Terri had no idea what this combination of letters and numbers meant, but all at once, the death of Lisa Gomez had new and sinister implications.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Henri Charles gazed out his window at the Laval Cancer Research Center’s campus. Port de Québec lay in the foreground and the St. Lawrence in the distance. He watched the bridge over the marina entry lock open to allow boats to pass into the river.
He’d almost forgotten about the BCG inventory and DNA analyses until Denise Richard called last week.
Denise placed her report on Henri’s desk. “I’ve managed to upset several research labs with all this attention to our BCG. My questions about inventory and the new DNA studies have raised an eyebrow or two. Customers want to know if there’s anything wrong with the cultures.”
“We haven’t found a thing, you know that, Denise. Just say it’s part of our routine quality control program.”
“That’s true, isn’t it?”
“Of course it’s true. Although I can’t give a scientific explanation, I’ve learned to trust my ‘gut’ feelings. Maybe it’s paranoia. Maybe it’s something else. The body has its own wisdom so when I walk down a dark street and feel the hairs on my neck rise, I react first and analyze later.”
A week later, he was staring out the window and daydreaming. This is going to be a good day. His administrative calendar was light and he’d put out all the fires. After his scheduled meeting with Denise, he looked forward to participation in a research seminar that afternoon.
Nothing’s going to ruin this day.
Denise entered with her stack of forms for Henri to review.
The intercom shattered his serenity.
“I have Arthur Page from Scripps Institute on the line.”
“Artie, how are you?”
“You tell me, Henri. What’s going on with your BCG?”
“Nothing we know. Denise Richard ran an inventory and some quality control stuff. That’s it.”
After twenty seconds of silence, Arthur asked, “Are you sitting?”
Henri felt his abdomen tighten. “What’s wrong?”
“We’re not sure. This is what we know. Our studies in mice with type five strain of BCG are going well, but in a small percent of autopsied mice, we’re seeing brain abnormalities.”
“What kind of abnormalities?”
“We’ve seen deposits of abnormal protein in the brains of a few. We think it’s amyloid.”
“Like what we see in Alzheimer patients or what you see in aging?”
“It’s difficult to make the distinction, but it’s also what we see in patients and animals with Mad Cow Disease.”
Henri felt faint.
“Prions? Are they present?” Henri stared at Denise. “God, we need to know if any of our material is contaminated with prions. What about other biologicals used in your studies. Maybe it’s not from our BCG?”
“We don’t know yet,” Arthur Page said. “We’re running the standard tests on everything that came in contact with these animals, including their feed.”
“Have you tried any of the new blood tests? I know they’re not fully proven, but...”
“Yes. The tests show prions in the vaccine.”
“It can’t be the BCG itself,” Henri said. “It must be the material added to the cultures to stimulate its growth.”
“We’re working with mice, Henri and that’s a problem for our research. You don’t have any clinical trials ongoing using that BCG in humans, do you?”
Henri paled. “Only one, thank God. It’s at Cambridge in the UK. They’re treating patients with advanced lung cancer.”
“How many patients?”
“No more than a half dozen.”
“You’ll call them?”
“As soon as I hang up. None of us wants to take chances with human life. You’ll let me know about your results. Trust me, Artie, I’m stopping the shipment of all our BCG until we can insure its purity and safety.”
Henri replaced the handset and again stared at Denise.
“Prions?” she asked.
“Yes. Prions are strange infective proteins without DNA. They cause several diseases in animals and humans. Beside the diseases, what scares us the most is their resistance to destruction by heat, radiation, and even formaldehyde, our most common technique for disinfection. Prion diseases affect the brain. All are untreatable and all are 100 percent fatal.”
When Henri reached Cambridge, he said, “This is Henri Charles from Laval University. I need to talk with Philip Howard at once.”
Howard’s research secretary said, “Doctor is in a meeting. I cannot disturb him.”
“Get him out right now, miss. We may have a dangerous situation on our hands.”
Henri drummed his fingers against the desk top.
“What the hell is it?” Howard asked.
Henri ran through the information he had at hand. “Stop the study now. We can’t take chances.”
“We were going to start ten more patients on the BCG today,” Howard said. “Most patients look at our BCG trial as their last chance. This will devastate them.”
“Not as devastated as if we found them infected with prions or one of them develops the human form of Mad Cow Disease.”
Chapter Thirty
Terri Powell sat in Evan Klack’s tiny office at PAT awaiting his return.
She scanned his bookshelf and saw Mendel’s Dwarfs, Stones from the River, and several technical books on dwarfism including, Short Stature: From Folklore to Fact.
When he returned and closed the door, Terri smiled when on its rear was the Walt Disney poster of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.
When she smiled, Evan pointed at the poster. “Okay, which one?”
“Which one what?”
“Come on, Terri. Which dwarf?”
She looked back and forth between Evan and the poster and placed her index finger against her cheek. “If you push me to decide, it’s got to be Grumpy.”
Evan raised his fist in triumph. “At last, an honest woman.”
Terri laughed. “Have you heard anything from Greg Wincott about our friend Karl Muller?”
“Greg’s in a tough spot. The security measures and Karl’s behavior appall him, but he can’t do anything about them.”
“He runs PAT, doesn’t he?”
“Greg has a good heart, but Kendall runs the show, especially security. They raised the blade of the guillotine on his orphan drug research and made it clear that they’ll drop it if he gets in their way. They promised to deal with Muller, whatever that means.”
“What crap. Next they’ll say that Kendall is going nonprofit.”
“Any news about Lisa’s death?” Evan asked.
“They’re almost positive that it wasn’t a random act. Someone killed her on purpose.”
“Why?”
“Can I trust you, Evan?”
“Don’t insult me. Of course you can. What is it?”
“Did you receive any emails from Lisa in the time immediately before her death?”
“Some routine research information. I can’t think of anything else.”
“I’m positive that someone blocked her emails to you, me, Greg Wincott, and to Richard Kendall at Kendall headquarters in Chicago.”
“If someone blocked them, how do you know?”
As Terri reached into her purse, she looked around the room then brought out the flash drive.
“Whoever killed her took her computer, her files, and erased her emails, but they forgot this.”
“What is it? How did they miss it?”
“You remember that rabbit’s foot on her key chain?”
“Yes.”
“It was hidden inside. It contains everything you two discussed about the BCG studies, the late neurologic abnormalities, and a video clip of the animal behavior. Lisa made it clear that she wanted to keep this in-house, but she was prepared to go to the authorities if necessary.”
“Terri,�
� Evan said. “Let me have the flash drive. It’s too dangerous for you. They won’t stop until they get their hands on it.”
She placed it back in her purse and said, “Let me discuss it with Matt. He’ll know how to deal with it.”
“Be careful. These are killers.”
Karl Muller was still steaming when he returned from Chicago.
They’re not going to screw with me. Not with what I have on them.
He drove home, threw his suitcase on the bed, and headed for PAT.
When he drove up to security, the guard asked, “How was your trip?”
“None of your goddamn business. Just do your job.”
He entered his personal code on the keypad at his door and entered. He reviewed his emails and the latest news on Lisa Gomez’s murder.
Karl turned to the console behind his desk. He pushed a button hidden inside a drawer and the wood panel behind lifted revealing the banks of TV monitors and tape recorders. When Karl got to the tape from the hidden microphones in Evan Klack’s office, he listened intently, then slammed his fist against the table.
We’re fucked, he thought. I’m going to have to deal with this myself.
“I need to talk with you,” Terri said when Matt called that same evening.
“I’m riding with the Emeryville P.D. until eleven tonight. What is it?”
“It’s okay. I’ll wait up.”
When the phone rang at 9 p.m., Terri rushed to answer. “Don’t you dare tell me you’ll be late, Matt. I told you I’m staying up.”
She held the receiver, listening to the sounds of traffic and heavy breathing.
“This isn’t funny,” Terri said.
She shuddered when she heard the electronically distorted voice. “Mind your own business. People who stick their noses in where it doesn’t belong can get hurt. Even those close to them will be in danger.”
“Who is this?”
“For a big shot doctor, that’s a pretty stupid question. I’m your worst nightmare.”
“Go to hell,” she shouted then slammed the phone.
The phone rang again. She stared at it. Could it be Matt or him again?
Terri picked up the phone and again heard the breathing. “Come see me,” she said, “I’ll take care of that breathing problem for you.”
“Abbie, that’s her name, isn’t it. She looks so cute in those overalls and that yellow flowered blouse.”
Terri shuddered, and then flushed. “You come near her and I’ll see you dead.”
“Strange talk from a healer. Take some advice, Doc. Keep out of Lisa’s death and her business. If you don’t, I promise that you’ll be sorry.”
“Goddamn you,” she shouted into the dial tone.
Terri hit star 69. “We’re sorry but the number you dialed is no longer in service.”
She dialed Matt’s cell.
“He called,” she cried when he answered. “I need you to come home.”
“Who called?”
“I don’t know. He used some kind of electronic distortion. He threatened me and Abbie.”
“Lock your door and windows. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Hurry.”
She checked the front door and the windows. When she approached the rear of the house, she stood at the doorway, reached around the threshold and watched her trembling hand flip the light switch.
She remembered something that Mark Twain said: Courage is the mastery of fear, not its absence. Too glib, she thought. The icy winds of fear freeze our imaginations in the stillness of death.
Terri trembled with the screech of tires. Flashing blue and white lights shone through the glass panel at the top of her front door. Footsteps, then pounding on the door, followed.
“Are you okay?” Matt asked, hugging Terri.
“I’m fine, just frightened.”
“I’m moving in, at least until we get that son-of-a-bitch.”
“What about Abbie?”
“I think they’re trying to scare you.”
“They succeeded.”
“We need to report the threats,” Matt said. “It’s serious business these days.”
“Will that help?”
“I don’t know, but we need to do it anyway.” Matt paused. “You drive Abbie to school. I’ll pick her up.”
“I can’t ask you to do that.”
“You’re not asking. I’m doing this for me, and,” he hesitated staring into her eyes, “for us.” Matt paused. “I hope that I’m not moving too fast. I have feelings for you both, paternal toward Abbie, and anything but paternal for you, Terri.”
Terri hugged him. “You’re digging yourself a hole, Mr. Hollis. It might not be that easy to get out.”
“Thank God,” Matt said. He faced her and they kissed.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jennifer Howe’s triple-threat chemotherapy sent her spiraling into the abyss. Only hope manned the ramparts against the deadly triad of side-effects, diminished emotional reserves, and uncontrolled panic. One look into the mirror, her face thin and pale, meant more to Jennifer than knowledge, her physicians’ assurances, and the boundless encouragement of Mickey and their families.
I’m exhausted. I can’t stand another minute of this torture. It’s not for me anymore, it’s for them—I can’t let them down.
The next day was bright. A cool ocean breeze was passing over Parnassus Heights.
Just the kind of day that made you feel great to be alive, Jennifer thought..
Each trip to UC for chemotherapy had become more difficult, especially if she’d achieved some level of comfort. Jennifer knew what the next few hours to a day would bring, and she shuddered with fear.
“How are you feeling this morning?” her nurse asked.
“Pretty good. You’ll fix that soon.”
Jennifer regretted the comment as it left her mouth. “I’m sorry. I never knew it would be so tough.”
“Don’t apologize. You’re doing better than most. Dr. Beckman wants to talk with you before we begin today.”
“What is it?” Jennifer asked, as she felt her pulse increase.
“He’ll be in to see you in a minute.”
Jason walked up to Jennifer carrying her chart. He wheeled a stool before her chair and sat.
“You’re freaking me out, Dr. Beckman. What’s wrong?”
“We have a problem.”
“You mean I have a problem.”
“Don’t do that, Jen. You’re the patient, but we’re in this together. I hope you know that.”
“I’m sorry. I keep having to say I’m sorry to everyone. What is it?”
“It’s the cisplatin. I told you that the metal platinum could damage your kidneys and it has.”
“How much damage? What does it mean?”
“You’ve lost about 50 percent of your kidney function.”
“Fifty percent?”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. People can live normal lives until they lose 90 percent. It’s the trend that bothers me. If we continue to give you this drug, you will lose more function until the kidneys fail entirely, and you’ll require kidney dialysis. We can’t let that happen.”
“What do you do? Reduce the dose? Stop it for a while? Stop it for good?”
“The damaging effect of this drug is related to the total dose you receive. We need to stop it now before it permanently damages your kidneys even more. We can start it again later.”
“What happens to my cancer in the meanwhile?”
“That’s the problem. Platinum is important to your treatment.”
“What if I say to hell with my kidneys? I’d rather be alive on dialysis than dead.”
“If I were 100 percent sure that platinum would guarantee success, I’d go for it. I’m not. We’ll hold off for two or three weeks and check your kidneys and restart the drug if we can.”
“I swear I’d pass out if one day you brought me good news.”
When Jennifer saw the pain in Jason’s eyes, s
he said, “Here I go again. I’m sorry. I know you’re doing your best to help me.”
“Stop the apologies. This is hell, and you’re only human.”
The gray-walled, tiny, Berkeley P.D. interrogation room smelled of stale cigarette smoke and burnt coffee.
Shelly Kahn pulled up the chair across from Muller. “Thank you for coming in, Mr. Muller.”
Karl smiled. “I’m always ready to help law enforcement.”
She pointed to Matt. “You know Matt Hollis?”
“Yes. I’ve had the pleasure. What’s he doing here?”
“Matt’s helping us with the investigation of Lisa Gomez’s death.”
“I thought you worked in the world of make-believe, Hollis.”
“Yes. Every so often, I need to remind myself that reality is stranger and more evil than fiction.”
“How can I help you, lieutenant?”
“You’re chief of security for PAT?”
“Yes.”
“How did you get the job and what were your credentials?” Shelly asked.
“Kendall Pharmaceuticals hired me. I have extensive military experience as an M.P., and in military intelligence.”
“Don’t be modest, Karl,” Matt said as he opened a yellow folder. “I see you have firsthand experience with the military justice system and a fondness for the bottle.”
“What the hell difference does that make to your investigation?”
Matt looked at the pages, many with dark ink obscuring its contents. “Why all the blackouts?”
Muller smirked. “Ask the Army.”
“If you were in law enforcement, Mr. Muller,” Shelly said, “you know that we need to know everything about the people involved.”
“You think I’m involved in Lisa’s death? Maybe I should ask for a lawyer?”
“Do you have something to hide, Karl?” Matt asked.
“Of course not, but I provide security at PAT, a company filled with prima donnas. They don’t understand the company’s need for security and many aren’t that happy with me as an enforcer.”
“What do you know about the death of Lisa Gomez?”
“Nothing.”
“You knew her?”
A Simple Cure Page 14