A Simple Cure

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A Simple Cure Page 5

by Lawrence Gold


  “BCG, Karl. Not BGG.”

  “What’s the big deal about it?”

  “Kendall Laboratories went to a lot of trouble getting that BCG,” Eddie said.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “That’s none of your business, Karl.”

  “Whatever. Anyway, it’s Lisa Gomez.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s a nosy one. She wants to know all about it, especially where it came from.”

  “Well, Eddie, they’re all nosy. It’s part of what makes them good researchers.”

  “I’m just doin’ what you told me.”

  “Just keep an eye on her. I’ll take care of it. And Karl...”

  “What?”

  “Keep up the good work.”

  Mandy Cohen logged into her computer at Genentech Hall and called up her email. Afterward, she checked laboratory receiving for the BCG that was due to arrive. She shook her head in disappointment, and then dialed Jerry Calder. “What are we going to do about obtaining BCG? We have several projects waiting for source material.”

  “I’ll call Henri Charles in Quebec.”

  Jerry Calder picked up the phone and dialed Laval University.

  “Henri, it’s Jerry Calder.”

  “I’m sorry, Jerry. With all that happened, I forgot about your BCG. I’ll get another shipment out to you ASAP.”

  “I’m sorry, but what happened?”

  “You didn’t read about it in the paper?” Out currier, Emile, carrying your BCG drowned in the marina. I’m assuming that your BCG drowned with him, too. The authorities suspect foul play.”

  “Anything new in the investigation?”

  “Emile was having an affair, and you know the temper of the French women scorned. The only problem is she has an alibi.”

  Henri Charles had led a sheltered life growing up in Montreal. He had attended McGill University, graduating with a Ph.D. in Virology and Immunology. Over time, the speed of scientific discovery overwhelmed his energy—who could keep up with all that information, and Henri eventually moved from research to administration.

  His first brush with felony crime wasn’t simply murder. On August 24, 1992 while working at Concordia University in Montreal, Dr. Valery Fabrikant, having been denied tenure, massacred four colleagues in the department of engineering. Time heals, but doesn’t cure the effects of the brutal murder of friends, and now with Emile Gigot gone, Henri again confronted his disquietude.

  Like the previous killings, the murder of Emile Gigot was senseless. Why kill rather than steal? What could have made this strain of BCG so valuable that someone was willing to kill for it? Was it all a tragic mistake?

  “Have we had requests for strains of BCG?” Henri asked his assistant, Denise Richard.

  “Wasn’t that awful with poor Emile Gigot? He was so full of life. It’s hard to believe he’s gone.”

  Henri shook his head in sorrow, and then ran his fingers over his balding scalp.

  Denise pulled out her thick ledger, scanned several pages. “We’d had two dozen or so requests from universities around the world and perhaps twice as many from biotechnical firms. Most of what we had available went to the universities and a few to companies having strong academic relationships.”

  “Did anyone object?”

  “Several university labs complained that we didn’t recognize the value of their research, while the biotech firms accepted our refusal to provide the organism as a matter of course.”

  “I know this will be difficult, Denise, but I’d like an inventory of all biologicals we have on site, refrigerated, frozen or in any other form.”

  “Our labs or all the labs?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s going to take several months and occupy a great deal of my time.”

  “I know. I can bring someone on board to help.”

  Lisa Gomez and Mandy Cohen shared an apartment on Dwight Way in Berkeley’s flatland between the hills and the bay. They met as graduate students, and when Mandy returned from a year of work-study in France, they moved in together.

  Mandy had learned a great deal about French techniques for the study of genes and their application in research.

  “How were their facilities?” Lisa asked as they sipped on an icy Chardonnay before dinner.

  “Incredible. As good as or better than anything we have here. What’s more impressive is the relationship between government, university, and industry; they’re all on the same team rather than competing with each other. How come you never asked me about Frenchmen?”

  Lisa blushed.

  “That’s okay,” Mandy smiled. “They spend more time before the mirror than I do.”

  Lisa returned to more comfortable grounds. “Well, the university has only recently embarked on its first relationships with industry. It has all the charm of an arranged marriage.”

  Mandy frowned. “You should see the non-disclosure document they had me sign in blood before I could work at UC. Even though we’re scientists and friends, I can’t share anything about my work with you—that’s ridiculous.”

  “A few years ago at UC, I signed a two-page agreement,” Lisa said. “At PAT, they live in fear of leaks and overt industrial espionage. Their form is eight pages. We’d best take the university’s and PAT’s admonitions seriously. They have the ability to really screw up your career if they want to.”

  “That’s great. Maybe I should go back to France.”

  “That’s a quick surrender,” Lisa said, “maybe you’ve become too French.

  “Did you get the BCG specimens?” asked Jerry Calder ten days later.

  Mandy picked up the insulated container. “It finally arrived this morning.”

  “I want you to break it down so we can use it in malignant tissue culture cells. Then we’ll subdivide it further by how we manipulate the BCG itself. That should keep you busy for nine months to a year.”

  “What if we see some immediate effect on a specific type of cancer?”

  “That’s what this is all about, Mandy. We’ll move as fast as we can on that and perhaps get into animal studies right away.”

  “I’m excited.”

  “That’s great, but remember, we’re into BCG because we know up front that it has activity against some cancers. You’ll see that I’m sure, but that’s a long way from finding something clinically useful.”

  “Did they ever find out what happened to the original delivery?”

  “No. Not a clue.”

  Chapter Ten

  Matt Hollis had his hands poised above his computer keyboard, staring at the blank page on the huge flat panel display he purchased after the sale of his first book. The hard part was over, only the few final chapters remained. They were in essence a denouement, so he knew what was coming. He planned an ironic twist at the end, a hallmark of his fiction.

  He tried and deleted several lines.

  Some days you have it; some days you don’t.

  Matt didn’t believe in “writer’s block”. He felt that like the variation in athletic performance on any given day, you might rise to the level of a Faulkner or a Hemingway, while on other days, you could barely reach TV soap opera.

  When the phone rang, interrupting his inactivity, he felt relief.

  “Matty,” said his sister, “you must talk with Pop.”

  “And, it’s nice talking with you too, Sis.”

  “I’m sorry. You know me. When something’s on my mind, I can’t rest until I let it out.”

  “What did he do now?”

  “It’s not what he did. It’s what he’s going to do. If he continues to drive, he’s going to hurt himself or someone else.”

  “Let’s go. I’ll meet you at Dad’s and we’ll cut up his license and take away his keys.”

  “No, we can’t do that. It would kill him.”

  Jacob Hollis, their father, would be ninety-two next month and still lived alone, albeit with the assistance of a housekeeper and cook three times a
week. Although at times they thought he might be getting a little senile, he always popped back to true form with his bright sardonic wit and independent mind.

  “I’ll let him take me for a ride Sunday,” Matt said. “He’ll know it’s a test and if he flunks, maybe it’s time to make a stand.”

  “How’s the book?”

  “Coming.”

  “You’re having problems?”

  “Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

  “How’s your love life?”

  “How much detail do you want?”

  “I’ll take whatever you give, but remember, we’ve all read about it in your books.”

  “You believe everything you read?”

  “Only when it comes from you, Matty.”

  “I met someone.”

  “Who is she? What does she look like? What does she do?”

  “You want her blood type and DNA profile too?”

  “You can be a real pain in the ass.”

  “Her name is Terri Powell. She’s a physician and she has an eight-year-old daughter. I helped the girl when she had a bloody nose.”

  “Get to the mother through the daughter. Is that your approach, you creep?”

  “Whatever works,” he laughed. “Whatever works.”

  After he hung up, he continued to stare at the screen, his mind a blank. Matt knew that leaving his subconscious free to roam had its consequences, especially when it turned his thoughts to Ronnie Hart, his former partner. He remembered that evening like it was yesterday...

  Ronnie Hart, Matt’s partner was driving toward the Emeryville Marine to check out a prowler call.

  When they got to the Emeryville City Marina, they walked the fence and checked the gate. Everything appeared to be in order. As they drove away, the radio burst forth: “Delta 5. Domestic disturbance at 126 Stanford Ave, second floor.”

  Matt picked up the microphone. “10-4.”

  “Shit, not them again,” Ronnie said. “Let’s bust that bastard’s ass; this time for good.”

  “Take it easy. This guy’s bad people.”

  “Okay, Mommy.”

  Matt shook his head, and then repeated the address to the dispatcher.

  They drove back over the I-80 Freeway with light, but no siren. When they arrived, the lights were on in the second floor apartment. The front door was not locked, so they entered and climbed the stairs to the second floor landing.

  When a woman’s scream resounded through the door, Ronnie kicked the door in and entered, gun ready. “Police!” he shouted.

  A loud slap and then sobbing came from a lighted room at the end of the hallway. Matt nodded at Ronnie, pointed to the doorway to his left indicating that Ronnie should go that way. Ronnie shook his head, no, and pushed Matt through the door. Matt entered, his gun clenched in both hands.

  The room was dark except for the outline of the door facing the front room. The room smelled of pot and urine.

  Ronnie’s voice reverberated from the lighted room. “Put down your weapon, and let’s talk this out.”

  “Get the fuck out of here. I’m going to kill the bitch.”

  Matt grasped the door handle, and pulled the door slightly inward. The man holding the gun was enormous, tattooed, and in his early twenties. His forehead glistened with sweat below his black doo rag. He held a small automatic pistol that was lost in his huge hand.

  The door hinges creaked as Matt opened it a bit more, and then the man turned and aimed the gun at the door.

  “No,” Ronnie shouted.

  Matt backed away automatically as the man swung his gun towards Ronnie and pulled the trigger.

  Matt broke through the door, and aimed his gun at the man. “Freeze or you’re a dead man.”

  When the man lifted the gun, Matt placed two shots right into the middle of his chest. The man fell and Matt kicked away his gun, and then rushed to Ronnie’s side. Blood gushed from a wound in his right neck just above his Kevlar vest. Ronnie had his fingers over the wound, but bright-red blood pulsated out. Blood oozed from his mouth as he gasped and choked.

  “Tell Ellie that I love her…and the kids…you’ll take care of them Matt…please, Matt, you’ll…”

  Matt keyed his shoulder microphone. “Officer down—officer down. 126 Stanford Ave, second floor.”

  Matt turned back to Ronnie. He lay still. “God no, Matt screamed as he bent to help his partner—his best friend for the last time.

  His squad captain offered, and then insisted that Matt see the police psychiatrist. Matt saw him twice a week for a month. It was helpful, he admitted, and he came to understand his reactions. What hadn’t changed—would never change, was that Ronnie was gone, that he was still alive, and that somehow, it was his fault.

  I have to stop doing that, he thought.

  “It’s like Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder,” he recalled his psychiatrist saying. “Time is the great healer.”

  Some healer, he thought. Time gives us the opportunity to screw things up even worse.

  When Matt noted the screensaver before him, he took a deep breath. His mind returned to Terri Powell, their date tonight, and he smiled.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jennifer Howe sat with her mother, Marlene Kent, in the opulent waiting room of Cosmetic Associates of San Francisco. The practice hadn’t spared a dollar when they built this freestanding plastic surgery mecca with three complete surgical suites, a huge recovery area, and many treatment rooms for outpatient procedures. They had a full array of cosmetic services including Botox, collagen, microdermabrasion, a variety of peels and displays of skin care products that put Nordstrom’s to shame.

  This was Jennifer’s first trip to accompany her mother, who was recovering from a knee replacement and couldn’t drive.

  “When you reach my age, sweetheart, you’ll be lining up for your share of Dr. Baldwin’s magic.”

  “Why do you think I have problems with plastic surgery, Mother?”

  “I can tell. You’re thirty-five. Just wait a few more years when you begin to fear each encounter with the mirror.”

  “I think there’s a big difference between wanting to look better or even younger, and dreading what you see in the mirror. That’s no way to live. Will you be done by two? I have to pick up the kids from school.”

  “No problem.”

  Jennifer and Mickey Howe had two kids, Lizzy, eight, and Brad, ten. They’d been married for eleven years and sometimes she wondered if it would always be this good.

  While Jennifer and Marlene waited, woman after woman, and an occasional man, passed through the waiting room. They politely studied each, trying to guess which part of their anatomy had been or was about to be altered. With breasts, noses, chins and asses, giant or petite, it was easy. With others it was strictly a guessing game.

  After ten minutes, they walked through the plush carpeted corridor decorated with original paintings and photographs, and entered a treatment room.

  “What are you having today, Mrs. Kent?” asked the nubile nurse who looked sixteen.

  If she’s forty, thought Jennifer, I’m signing up.

  “It’s time for more Botox. I wish it would last a little longer.”

  “Doctor will be right in.”

  Richard Baldwin was in his mid forties and looked like an iconic plastic surgeon—well dressed, well groomed, and well heeled. “Hey, Marlene, you’re looking wonderful. I see you brought your granddaughter with you today.”

  Marlene smiled then blushed.

  Jennifer smiled then smirked.

  “This is my daughter, Jennifer.”

  Richard shook Jennifer’s hand, and then made a fifteen second professional assessment.

  She managed a small smile as she brushed back a lock of auburn hair from her forehead.

  Jennifer knew better, but that didn’t keep those demeaning thoughts away: I should have had my hair done, and why did I wear this outfit?

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” he said, and then he turned to Ma
rlene. “What’s on our menu today?”

  “What do you think, Doctor?”

  He turned on the full spectrum Ott-Lite, grasped her face between his manicured fingers, and studied her. “We’ll work with Botox and filler between the brows and on those crow’s feet. If I have any filler left, I’ll get your lips.”

  He prepped the skin with an anesthetic cream, then returned ten minutes later. As Marlene leaned back on the examining table, he carefully injected the precious materials, ounce for ounce, more valuable than gold.

  As they were about to leave, Richard turned to Jennifer. “Can I look at something for a moment?”

  “Of course,” she said, surprised.

  He looked at her neck below her left ear, and said, “I don’t think you have to worry, but I’d keep an eye on that mole.”

  “What’s wrong,” she asked?

  “Nothing. Over the years, I’ve developed a healthy paranoia about moles and cancer. We can’t biopsy them all unless they’re highly suspicious. This one, I’d just watch.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I will.”

  For days afterward, Jennifer studied her mole, fretting over Dr. Baldwin’s comment. Soon, she forgot all about it.

  Four months later, Marlene asked, “Do you want to come with me for my next visit to Dr. Baldwin? We can go shopping after.”

  Marlene’s appointment made Jennifer recall the doctor’s observation. “Yes, Mother. I will.”

  After the appointment, Baldwin looked again at Jennifer’s neck. He grabbed a three-inch magnifying glass and studied carefully. “I think it should come out.”

  “Why?” Jennifer asked, although she knew the answer.

  “You can’t be too careful with moles.”

  “Who can I get to do it?” Jennifer asked.

  “I’ll do it right now.”

  Jennifer began to cry.

  He must have a good reason for wanting it out right away. It’s cancer. It must be cancer.

  “It’s okay, Jenny,” Marlene said. “I’m here. Everything will be all right.”

  “I’m not that suspicious,” Baldwin said, “since most abnormal moles in women are in the lower extremities. Just cautious. I’m sorry to have upset you.”

 

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