But these findings were not what industry—or its companions in government—wanted to hear. The USDA did not appreciate EPA inspectors checking up on its scientists; The USDA argued that its findings on Dimilin were in the open literature, so how could it be blamed if companies used such findings to register the chemical with the EPA?
This reasoning was disingenuous at best. The bottom line was that the Texas lab was a mess. For starters, the poultry manager had been out following a heart attack, which meant—at the very least—that the birds did not get fed regularly. “The state of malnutrition during the critical growth period, from 0–35 days, appears to have, upon re-examination, retarded the birds’ growth,” the report said. Many of the birds were overcrowded in their cages, and essentially starved.14
Laurence Chitlik and Salvatore Biscardi, the EPA investigators who visited the USDA’s chicken lab in Texas, found the studies invalid, since the chickens’ starvation probably diminished the Dimilin effect.15
Their EPA supervisors were also unsettled. The audit revealed “numerous irregularities in laboratory practice which ranged from conditions which unduly stressed the test animals to possible sabotage.”16
Bizarrely, none of this caused a ripple in the companies that had used the results of the chicken study to support EPA applications to sell Dimilin as an “insect growth regulator”—which now contaminates beef, eggs, goat, pork, milk, mushrooms, lamb, sheep, and soybeans.
And on it went. In January 1985, an EPA biologist named Jack McCann got wind of pesticide testing data that a defunct laboratory had abandoned in a room at the Reading, Pennsylvania, airport. The data, which the EPA depended on to determine whether a chemical was safe, had been produced in a lab run by a toxicologist named Gaston E. Cannon. The lab had gone bankrupt before August 1983, and the airport, which had rented space to the Cannon lab, was threatening to clear the room unless it got its rent. American Standard Bioscience, the company that bought Cannon, was not exactly rushing to secure these “raw data” documents.
Between 1973 and 1983, Cannon had done more than a thousand studies in support of sixty-nine pesticides, among them some of the largest-selling, and acutely toxic, sprays used by American farmers. Cannon’s clients included many American, British, Swiss, and French giants in the global chemical industry, including Union Carbide, DuPont, Zoecon, Mobil Chemical, Rohm and Haas, Pennwalt, Mobay, FMC, Chemargo, Thompson-Hayward, American Hoechst, Ciba-Geigy, Rhône-Poulenc, Uniroyal Chemical, and Velsicol. Cannon also served government institutions including the U.S. Forest Service, the U.S. Department of Agriculture, the Colorado Department of Agriculture, and the New York State Experiment Station.
Yet such was the state of affairs between EPA, the chemical industry, and the testing labs serving that industry that in January 1985, data from these studies—without which hugely profitable pesticides would not have been allowed on the market—was about to be thrown into a Pennsylvania dump.
That February, Jack McCann told Adrian Gross and me that in his opinion, the Cannon lab might be a “mini-IBT.” By using that magic acronym, the humble, soft-spoken wildlife biologist expressed his fears about the enormity of what might be revealed in a rigorous investigation of the Cannon lab.17
For years, McCann had had a feeling that something was not right at the Cannon lab. In the early 1970s, he warned other EPA scientists that the science being conducted at that testing facility was extremely poor. In August 1983, Gross and an inspector from the FDA had gone to the Cannon lab to audit an animal study the lab had done some years before for the Pennwalt Corporation. That two-year study had examined the effects on mice of a weed killer, disodium endothall; technicians examined mice tissue to see whether endothall caused cancer in the experimental animals.
Because the inspection of this important study was done at least five years after its execution, Gross and his colleague simply sifted through what was left in the lab in the form of written records or “raw data.” They discovered that the science being practiced in the Cannon lab was atrocious. Lab techs kept five mice in every cage, which caused crowding so bad that some mice ate the others. Several of the mice that survived cannibalism had their ears chewed off.18
Inside the lab, the magnitude and implications of the research problems were beyond anyone’s guess. The Cannon lab was very small, employing at most four scientists and three technicians. Yet for ten years it “tested” numerous industrial chemicals, drugs, pesticides, food additives, and cosmetics. In 1980, for example—in pesticides alone—the Cannon lab agreed to do 86 animal studies for 19 chemical companies and other organizations. And in 1981, Cannon lab started 42 studies for 12 clients. How could a very modest testing facility like the Cannon lab do all that complex and exacting work and do it right?
The government did not see fit to dig into Cannon’s past. In the mid-1980s, the specter of unearthing another IBT was just too much for the shell-shocked bureaucrats of the Reagan EPA. The similarity of the Cannon case with the IBT case probably scared off any EPA investigation, and ultimately, nothing happened. No one went to jail or paid any fines.
In fact, in the days since IBT and Cannon, the system of testing and licensing most pesticides and other chemicals has not changed. For example, in 2012, about 10 million pounds of TCC per year was used to make antibacterial soaps in the United States alone. Even the fraudulent IBT studies that supported the legal use of this chemical showed it to have deleterious testicular effects on rats. Today, scientific studies are raising concerns that TCC is an endocrine disruptor. But TCC’s continued existence more than half a century after the IBT gangsters “tested” it is an indictment of not merely the EPA but also the chemical industry, which continues to defend it.19
Thus, regardless of when the shoddy work took place and whether it was just mistakes or criminal wrongdoing, the EPA knew of problems that might well have allowed dangerous toxins into the market, did nothing to remedy that failure, and was more concerned with protecting the reputation of companies than with exploring a public health threat. The bigger, underlying issue, of course, is the inherent conflict of interest in a situation in which private labs, paid by chemical companies, do testing that the government relies on to protect the public. Even if there is no conscious bad faith, there is inescapably a powerful incentive to deliver results agreeable to the paying customer.
Finding four IBT officials guilty of fraud was too light a remedy, and it came too late. IBT’s transgressions were committed at a time when IBT served not just Monsanto but several other chemical giants. The EPA knew that. An audit of IBT had “uncovered practices which not only undermine the integrity of the final reports upon which [EPA] has based far-reaching regulatory decisions, but also the integrity of the raw data underlying the studies,” Edwin Johnson wrote in a letter to other senior EPA officials. “In addition, evidence is accumulating which suggests prior knowledge of those practices by the sponsor(s) of the [fraudulent spray] studies. I know that you share my deep concern regarding the seriousness of the regulatory ramifications of these recent findings of falsification of data upon which national and international regulatory decisions have been made.”20 But none of these damning implications became part of the government’s strategy in pursuing IBT. The Carter administration decided to let the chemical companies off the hook and focus on IBT alone.
The IBT scandal merely revealed what my EPA colleague David Smithson would call “garbage science.” IBT was not a unique case of scientific fraud––it was emblematic of a dark and deviant scientific culture, a “brave new science” with deep roots throughout agribusiness, the chemical industry, universities, and the government. IBT highlighted why labs are essential to the protection of human health: they are the means by which we evaluate the toxins ending up in the food we eat. So lab integrity is essential, which makes the case of IBT and IBT-like behavior in the chemical industry so abhorrent.
And what about the true science that never got done? In the IBT fraud, nearly half of the animal studi
es testing the potential mutagenic effect of pesticides were tampered with. The EPA and FDA reviewers rightly concluded that those studies were invalid. But the real significance of this classification is that the makers of the pesticides discovered that their pesticides caused gene damage, so they falsified the studies.21
What might we have learned had these studies been conducted (and reported) properly? Hard to say. But between 1976 and 1989, EPA banned or restricted the use of thirty-nine pesticide active ingredients.22 Two criteria for those actions had to do with the possible effects of the pesticides on animal genetics. Sixteen of these very popular agricultural sprays that were either canceled or restricted were tested for mutagenic or teratogenic (deforming) effects, or were shown to have mutagenic or teratogenic effects on experimental animals. Both of these effects are related to genetic damage that, if real, could lead to cancer or other diseases.
Similarly, Parkinson’s disease, a very common degenerative disease of the central nervous system in the United States, has some of its origins in genes affected and poisoned by toxic chemicals. Recent studies show that pesticides, including DDT and DDT-like chemicals, increase the risk for Parkinson’s disease as well as causing Parkinson’s disease. Pesticides damage the neurons, which produce the neurotransmitter dopamine essential for good health.23
We don’t know what, if any, of this research might have been carried out had IBT been a legitimate lab. What we do know is that for more than twenty-five years, IBT and labs like it served as the chemical and pharmaceutical industries’ corrupt enablers, allowing them to sell hazardous substances to the American people. Cigarette companies hid the results of their testing from the federal government. They developed a sophisticated process of deception, presenting reassuring conclusions to the government about their cigarettes even though their own research told a far darker story.
At IBT, Joseph Calandra was determined to do what the cigarette companies did—and much more. As it had in the cigarette industry, scientific dishonesty could protect his industry’s profits. Calandra knew the pesticide and pharmaceutical industries were no less determined to protect their empire than were the executives of cigarette companies. So this former professor and chairman of the biochemistry department of Northwestern University, working closely with executives of chemical companies, developed nearly a perfect scheme to provide the government with test results that would bring their products to the market without any problem and keep them there forever.
The other outcome of the IBT case, of course, was what it revealed about the EPA. Working under the thumb of the corporate political system, the EPA could not and did not recognize or confront IBT’s corruption of American science and business. The agency gave tacit approval to IBT’s perversion of science, and in the process it became complicit in the unethical production of widespread poisons.
The discovery of the IBT crime exposed this practice in a shameful light. Suddenly, the public learned that major companies were involved in the IBT crime—in fact, these companies had brought IBT into being. Strangely, and apparently to avoid deepening its reputation for covering up for chemical companies, the EPA began outsourcing the evaluation of industry studies. The EPA hired consultants to review the data from industry, while EPA scientists, including some one hundred toxicologists, became merely “managers” of that pro-industry process. The unspoken understanding in this outsourcing of government functions has been the near certainty of finding industry data satisfactory—all the time. Labs for hire still dominate the testing of chemicals, and they are as prevalent now as they have ever been. Private companies, not the EPA, hire these labs to test their products. Joseph Calandra’s dream has at last been realized.
Chapter 8
Whistle-blowers and What They’re Up Against
In April 1984, Regine Anderson discovered that a can of Raid Flea Killer had ruptured and begun spewing insecticide under the kitchen sink in her Austin, Texas, home. When she opened the cabinet to investigate, the fumes drifted across the kitchen floor, and as they neared her oven’s pilot light, they burst into flame.
“The resulting explosion and flash fire hurled me out of the kitchen, leaving second-degree burns on both feet and bruises on my arms, as well as singeing my hair,” Ms. Anderson said. “The fire department and paramedics responded. Since the warning on the can said only to store away from open flames and excessive heat (120 degrees F.) and I had followed these precautions, I feel that the can was poorly labeled as to hazards in storage.”1
When Anderson’s complaint reached the ears of the EPA’s Dwight Welch, he was hardly surprised. Welch is a tall, wiry man who wanted to do good science and enforce the law. In 1978, he had discovered that aerosol agents in pesticide spray cans have the potential to explode and to start fires. The sprays have propellant gases—propane, butane, isobutane, and dimethyl ether—that are highly flammable and explosive. Welch complained to his supervisors about that hazard, but for close to a decade he was consistently rebuffed.
Welch was upset. He knew that people like Regine Anderson paid dearly—and sometimes lost their lives—because of the EPA’s negligence. Welch knew that in New York City, for example, explosive and flammable pesticide sprays were infuriating fire department officials, who complained to the EPA’s New York branch about numerous fires and explosions caused by the aerosol pesticide firebombs.2
The EPA’s New York staff urged the EPA senior managers in Arlington, Virginia, to close the loophole that permits the chemical industry to produce and sell—every year—some two billion cans of potentially explosive firebombs without any effective warning to consumers.3
About a year after the fire in Regine Anderson’s home, a pair of New York City fire marshals met with EPA officials in New York. They brought with them pictures “showing the damage caused by a pesticide spray bomb” and explosion reports taken from the Bureau of Fire Investigation files. “The marshals explained that the explosion had been caused by ‘King Spray Roach and Insect Killer #XXI,’ ” an EPA memo noted. “They hastened to add that this brand was not the only ‘Culprit.’ We may be seeing only the ‘tip of the iceberg. To date we have been lucky—no one has been seriously injured or killed by the explosive ingredients in these spray cans. These items, apparently, explode with tremendous force.” The marshals urged that spray cans be labeled flammable or explosive or both.4
Reagan’s top pesticide appointees did nothing. Incensed, Dwight Welch talked to a reporter with Cox newspapers about a pesticide can explosion in North Las Vegas that had lifted the roof off a house. However, soon thereafter, he pleaded with the reporter to kill the story because his supervisor promised she would do something about the regulation of explosive pesticide firebombs.
Of course, Welch was aware that he was in hot water now that his bosses knew he was talking to reporters. Welch, who had been seeking a promotion, was now told he was not “a team player” and that he could kiss his long-awaited promotion good-bye.
Undeterred, Welch typed up a memo to in which he complained bitterly about EPA’s indifference to the explosive issue of exploding pesticide spray bombs. “So far I have only charged bureaucratic inertia and bad manners,” Welch wrote. “I have not filed criminal charges with the I.G. [Inspector General]. I have not brought it to the attention of the [political] appointees. I have not written my Congressman. I have not sought out the media. This would have made a great story for 60 Minutes or 20/20. But I am not seeking publicity. I am trying to work within the program.’’5
For a time, it seemed that Welch had triumphed. He was promoted in 1986. His bosses no doubt hoped he would withdraw to his cubicle and leave them alone, but they also did something about exploding aerosol cans. In June 1987, they ordered the makers of pesticide cans using explosive propellants like propane, butane, isobutene, and dimethyl ether to put a flammability warning on the label of their products.6
Yet even that nominal step toward public safety did not survive the wrath of the lobbyists from the Chemical Special
ties Manufacturers Association. That November, seventeen representatives of the group met in the EPA’s “fishbowl” conference room with a half-dozen EPA staff, including Dwight Welch. Lawyers from DuPont, Dow Chemical, SC Johnson, A. H. Robins, Miles, Lehn & Fink, Sprayway, Zoecon, and MGK apparently so frightened the EPA managers that just a month later, EPA withdrew its short-lived policy on labeling aerosol sprays.
Welch was furious, and he openly denounced EPA’s humiliating retreat. Welch knew that each 12-ounce can of flying insect spray contains 3 ounces of propellant gas—about the same potential energy as 22.5 ounces of nitroglycerine. Indeed, gram for gram, propane is far more powerful than nitroglycerine: one gram of propane creates 12,000 calories of energy at complete combustion; the same amount of nitroglycerine gives off just 1,600 calories of energy. Welch also had evidence that between 1980 and 1987, some twenty people had died in the United States because of these explosive pesticide spray bombs sold so casually throughout the country. Abandoning the spray regulations—not warning consumers of the fire potential of pesticide aerosols—was further evidence of EPA’s “being in bed” with the companies that made the products, Welch wrote to one of the senior EPA officials intimidated by the chemical men. Rather than providing evidence of their products’ safety, the lobbyists simply “tried to bully us into compliance, and have succeeded.”7
Welch found himself persona non grata within his agency. He was transferred from his position as a chemist into a bureaucratic job. During 1989 and 1990, he filed a formal grievance with the U.S. Department of Labor, accusing the EPA of destroying his career. He pointed out the “system” where he worked at the EPA was “rife with cronyism.” The EPA’s decision to remove him from his job as a chemist “had a great detrimental effect not only on my professional life, but my personal life as well. I am quite depressed because of it.” On August 1, 1989, Welch charged the managers of the Pesticide Registration Division with allowing practices by the chemical industry that led to destruction and death. “People continue to be burned and killed by this Division’s lack of responsibility in dealing with the issue,” he said.8
Poison Spring Page 16