been able to maintain a smooth profile.  But now the stakes were higher and, along with that, so were the risks.  His inability to cope with the added load was beginning to take him down. 

  He was currently pacing back and forth in the small conference room, with Sam and attorney Paul Pratt watching him as though they were watching a tennis match.  

  “Can I get you a sedative?" Sam offered.  

  Charles stopped in his tracks, and looked at the two men. 

  “Why the hell aren’t both of you pacing?"  

  “Because as near as I can tell," Sam interjected, “It doesn’t change anything." 

  “So, what are we going to do?" he asked again for the fifth time. 

  “At the moment, I suggest you do nothing," Pratt stated.  Charles sat down heavily in one of the chairs, and said,

  “We have to do something." 

  “If you were guilty of any mismanagement," Pratt continued, “the authorities would expect you to be scrambling right now." 

  “You think they are watching us?" Charles said in alarm. 

  “I know I would be," Pratt answered. 

  “Jeezus," Charles said, standing to pace again. 

  “Oh, for the love of God, will you please sit down," Sam ordered.  

  The CEO obeyed and looked at Sam for an answer.

  “We will wait until later,” Pratt directed.  Then we will contact this doctor and make sure that the medical records have been ‘properly maintained.’  I am guessing that they probably have been.” 

  “So, we might not even have to make any last minute alterations?" Charles asked. 

  “The less we do, the better," Pratt interjected. 

  “Fine, then," Charles conceded. 

  “Okay, I guess we are done here," Sam stated.  “Let’s all go home.  I will have Jeff Edwards handle the contact later."

  Sam watched Charles leave the room on shaky legs.  “That guy is turning out to be our biggest liability," he whispered to Pratt. 

  “Too bad we can’t just fire him," the attorney retorted.  “Call me in the morning.  I’ll make arrangements for a courier to pick up the file and have it delivered to the police station.  We don’t want any grand standing about that file." 

  “Fine by me," Sam said in the middle of a yawn.  “This has been one very long day."  

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

      

  George Donovan was on his way to bed.  Sally had crashed hours ago.  He was just turning off the last light when there was a knock at the door.  “Who in the hell is here at eleven o’clock at night," she said out loud and proceeded to the door.  

  A man and a woman were standing on the other side.  Both looked to be in their early thirties, and both clean cut and unassuming.  The young man was wearing kakis and a golf shirt.  He was clean-shaven, and his blond hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail.  The woman could have been his twin sister.  

  Donovan opened the door.  “Can I help you?" he asked.

  “Are you Doctor Donovan?" the gentleman inquired. 

  “Yes, and these are not my office hours."  

  “Sir, we were hoping to have just a few minutes of your time," the woman said.  

  Donovan eyed the pretty young woman.  Her short denim skirt and cotton tee shirt fit her like a glove.  Donovan was a sucker for pretty girls, even at eleven at night. 

  “What is this about?" the doctor asked suspiciously. 

  “We just wanted to ask you some questions about the shooting," the woman added. 

  “What shooting?" Donovan said, now getting visibly annoyed. 

  “Sir, if we could come in for just a moment,” the woman ventured again, “we would be happy to fill you in."  

  Donovan was now more curious than annoyed. Reluctantly, he stepped aside and motioned for them to come in. 

  “Just keep it down.  My wife is asleep."

  The two reporters sat in the chairs that Donovan pointed to.  They had agreed that the woman would do most of the talking, since the contact was male. 

  “We’re sorry to bother you at such a late hour,” she began.  “My name is Sandra and this is Jason."  The woman reached out her hand, and Donovan shook it. “We are with the Atlanta Journal Constitution," she continued.  “We wanted to ask you what you knew about Terry Sanders." 

  “Why?" Donovan said, not wanting to provide any information until he knew more. 

  “We understand that Terry was a patient of yours," Jason interjected.

  “That’s confidential."  

  “Well, no sir, not anymore," Sandra announced.  The doctor just looked at her with a combination of confusion and anger.  “Let me explain," she continued. 

  The two reporters filled the doctor in on the shooting and the statement made by the eyewitnesses.  Donovan’s eyes grew wider with each new piece of information.  He had not watched the news that night.  When he and Sally arrived back home from dinner with Jeff, she had felt amorous for the first time in a month.  After some great sex, Sally had crashed, and Donovan had relaxed on the couch with a glass of wine and Chopin.  That had been the extent of his evening. He was glad Sally was asleep.  He was going to have to do some serious damage control before morning. 

  “So, can you tell us anything about Terry Sanders?" she tried again. 

  “I told you," Donovan stated, “that is confidential information.” 

  “But as we just explained,” Sandra prodded, “Mr. Sanders’s relationship with you is pretty much public information now."  

>   Donovan was beginning to feel himself being pushed into a corner. 

  “I don’t remember him," the doctor answered finally.  “I have a very busy practice." 

  “Well, he certainly remembered you," Jason interjected. 

  “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Donovan said, standing and moving towards the door.  “It’s late, and I have nothing to tell you." 

  “We didn’t mean to imply anything," Sandra said, attempting to salvage the interview.  “We just wanted to know if you could think of any reason why the man was upset enough to shoot in the general direction of some employees, and then fire on himself.”

  Donovan returned to his seat and pretended to be deep in thought.  “The only thing I can tell you," he offered, “is that Terry Sanders was a study volunteer in last stage research at Dominex Pharmaceuticals.”

  “That would explain his very public statement," Jason added.  His sarcasm was not lost on Sandra, who quickly shifted the attention back to the doctor. 

  “Do you remember anything else about him?" she interjected. 

  “He had difficulty getting off his medication," Donovan improvised.    

  “What do you mean by difficulty?" Sandra prodded. 

  “Some people have a hard time getting off sedatives," Donovan explained.  He was in neutral territory now, and in his teaching mode.  He began to relax.  “The usual withdrawal symptoms are weakness, fatigue, abdominal problems, anxiety, and depression.  Some go through a mild form of withdrawal and the process only lasts a few weeks.”  Sandra had begun taking notes, while the other reporter watched the doctor’s facial expressions.  “Others," Donovan continued, “have a much more difficult time of it." 

  “How so?" Sandra interjected. 

  “Their symptoms are much more intense and they can remain in withdrawal for several years."  

  Both reporters stopped what they were doing and exchanged glances.

  “Let me see if I understand this correctly," Sandra ventured.  “The study at the drug company required these people to go off the medication." 

  “That’s correct," the doctor confirmed. 

  “Aren’t most studies done while the person is taking the medication?" 

  “That is also correct," Donovan answered, “but in this case the FDA required a study of the effect of drug termination."  

  Both reporters nodded.