A Simple Cure

by Lawrence Gold

  “Evan, this is Terri. Is Lisa there?”

  “No. She’s supposed to be with you this morning.”

  “Has she been okay? Any new problems yesterday?”

  “Just the usual research headaches. Why do you ask?”

  “I talked with her yesterday,” Terri said. “Something was bothering her. Any idea?”

  With a crackling sound on the line, Terri thought, What’s that? Don’t get crazy.

  “No,” Evan said. “Just the usual stuff that comes up when you do research on this level. Did you try her at home?”

  “No, but I will. If you hear anything, Evan, please give me a call.”

  Terri dialed Lisa’s home number. The answering machine picked up. She heard Lisa’s smiling voice. “Trade secrets clearinghouse. Wait for the tone, and then leave your coded message.”

  Kendall labs must love that, Terri thought.

  “Call me, Lisa. I missed you this morning. Hope you’re okay.”

  Later that same afternoon, Jerry Calder ran into Terri’s office. “Did you hear?”

  “Hear what?” Terri said, as her abdomen tightened.

  “Lisa’s dead. They found her this afternoon when neighbors reported her radio on all day.”

  Terri felt faint. She held onto her desk as her eyes welled with tears. “What happened?”

  “The radio said it was a burglary gone bad. They cleared everything out. The police said Lisa must have walked in at the wrong time.”

  Wrong time? Terri thought.

  Terri picked up the phone and dialed Matt. When his machine picked up, she said, “Please Matt, if you’re in, pick up. Please pick up.”

  After ten seconds, she heard his voice. “Terri, what’s wrong?”

  Terri broke down in tears. After a minute, she regained control. “It’s Lisa. She’s dead.”

  “Dead? What are you talking about?”

  “It’s on the news. A burglary or something.”

  “She lived in Berkeley, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, on Dwight way.”

  “Let me make some calls. I’ll get back to you. We’re still on for tonight?”

  “More than ever.”

  Matt dialed the Berkeley police department. “Sergeant Brooks speaking.”

  “Robby, it’s Matt Hollis. Is Shelly Kahn in?”

  “The Matt Hollis?”

  “Give me a break Robby.”

  “Loved your last book. You’re getting better all the time.”

  “Thanks Robby.”

  “I’ll connect you.”

  “Detective Kahn speaking. Can I help you?”

  “Shelly, it’s Matt.”

  “Matt who?”

  “Please, Shelly.”

  “You mean the Matt Hollis who described me in his book as the detective wearing a dress two sizes too small?”

  “Everyone’s got a sense of humor today. I’m calling about Lisa Gomez.”

  “How do you know Lisa Gomez?”

  “Terri Powell, my girlfriend worked with her. She was to meet with Lisa this morning. What the hell happened?”

  “You’re in luck, Matt. This is my case. Come over and I’ll walk you through it.”

  After ducking under the yellow crime scene tape, Matt and Shelly entered Lisa’s apartment. They walked through and when they got to the bedroom, all that remained of Lisa Gomez was her outline on the floor next to her bed.

  Matt studied the floor then picked up Shelly’s notes. “Someone had suffocated her with a pillow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Something’s all wrong here, Shelly. Somebody worked too hard, I think, to make this look like a routine burglary. It’s too pat. I’m not buying it. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s too early, Matt, to think anything. I’ll need to speak with Terri Powell. Can you bring her in?”

  “I’ll bring her in as soon as possible.”

  Don’t wait too long.”

  As Matt started to leave, Shelly said, “Next time you ask a favor from your favorite female detective, show her in your books as fantastic as she is, you know, my narrow waist, my proud bosom, and my pouty lips.”

  Matt laughed. “You mean you want to be a cliché?”

  “Sure, Matt. If it gets me dates.”

  “You’re married. You don’t need dates.”

  “You never know. You never know.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  In Chicago, the day after Lisa Gomez’s murder, Eddie Macy had his legs up on his desk looking out over Lake Michigan when the intercom buzzed. “I have Mr. Hawkins on the line for you.”

  “Hey Woody, what’s up?”

  “Kendall stock. If that keeps up, I have my eye on a new house in Evanston.”

  “You called for a reason?”

  “I received a fax this morning, an item from today’s Oakland Tribune telling of the robbery and murder of Lisa Gomez.”

  “That’s...”

  “Not on the phone,” he interrupted. “Come to my office—now.”

  “I’ll be right up.”

  When Eddie entered Woody’s office, his red-faced boss was pointing a finger at him, then at the chair in front of his desk. “What in hell did you do?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about that Neanderthal, Karl Muller. Did either of you think this thing through?”

  “Wait a minute, boss,” said Eddie standing. “Don’t get simple on me. You were there when we talked about our little problem.”

  “Sit your ass down. This isn’t the jungle or some third world country. You can’t go around killing people...and,” he lowered his voice, “you can’t put sensitive matters in the hands of the likes of Karl Muller.”

  “Can I see the article?”

  Woody handed him the fax. After reading it, he said, “Maybe it was a robbery. These things happen.”

  “Like alien abductions?”

  Eddie remained silent.

  “Send for Muller. I want you to debrief him just like any of our men after a mission. I want the details, and if your friend left us vulnerable, I want you to clean it up the mess. Is that clear?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “What’s the matter, Mommy?” Abbie asked as Terri and Matt remained quiet during dinner, lost in thought.

  “A friend of your mother died today,” Matt said.

  “Who?”

  “Her name was Lisa Gomez,” Terri said. “We worked together. It just makes me sad.”

  “Was she sick?”

  Terri looked at Matt.

  “We don’t want to upset you talking about these things,” Matt said. “She was hurt during a robbery, we think.”

  “I see a lot worse every day on television.”

  Matt looked at Terri.

  “C’mon you guys. You never heard of Law and Order, or CSI, or Criminal Minds. That last one spooks me out.”

  Terri frowned. “I’m not sure it’s a good thing for you to be watching all that violent stuff. It’s not good for you. You’re too young for it.”

  “Get real, Mommy. All the kids watch those programs. It’s all make believe.”

  “Why don’t you get ready for bed. If you’re good, I’ll read you a nighttime story.”

  “Can Matthew read one to me?”

  “Sure.”

  After Abbie left, Matt said, “Which one of my books should I read to her?”

  “You have a censored version, I hope. Meanwhile, why don’t you try a Laura Ingalls book.”

  After Abbie’s eyes closed, Matt returned to the family room. “She’s a great little girl, Terri. You did a fantastic job.”

  “She reminds me of Richard.”

  “I didn’t know him, but by her looks, her gestures, and that smile, she’s your daughter.”

  Matt kissed Terri. “I’m going to make it an early night. I’m meeting with Shelly Kahn early tomorrow morning to work Lisa’s case.”

  “Sleep well,” Terri said. “I won’t.”


  Terri tossed all night. She waited until 8:30 in the morning then called Evan Klack.

  “Can I come over to talk?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “I’ll see you about ten. Tell security to let me in, will you?”

  “See you soon.”

  Terri’s cobblestone driveway was wet with rain as she pulled out. She drove with care down the hills to the Warren Expressway. The commuter traffic approaching the Bay Bridge slowed her progress, and when she reached the Marina exit in Emeryville, she sat for fifteen minutes on the off ramp.

  When she finally arrived at PAT’s security gate, she identified herself. As the guard picked up the phone and dialed, Terri looked at the security camera, feeling a chill as it swept over her as the all-seeing eye swung back and forth.

  Big Brother, she thought.

  The guard placed a visitor sticker on her windshield and gave her a map that marked Evan’s lab.

  “Drive carefully, Miss.”

  Terri parked before the modern three-story white building. She pushed the intercom button for Evan’s lab and heard, “I’ll be right down.”

  Two minutes later, the elevator door pinged open and Evan came to the front door.

  “You guys have more security than Ft. Knox,” she said.

  “Except for the absence of Secret Service, we have more security than the White House.”

  “Follow me,” he said then returned to the elevator.

  She watched the awkward movement of his hips, and then entered the elevator for the third floor.

  When they entered his lab, Terri’s eyes welled when she saw Lisa’s lab coat hanging on a hook. It was hers, she could tell, by the pink breast cancer ribbon and the Free Cuba pin.

  Evan waddled across the lab and took the chair behind his desk.

  “I still can’t believe it,” she said.

  “I’m not the easiest person to get along with,” he said. “Once she got used to me—and I’m not just talking about how I look, we worked great together.”

  “What’s wrong with how you look?” Terri asked, smiling.

  Evan laughed, and then pointed his diminutive finger at her. “Good one. Birds of a feather, you two.”

  “When Lisa called two days ago, she said she had something to show me, a video I think.”

  “This is all highly proprietary material, Terri. I’m not sure what I’m free to disclose.”

  “It’s not proprietary for me if it has anything to do with Project Rosetta.”

  “Rosetta?”

  “You are a lab rat, Evan,” she smiled. “That’s the name you came up with for the Phase I study of your modified BGC in advanced malignant melanoma. Please, don’t withhold anything.”

  “I’m a cliché...the absent-minded professor.” He studied the ceiling for a moment then said, “I know Lisa was unhappy with Kendall Lab, all the security, and their on-site goon, Karl Muller, so she may not have been totally objective when it came to our research findings.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, Evan. Lisa was frank and honest and dedicated to helping patients. If she was concerned, we should be, too.”

  “You’re an experienced researcher, Terri. We try to minimize the variables in animal studies so we can understand and interpret our results, but in the real world mice are still mice. Sometimes we see behaviors and outcomes that we can’t explain. The question is, are they just the variation we see in mice or are they the effects of our treatment? We wind up using statistics to evaluate these findings.”

  “Evan, you’re making me nervous. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Lisa always said I could find twenty words to say the same thing she could say in five.”

  Terri waited.

  “We use statistics to tell us when drugs work, and we use them as well to see if side effects are real, too. Lisa was concerned that certain effects we saw in mice may have been significant. That’s what was on the video. We discussed these findings with David Birch and he thought they were the usual variation we see in a population of mice.”

  “That wasn’t enough for Lisa, was it?”

  “No. She didn’t trust Kendall or David Birch.”

  “Can I see the video?”

  “Lisa had the only copy. If you’ll be patient, I can show you the same thing in the flesh, in live mice.”

  “When?”

  “Our most recent treatment cohort will reach the stage when we saw these abnormalities in a small percent in the next few days.”

  “What abnormalities?”

  “Some mice showed unexplained excitement followed by prolonged sleep, hallucinations, weight loss, and death.”

  “Death?”

  “Some were near their normal life expectancy, so it’s difficult to interpret.”

  “Death?” Terri felt cramping in her abdomen as she started to sweat.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Everything looks great,” said Jason Beckman as Jennifer and Mickey returned to UC six months after completing treatment.

  “It took a while,” Jennifer said, but my strength and energy are back to normal.

  Mickey stared at Jason. “I got the message from our last meeting that we can’t put you on the spot, but it would help us if we had your best guess about Jen’s prognosis.”

  “All my patients have the same question and to tell you the truth, it’s much better for you if I can’t give you a satisfying answer. The only time I’m accurate enough to give a forecast is in patients with advanced disease when we’re talking weeks or months to live.”

  Mickey reddened. “That’s so much crap.”

  “Please, Mickey, don’t,” Jennifer said as she grasped his hand. She turned to Jason. “Excuse us, but living with this disease and the threat of a new tumor or a recurrence isn’t easy.”

  “Don’t apologize. I’ve been treating cancer for many years and I know its frustrations. I share them, believe me. Here’s the truth: Whatever I say to you, good or bad, will be the truth as best I know it. You’ll never have to guess, speculate on my meaning, or check my body language. When I know something definitive, so will you. See you again in six months.”

  At least once a month, sometimes more if they were feeling particularly anxious, Jennifer would stand before the mirror in the glare of the fluorescent lights. She twisted each way, checking her visible parts then yelled, “Come in for a second, honey.”

  When Mickey gave his wolf whistle when he entered, Jennifer said, “Yeah, right. Check me out, will you?”

  “Mon plaisir,” Mickey said as he grasped her shoulders and slowly turned her 360 degrees. When she was again facing him, he pulled her close, grabbed both buttocks and brought her against his erection.

  “Too late, Buddy. I just took my shower and the kids need to get to school.” She smiled, kissed him on the lips. “I’ll write you in tonight.”

  The human mind has the fantastic ability to adapt to just about anything, she thought.

  Days and sometimes weeks passed without a thought about her disease, then the dread returned. When her mother, Marlene handed her Daniel Gilbert’s book, Stumbling on Happiness, she thought, Mom, you must be kidding.

  As Jennifer read the Harvard professor’s book, she nodded at his entertaining and thoughtful way of explaining the complexities of the mind, and then she focused on one of his main themes, how bad we are at imagining the future.

  “That’s our problem,” she said to Mickey referring to the book. “We think we know how we’ll react to the future, but in reality we don’t have any idea, and trying to predict it is just a futile attempt to gain control. That’s why you went after Dr. Beckman.”

  “Okay, I accept my limitations as a crystal ball gazer, but right or wrong, I can’t suppress the thought of losing you. It scares the hell out of me.”

  “Me, too.”

  They returned twice to Richard Baldwin’s plastic surgery office pointing to moles that caught their attention.

  “I’m
not suspicious,” he said, “but with your history, I’m not taking any chances.”

  Both biopsies were normal.

  On the second anniversary of Jennifer’s chemotherapy, she returned to UC after completing a series of blood tests and x-rays.

  When they entered Jason Beckman’s office, Jennifer knew something was wrong. She could feel it in her abdomen.

  When they sat before Jason’s desk, Jennifer said, “Tell me.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Jason said.

  “What is it?” Mickey asked.

  “Your chest x-ray shows an unexplained shadow.”

  “Oh please, Doctor,” Jennifer said. “Don’t use euphemisms with me. It’s melanoma—metastatic melanoma is the phrase you want.”

  “Most likely, yes.”

  “Can you take it out or kill it with radiation?” Mickey asked.

  “Hold on a sec.,” Jason said. “First, we must be sure what it is. That will take a biopsy.”

  Jennifer paled. “Surgery?”

  “No. We can do it with a needle guided CAT scan.”

  “Assume it’s melanoma,” Mickey asked. “Then what?”

  “I don’t have a simple answer to that question. When cancer specialists recommend different approaches for the same problem, it means that nobody’s sure what’s best.”

  “What do you think is best?” Mickey asked .

  “Here’s my problem. We could remove the lung tumor and that would do the trick except if the tumor had spread elsewhere. I don’t want you to go through surgery for nothing.”

  “What’s next?” Jennifer asked.

  “First, the biopsy, then and a high resolution CT scan, and finally, an MRI. If it’s melanoma and we find no evidence of other tumors, then we should go for surgery.”

  The CT scan confirmed two things; the shadow was malignant melanoma, and its location precluded surgery—too many vital structures were involved.

  “What next?” Mickey asked.

  “I’m sorry, Jennifer, but I’m recommending chemotherapy.”

  She looked into his eyes. “Why?”

  “Even if we irradiate the tumor successfully, I’m not willing to bet that all the melanoma is gone. Your tumor has already shown its tendency to spread. If it were me or my wife, I’d want to go the whole way and leave my regrets behind.”