HD66: Search for a cure or a killer?

by Babs Carryer

  “There is another case,” she continued. “In the 1980s in the San Francisco Bay Area, seven young people were diagnosed with Parkinson’s after having used MPPP contaminated with MPTP. The neurologist, J. William Langston, tracked down the cause to MPTP. He made the case famous with his publication of ‘The Case of the Frozen Addicts.’ It’s terrible, Errol.”

  “I know. I want to solve this, Maya, I really do,” he said looking at the passionate young scientist.

  “I think about my monkeys,” she replied sadly, and swept her arm towards the closed door to the animal lab. “I know that some variation of HD66 will work on the protein and reverse the neuron damage. Please don’t give up.”

  I never do. I can’t. The Voice won’t let me.

  …….

  Later that week, Gigi had exacerbated the situation when she asked, “Don’t you have some other programs that we could license into the company? For some other conditions besides Huntington’s? Maybe a disease that has a higher incidence, a larger market? It would be so helpful for our funding.”

  Errol had stalked out of the conference room. As he slammed the door he heard Matt chide her: “Damn it, Gigi, don’t goad him. He’s a scientist for fuck’s sake.”

  Errol shook the memories from his mind. He was scheduled to meet Maya in her lab this morning. What will I tell her? She will be disappointed in my results, in me.

  Luna started to bah-roo at something she heard outside. “Stop!” he heard from upstairs.

  “Sorry, honey. We’re outta here.” He gathered a few things and called to the beagle, “Come-on Luna. Let’s go down to the river!” As always, he was drawn to the water, the source of his creativity. The river will help me think. It’s where I started. I have to keep going. I cannot look back. The Voice, ever present, makes me keep going. Luna jumped into his truck, whining with impatience as Errol threw his running shoes into the passenger seat. “I’ll make a quick call,” he said to his canine companion.

  Note to self: Commence experiments with shortened carbon chain. Confide in Brie. She is the only one with no agenda.

  …….

  Two weeks later, February 5

  Errol was not hungry. Outside, the snow and ice had melted. Deciding to skip lunch, he donned his running clothes, left his university lab, and started towards Schenley Park. It was raining, and his shoes squished in the mud. Typical Pittsburgh weather – the sky was steely gray. The drops fell off the trees, and he was soaked as his lanky form brushed the low-hanging branches. He shook the rain out of his eyes, missing Luna. I hate running without her. She’ll smell the run on me when I go home. He picked up his pace.

  He couldn’t stop obsessing over why his experiments were not affecting the Parkinson’s protein. He reviewed the different chemical constructs in his mind, mixing them, confusing them, seeing Maya’s face, recalling his own patients. He shuddered the rain off of his face and ran faster.

  Soaking wet, he forced his mind to return to the core problem. The shortened carbon chain had resulted in only minor improvements in DNA disruptions. He had spent hours researching the primate studies for MPTP. He had watched again the two NOVA productions that PBS made based on Langston’s book. I want to help her. He sloshed through the mud, running full out. At the end of the trail, he stopped, doubled over with exhaustion, rain and sweat streaming off of his face making tiny rivulets of water in the wet ground.

  Note to self: Check lab notes from the students. Something overlooked?

  …….

  11 days later, February 16

  He had just left Maya’s animal lab. Walking back to his office in a light drizzle, he couldn’t get over it. It was awful. The monkeys were so immobile they had bedsores. They had to be fed by a tube through the nose. I won’t be able to tell Amy, let alone my kids. They would be horrified. Errol had explained to his family why animal testing is necessary. If we don’t test on animals, we would have to test on humans. But they oppose it. He argued that animal testing was not cruel. “We don’t mistreat the animals; we care for them. As scientists, we try to be as humane as possible.”

  Sam had been somewhat sympathetic, “I know, Dad, but it’s too weird for me.”

  Ariel was more blunt, “Gross, Dad. I don’t want to ever do that.”

  Amy had just looked at me, “We don’t need to know everything, Errol.” If she knew everything it would kill her. Only Brie would understand.

  Maya had made some creative suggestions for the chemistry. Errol resolved to commence a new series of experiments. He would put Shala in charge. She was excelling as his post-doc, and Errol was proud of how far this quiet Asian had come along.

  As he arrived at his clinic to see an afternoon of patients, Errol decided to go back to the lab that night and continue working on the Parkinson’s project by himself. The students must be doing something wrong. A cure can’t be so elusive. I’ll start again with the mice. I won’t stop until I have found it.

  “Where are you? How can I catch the fish without you?” The Voice did not answer.

  Chapter 13

  July 1, two years before the incident

  It was late at night. The lab was quiet. Shala quickly tidied up, throwing away paper plates and used napkins. She was bursting with her news.

  Dear Pliya, my darling sister,

  Guess what? I have made a friend! My first real American friend. Dr. Errol introduced me to a Brie Prince who works at the company that he has made called Quixotic. She is very nice. She is typical American, and I like that. She is very smart, yet she is fun and not so serious like me. I met her in the lab, and we met for coffee. Can you imagine? That is what the Americans do. They meet for coffee at places like Starbucks! These places are everywhere. Oh yes. Here there are many coffee houses. They are nice places with air conditioning and soft chairs. It is funny, Pliya, because there are sometimes coffee shops next to each other or opposite sides of the street. You have choices. You have to pick which one you wish to enter. So much, they have here.

  All is going fine in the lab. Dr. Errol. He tells me that I am in charge, but he does all of the talking and telling what to do. I am getting more comfortable being here, and the young men working here are nice to me.

  I think of you often, my dear sister. I am sorry that you cannot write to me but I understand. I do not forget. Never. I send you all of my love.

  Your almost American sister,

  Shala

  Chapter 14

  March 14

  I wake up in the middle of the night. My mind is buzzing. I have an idea. I hurry to make coffee and wait for the sunrise. I don’t want to tell anyone, even Neal, because it’s a just a hunch. A theory, I tell myself. But something worth investigating. When I doodled on my pad last night, a little drunk, I drew the river. And the lock. The lock building with the flag and all, which I had seen crossing the bridge many times. I had seen it that morning when Gigi and I descended the path behind the Creamery. The lock!

  I leave my apartment as soon as it’s light and drive to the Highland Park Bridge. I drive across it looking downriver, but I can’t see much. I’m on the upriver side of the bridge. I take a left off the bridge and another left to get to Silky’s Marina. I park and walk out onto the piers. There are only a few boats docked, given the early time of year. It’s cloudy and cold, and I shiver as I walk past a houseboat. Some people live for being on the water, no matter the weather. I walk out to the furthermost dock and stand there looking at the wall of water flowing off the weir. Then I look over to the lock just across from me. There is actually a boat waiting downriver. I see a light near the lock and the boat disappears into the lock. About 20 minutes later I see the boat come out on the upriver side motoring towards whatever destination the pilot has in mind.

  Getting into my car, I drive back over the river. This time as I glance to my right, I can see the horizon where the water meets the sky. They are both gray. The shadow of the bridge looks like the twist of DNA. I never noticed that before. I wonder if Errol
ever noticed that?

  I park in the same spot as that morning with Gigi. The path down to the river is much easier in the light. Turning right, I make my way to the lock. I am sure there is another way by the road, but I don’t know it. When I reach the building, I see the stairs leading up to the door. Is this the front door, I wonder? At a lock, where is the front door? Facing land or the river? I don’t have time to wonder as the door is opened for me and a booming voice emerges from a short red-faced man in a cap. “Hallo, little lady!” The voice from the small man is loud, but it’s friendly and inviting. “Are you comin’ to see me?” he asks. “If so, you’re at the right place, and how do you do!” He chuckles and then introduces himself, “I’m Captain Bob.”

  Captain Bob, where did I hear that before?

  “I’m the lock master. And what may I do for you, an unexpected, but not unpleasant, guest?” His face gets redder as he laughs, and he invites me in for coffee. I see a tray of donuts; he is clearly used to people stopping by. Boaters I guess. I can just imagine Errol being here and the two exchanging stories.

  I explain who I am and why I have come. “Oh,” his face looks suddenly sad, “I am so sorry about Mr. Errol. You were his friend?”

  I nod. “Actually, his colleague. We work at the same company.”

  Captain Bob asks me to sit down. He is quiet for a moment. He sips his coffee. “I was on shift that night, that morning, of Mr. Errol, you know, but I left my shift after radioing to him. I told him he was getting too close to the falls. But he does that sometimes. They all like to fish too close above the falls, too close below. Drives us crazy. Mike, my second, comes on at 3 a.m. I didn’t think much about it. I knew Mr. Errol was warned and he’s very, well he was, very experienced.”

  Captain Bob pauses and looks at me. His face is even redder than a few minutes ago. “I didn’t know, Miss Brie,” he says quietly. “Like I said, Mr. Errol, he was very experienced. I’ve been on the “Scoot” myself. We fished together and…” He pauses again. I don’t know what to say. “You see, once we had the radio contact, I just didn’t think anything about leaving the shift and going home. I didn’t know until the next day, well until that night, on the news. Mike said he talked to the police; there was nothing anybody could do.” He pauses, and we sip our coffee.

  I follow Jim’s instructions, “Let the silence happen. Don’t fill it with meaningless chat or questions.”

  “I feel terrible about what happened. I liked Mr. Errol very much. We were friends. He used to come here all the time and we’d trade stories. I know where he comes from…” he trailed off and wiped his face with a red bandana.

  “Did you notice anything about him, his voice, the boat?” I ask, finally.

  “Well, we didn’t have a long exchange, you see. There was another person on the boat. It was dark and I couldn’t see who it was and…”

  “There was someone else with Errol on the boat?” I ask incredulously.

  Chapter 15

  March 15

  I’ve spent the morning in my office writing on my whiteboard. No one came in, but I kept the door shut just in case. There are surprisingly few emails today. The halls outside my office are quiet. I need to think. There is a big question mark in the middle of my white board. Shooting off from this symbol are lines leading to circles. In each circle is a question: When? Where? Why? How? Who? Shooting off from each circle are other lines, some of them connecting together into a series of squares. Each square contains a list. My thoughts that might answer the fundamental questions. It’s a mind map. I learned about this technique in my MBA program, when I took a class on creativity in business. But I’ve never applied it to anything so serious. Like a murder.

  Everything has changed. It’s no longer speculation. Errol was killed by whoever was in the boat. And, whoever that was, stopped Errol from getting me a cure for my father. I WILL find out who did this.

  I tell no one of my discovery of a second person on the boat. Everyone is a suspect. My colleagues’ names are on my whiteboard under “Who.” I hear a noise in the hallway outside my door. The handle turns. I jump up, not wanting anyone to see my whiteboard. It’s Gigi. “Can I talk to you?” she asks wearily. “I’m so tired.”

  “I’m tired too,” I answer, standing in the doorway and blocking her from entering.

  “We’re all dazed,” she tells me, reaching out as if she wants to pat my arm. She looks at me for a long moment like she wants to say something. Her skin is white and drawn. Then she shakes her head and shrugs her shoulders. “Never mind. I’m going home. I can’t do this.” She smiles a tight smile and then closes my door with a click.

  I walk around to Jim’s office. He’s not there. Neither is Matt. Quixotic feels ghostly. I peek in the lab on my way back to my office. It’s empty. I return to my office and close the door. The sound reverberates in the emptiness of the building.

  I call Straler and leave voicemail to call me back. Then I get to work transferring what’s on my whiteboard to my note pad.

  I don’t know where the day has gone, but I glance up and it’s dark outside my window. I check the time on my phone: 10 p.m. No return call from the detective.

  My thoughts wander. Did I do the right thing not telling anyone when I first found out about my father?

  ……..

  18 months earlier

  The positive results from our Phase IIA and B trials for HD66 were supposed to make our Series B financing go smoothly. At least, that was how it was supposed to work. So why was it taking so long? “Oh, there is always lots of drama around financing,” Gigi told me. “It’s much harder than anyone realizes.” In preparation for an investor presentation, she had asked me to draw a flow chart of the clinical trials for HD66 on the large whiteboard in the back conference room. I drew three big boxes: Phase I, Phase II – broken into two smaller boxes for Phase IIA and B – and then Phase III. Gigi wanted me to add dollar figures to each box. How much did each stage cost?

  I remember stepping up to the board and drew a red circle around Phase IIB. No one would know the meaning behind the circle. I had just found out about my dad having HD. The shock of my dad having HD and me being in a startup bringing to market a drug that could cure him consumed me for weeks. The timing was off – to get him into the trial that we were doing – Phase IIB. It was too late. If I had known a few weeks earlier, could I have gotten him into the trial? Could I have saved him?

  “What does it take to get someone in the trial?” I had asked Gigi after that fateful Thanksgiving.

  “Oh,” she told me, “A bunch of paperwork and protocol. It’s all about the PI,” she continued. By PI, she meant principal investigator of the trial, the doctor who manages it. A trial could have multiple PIs, which meant that they were testing the drug on their patients – with their consent, of course. “We recruited our PIs through Errol’s network,” she added.

  The next day, I ran into Errol, “What does it take to get a doctor in your trial? Do you have anyone from Baystate?” I asked innocently. “Like, you know, assuming that you know folks from home…” Baystate is the hospital near Amherst.

  “Nah, we didn’t go outside of the majors,” he replied. He saw my questioning look, “Like Harvard, and a few of the big hospitals. Baystate could be considered for Phase III,” he said matter-of-factly. As he headed off down the hall, he added, “Especially if we know anyone from home that has Huntington’s.” I am pretty sure that he did not look back and see the shock on my face.

  It was too late for my dad and the Phase II trials. But it wouldn’t be next time, I’d promised myself. Little did I know how impossible that would be.

  We were raising money now to bide time to land a strategic partnership with a large pharmaceutical company that had the resources to take our drug through a Phase III clinical trial. I wrote the figure “$30 million” under the Phase III box on the whiteboard. I put a blue star above the words. Even with a $60 million Series B institutional round, we wouldn’t be able to do t
hat on our own. We would need a partner. I was frustrated by how long the funding round was taking. I had told no one about his condition, not yet. Not even Neal. There was no point until I had a plan.

  …….

  My office phone rings, jarring me back to reality. It must be Straler. “Hello?” I query. “Thanks for calling. I have something to tell you.”

  “Me too, Brie. I glad you still there.” The voice pauses. “Hello, Brie? You there?”

  “Who is this?” I ask, flustered.

  “Dis is Boris. Can I see you? I have something to tell you. Is important,” he adds. I don’t know what to say. “Don’t worry, Brie. I am not murderer. I not harm you.”

  How does he know that I might be thinking about a murder? He’s come right out and said that he is not “the” murderer. Do I believe him? “OK,” I say, after a pause. “But not here.”

  I hear him chuckle a low, foreign-sounding laugh. “Yes, I know dat. Ritter’s Diner on Baum. It open late.”

  “Yes, I know Ritter’s,” I tell him, having been to this local legend diner several times. While some call it “Critters,” I appreciate that it’s not that far away, that the parking lot is well lit. My stomach is growling, and I realize I haven’t eaten all day. “Give me 20 minutes.”

  There is that laugh again. “I already here. Booth at back, near corner.” I feel like asking which corner, since the restaurant is an L shape and there are booths in three out of the four corners. But I realize that it’s moot; I’ll see him when I enter the front door. “You want coffee black or white?” he asks with another chuckle.

  “Cream, please,” I reply.

  “Thought so,” he starts, and I don’t wait for the next chuckle before I hang up.

  …….

  In the diner, Boris is sitting at the back corner on the long part of the L, where the window looks out onto the street, so he must have seen me walk up the sidewalk from the parking lot in the back. There is a cup of steaming coffee on my placemat, next to a small pitcher of cream and a spoon on a napkin. Boris looks up and smiles. Crooked teeth. No chuckle. “Thank you for coming,” he says. “I not know who to talk to,” he pauses and stirs his own coffee, which is deep black. I see a pile of empty sugar packets next to his cup. His phone is on the table. “These Popov guys,” he begins. “They very bad people.”