HD66: Search for a cure or a killer?

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HD66: Search for a cure or a killer? Page 5

by Babs Carryer


  Then there was “the Deal.” With the millions of dollars from NeuroGenex, we could conduct the final clinical trial for HD66. A Phase III clinical trial is enormous in scope. Jim had patiently explained the clinical trial process to me. “Phase I trials are in humans. But healthy subjects. Big step: first in man.” I had nodded dutifully. “Phase II is the first time the drug is used in patients.”

  “In those that suffer from HD,” I added, thinking of my secret.

  He looked sharply at me, “Yes, right. A Phase II trial continues to study safety with a higher volume of subjects over a longer period of time. It’s also a chance to look at efficacy – does the drug work in humans? Phase II is often divided into A and B phases, like we did. Quixotic’s Phase IIA trial was in 80 patients. Once we confirmed the hypothesis – that our drug appears to be safe AND to actually work – we moved to Phase IIB. That study was for approximately 180 subjects where we sought the optimum dose at which the drug shows efficacy with minimal side-effects.”

  “Meaning that we can reverse HD,” I stated, trying not to sound hopeful. “That’s why we need to raise capital, right?”

  “Yep, clinical trials are expensive.” Jim was patient with me. No question was too dumb for him.

  With the NeuroGenex deal, the end was in sight. We’d get HD66 to market. I needed it to happen.

  …….

  I hear voices, and a few minutes later I step into the conference room. The team is there. Usually trim, immaculate, Matt looks like he hasn’t showered or shaved in days. His hair is sticking up and more salt than pepper. Gigi is in black jeans, top and tennis shoes. Now that’s all she wears. I had never seen her in anything casual until the morning of Errol’s death. Where was the pound of jewelry? The heavy makeup? She looks forlorn, standing in the corner. A new standard.

  Stanley Gursky, our lawyer, is there. In spite of the hour, he looks crisp in ironed jeans and a button down shirt. He gives me a crooked smile and a nod. He takes his jacket off and hangs it carefully on the back of a chair, smoothing the coat with his long fingers. He sits and crosses his long legs. I remember cheering Stan on last year during the Pittsburgh Marathon at the corner of Bryant and Highland. Errol had hosted a bunch of us afterwards at his lovely house on North Sheridan. Amy and the kids were there. We drank retsina. I remember Matt gagging as Errol explained that the bitter tasting wine was made from pine resin.

  “You mean like turpentine?” Matt choked.

  I laughed and sipped. “I like it.”

  Errol complimented me, “You’re all right, beautiful.”

  Amy laughed too. “You are, Brie,” she told me as I left, a bit tipsy, later that afternoon. “Beautiful. I’m glad you’re at Quixotic.” She waved towards her husband, “He needs you. They need you,” she added, nodding towards the drunk Quixoticers, lolling about in her living room.

  I wonder if she knew how often Errol calls me. He told me I would understand, that I would carry on his work. What was he talking about? I was interested in the science, but I knew that it only mattered if it got to the market. Is that the reason he picked me? Because I know that the only way this works is if great inventions move from the benchtop to the bedside? I won’t let you down.

  “Sustenance, my friends,” stalwart Jim announces as he enters the conference room. In a suit, he looks like business as usual. He sets down a tray of coffee and bagels. I need the coffee for warmth on this cold March day. As I hold my cup, I hope that it gives me courage.

  “Amy is going to the police,” Matt begins. “She’s talked to all of you. You’ve also seen the autopsy report? We have to take this seriously. And, as you suspect, there could be – excuse the Hollywood term – foul play potentially here. We can’t dismiss that possibility. Fuck.”

  Jim takes over. “Of course there is no evidence, no clear anything. It’s just Amy’s conviction …” Jim looks down. The hush is deafening. “Of course Amy believes it’s not suicide, but in this room, amongst ourselves, I don’t think that it can be ruled out. We have to be open to anything, to all possibilities. This will be difficult for us, for Quixotic. To get through this unscathed.” What does he mean?

  Matt looks like he is having a heart attack. Gigi’s head is on the table. Stan looks at me. Jim takes a bite of a bagel, chewing slowly and deliberately. When he has swallowed, he continues, “The police need our help and cooperation. We will all be questioned. As chairman of the board, I ask you to be completely transparent. I have assured them that we will cooperate – no matter what the outcome.” Does he suspect someone? One of us?

  There’s a long pause. Jim sips his coffee. Gigi doesn’t drink from her cup, but she holds it tightly against her chest. “Come on, say it,” she pleads. Matt looks at her with steely eyes.

  “OK. When the police start poking around, it could get weird around here. Be ready.” Jim frowns at Matt who continues, “I think that officially we must adopt the attitude that none of us will be above suspicion.” He looks at Gigi and Jim. “Even Errol. We don’t know what happened, but the investigation may turn up surprises.”

  I’m on a merry-go-round, and I wish someone would turn it off. My head is spinning. My coffee slops on the table as I bang my cup down unsteadily.

  Jim takes a slow breath. “Along with all of the stress of operating a startup and the usual challenges that we face, this will add a new and incredibly painful dimension. Plus the cancellation of our deal with NeuroGenex, our lead scientist dead, all of us under scrutiny, well, that’s a tough one for any venture. We face losing the confidence of our investors, our partners – us.” He picks up a half bagel and spreads blueberry-swirl cream cheese onto it. Imagine the blog post Jim will write after this. A NewVenturist Startup Mystery?

  With a frown, Matt assumes command again, “I’m calling an all-company meeting for tomorrow. I’ll let everyone know that there will be an investigation.” He looks at me. The lights are harsh on his cold blue eyes. “Brie, make sure that everyone is there. I don’t want this to get out, that there is an investigation, that anything is suspicious. Nothing gets out, OK. And, I mean nothing. Everyone will be questioned. There’ll be spill-over to our investors. The press will be all over this. As if the NGX fiasco didn’t already give them enough gossip. Fuck. We have to preserve what we can. Otherwise, we can just kiss this all goodbye.”

  I look at Matt. What is he talking about? He can’t give up. None of us can. OK, we’re all potential suspects. Not me. I need to find out who. That will lead me to what Errol left for me.

  Matt brings me back to the moment. “Fuck. None of us knows what this means. None of us have been involved in a fucking murder before.”

  There, he said it. The word. The unlawful killing of a human being. I read in the “Post Gazette” that Pittsburgh’s murder rate last year was down to something like 44. Was Errol one of the statistics for this year? I imagine only a very few occur on any of the Pittsburgh rivers. Meaning Errol is a standout. That’s a terrible thing to think. It must be shock – our collective unconscious gone awry.

  Chapter 8

  March 13

  Sure enough, we get a visit the next morning from a detective. I notice the car parallel parking as I gaze out of my window on Broad Street. I see a guy in a suit, the detective, I guess, looking out of place and official. He has an unmarked car and pays at the parking station. Do they have to do that, pay to park? Just like us? I guess he hasn’t downloaded the parking app yet. Matt is waiting for him when he steps off the elevator into our waiting area. He waves me over impatiently and introduces me.

  “Pleased to meet you; I’m Brie Prince, marketing and media manager.”

  “Detective Straler Henrik.”

  Wow, that’s a name I won’t forget. Detective Henrik is tall, about 6’2” or thereabouts, thin, and he’s young. Maybe just a few years older than me? And cute. He has a bright, wide smile as he looks at me. I detected a slight accent as he introduced himself. German?

  He gets a serious look on his face, �
��I guess you know why I am here. My superior, Senior Detective Small, Jennifer Small, couldn’t be here, but I am.” He pauses. “Here, that is.” He pauses again. “To investigate.” Another long pause. He’s definitely German now I hear the accent clearly. He looks it, with ash blond hair and piercing, cerulean blue eyes.

  Matt can’t contain himself. “Out with it, boy, I mean, detective.” He gives his most charming CEO smile to the detective.

  “I have been sent by headquarters;,” the detective looks at me, “to investigate a possible non-natural death in the case of Dr. Errol Pyrosolakiss,” he states, mispronouncing the name.

  “Pyrovolakis,” I correct gently, and the detective graces me with another big smile. I feel butterflies in my stomach. He is too cute for this kind of work. His ash blond hair is cut close with a cowlick at the front. I see Gigi, Jim, and Stan approach.

  As the detective greets the others, Matt whispers, “They’re not taking this seriously.”

  Detective Henrik glances back at us with a smile and one raised eyebrow. “Um,” can we all meet somewhere?” He looks around anxiously.

  Matt nods to me. “Right this way,” I answer.

  Once in the conference room, we sit down, but Detective Henrik stays standing, at the head of the table, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. I see that his boots are scuffed. He might not have a girlfriend. No ring either. Shoot, stop that!

  Detective Henrik clears his throat. Jim pops a question, “Detective, would you like some coffee as we begin, or some snacks?”

  He smiles my way, “I’d love coffee.”

  Jim nods, “OK, be right back.” I can see that Detective Henrik is surprised that the senior guy gets up to get him coffee. He probably has no idea what it’s like in a startup. I don’t fetch coffee. Here, everyone does anything and everything; there’s no ego involved. That’s how it is.

  Jim comes back in with coffee on a tray. The detective takes his and grants Jim a white-toothed smile. He gets the ball rolling, “Soooo, you all know why I am here. My superior, Detective Small, doesn’t think this incident is anything but an accident, classification A, a health-related accident. We know that it’s unlikely to have been a heart attack, but it’s possible. There’s nothing in the autopsy to say that this is anything but the body gone awry. There’s no evidence one way or another.” We all look at him. “But, as you must know, the wife, Mrs…” he glances my way and smiles. Flutters again. “Mrs. Pyrovolakis is convinced otherwise. It’s a difficult situation, here, where you have no clear indication, no evidence, either way. My job is to investigate, to rule out the S, you know Suicide, or to solve the case assuming it’s an H, Homicide.” Matt taps his foot impatiently. Jim sips his coffee. Gigi glares at the detective like she is ready to snap.

  “As you know, Amy went to the medical examiner, Dr. Victor Williams, who has agreed to take on the case. Which is why I am here. I’m here to investigate.”

  “Just to get things clear,” Matt butts in, “Have you done anything like this before? A murder, suicide, you know this kind of case?”

  The detective has pale skin, and I can see the rose blush rise from his collar and flood his face. “Well, actually, no. This is my first. Alone that is. I’ve been with my superior, Senior Detective Small, on some cases…”

  “That’s OK, detective,” Jim interrupts. “We’re here at your disposal. More than anything, we want to get to the bottom of this. We want to know. Errol was our friend.” Gigi blows her nose.

  “Thank you,” the detective responds. “I appreciate your willingness to help.” He turns to look at each one of us. “I need your cooperation. All of you. I would like to talk to each one of you, and to the rest of your crew, individually.” He pauses. “I must ask that you not discuss these interviews with each other or anyone else.” The detective looks older in his seriousness. “Your cooperation is vital. I am sure that you realize how important it is to discover how – and why – he died. And we will discover that, I promise.” His clear blue eyes pan in a circle, penetrating all of us in turn. He may be new at this, but he’s good.

  “Yes,” Jim says quietly. “We’ll do whatever you ask. Why don’t you start with Brie here, and then we’ll figure out the order for the rest of us and others in the company?”

  The detective gives a small smile and nods, “That would be great. Thank you very much.” He turns to me.

  Matt stands up. “There’s one more thing. I know that you want us to keep all of this internal. But, we need to talk to our people. This is a business. We’re vulnerable. Any whiff of panic will send our investors down a bad path for us. We have to manage this investigation with you. To make sure that the message is right. We need them to hear it from us, not from some leakage. You have a problem with that?”

  The detective looks surprised, but he immediately nods assent. “I’d like to check on that. Just to make sure.” He pauses. “If that’s OK with you?”

  “Of course,” Jim replies smoothly. “Whatever you need to do.”

  They all leave the room. Detective Henrik sits down across from me. He looks embarrassed. “Would you like to use this paper and pen?” I ask, sliding over my yellow pad.

  He gives me a thankful smile. Uh oh, more flutters.

  “Ms. Prince,” he begins.

  “Let’s start by first names,” I say. “I’m Brie. Can I call you Straler?”

  The detective smiles at me. “That would be great. Thanks, um, Brie.” I find him reassuring in the chaotic aftermath of Errol’s death, a baseline antidote to our cancer of fears and insecurities. Another smile.

  He asks me the basics: “How long have you worked at Quixotic? Where are you from? What brought you to Pittsburgh?”

  I respond crisply and to the point, Jim’s lessons about the press in my head: there’s no such thing as off-the-record; you only say what is necessary; you don’t divulge what is not asked. This is not the press, I know, but I want to be careful.

  “What kind of interactions did you have with, with the…”

  I jump in, “You mean Errol?”

  He looks at me, his blue eyes bright. “Yes.”

  “Errol was our scientist. He invented a cure for an incurable disease, Huntington’s, if you know what that is.”

  He nods. “I read up some.”

  “He was a world-class MD. His HD patients and their families loved him. They didn’t even know that Errol was trying to cure Huntington’s. For them.”

  “Did you have any relationship with him outside of the office?” He pauses, pen raised.

  “Of course I knew him inside the office and outside. We’re a startup. We’re like a family. We all know each other very, very well. We have to…”

  “I remember when Gigi had warned me about his temper – the flip side of him that I never saw. “Errol is demanding as hell,” she told me once when we found ourselves together in the ladies room. “Woe be to the recipient of his anger. Look out. He’s like an exploding stew pot. I’ve seen him in action, believe me. You don’t want to be there. It’s terrifying.” Then she’d added, “Don’t get involved with him, Brie.” She tore the paper towel off the roll with a vengeance and her eyes gleamed coal black at me.

  “Ever been on his boat?” Straler asks.

  “Yes, several times. We’ve all been on his boat. He loved taking us out.”

  I was a walking PowerPoint slide after those trips. He’d talk about the science, how I needed to help him articulate the complexity in a simple format that investors and eventually patients would understand.

  “Do you know his wife?” Straler asks.

  “Yes, Amy is lovely.”

  “What about the kids?”

  “Yes, a bit.”

  “Any reason that you know of why Errol would commit suicide?”

  “I don’t think that’s what happened. Amy is adamant that he would never have done that.”

  Straler pauses writing and looks at me. “How can you be sure?” He has such piercing blue eye
s. They disarm me.

  “That’s ridiculous really. He had a perfect life. And he’s – he was – a happy guy. Yes, he had some pressures at the university. I know that Amy says that he’d been acting secretive, but I don’t think that he was capable of killing himself. Errol just didn’t have that in him, you know? He was happy. All the time. I mean he wore these Hawaiian shirts, lots of bright colors, and he had these socks and flip flops and, I don’t know, he just wasn’t the type to do something like that to her, to his family, to us. To me. He used to call me beautiful – as a nickname, I mean.” I grab a Kleenex and pretend I am not crying. “Look, he could be difficult, but he was a great scientist. He didn’t solve just one incurable disease, he solved two. Or he was close on the second one. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t, just leave all that.” Straler is looking down at his notes. His writing looks careful and neat. He’s left handed. A south paw, like me.

  “Anyone you know angry at Errol, angry enough to, you know…” He leans forward, his eyes unblinking.

  “Kill him you mean? No, I don’t know anyone who would want to kill Errol. He was a hero. To his patients. Their families. They sent him letters.” He looks at me, wide blue eyes staring into mine. “We loved him,” I finish miserably. Straler gives me a moment to pull myself together. He has made a page of notes. “You can keep the pad,” I tell him. “For the others.”

  He thanks me and picks up the pad to go. “Anything else you can add? Any details or thoughts that might be helpful.”

  “No. That’s it. I don’t have anything to add. At least not right now.”

  He hands me his card. “This has my number at the station. You can always call that. But here is my cellphone and email,” and he scrawls on the card. “Don’t hesitate,” he says as he gets up. “These situations get solved because people help. I need help. If you have anything to add that you think could be remotely important, please contact me, OK?”

 

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