HD66: Search for a cure or a killer?

by Babs Carryer

  I think of Boris; where is he by now? Indiana, maybe? I shudder. I have read the Russians, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Turgenev. I am fascinated by the histrionics depicted by the authors – the men weep, laugh, swear, and kill, all within the scope of a single page. We’ve gone from laughter to criticism to intimation. Could they have gone as far as murder?

  “No Alexei, this is not about Parkinson’s and it’s not about HD66. It’s about Errol.” Matt pauses as if gathering strength. Gigi strokes her arm; Jim blinks. “Alexei, there’s been an accident. It’s Errol.” I hold my breath. I don’t want anyone to say anything. This is a crucial moment. I look at Straler. He is leaning forward, his forehead furrowed to listen. Would they tip their hand?

  “My got,” Alexei breathes into the phone. “Errol? What has happened? Is he alright? Where is he? Can we send flowers?” I hear more Russian. There are several voices. Shouting. Sounds like arguing. Damn that Boris isn’t here. “Please tell me and my brothers, what has happened? Is he OK?”

  There is a long pause while Matt gathers his wits. “No, he is not OK. Not at all OK.” Matt tells them that Errol is dead. We hear a gasp. Then more shouting in the background. Is he translating what we say for the other brothers? Matt continues, “Alexei, we are wondering if you have had any contact with him in the last few weeks?” There is a huge silence. We hold our breaths.

  “My got,” Alexei chokes. He sounds genuinely shocked. “I am so sorry; we are so sorry. I not know what to say,” he fumbles.

  “I’m sorry that we didn’t let you know earlier,” Jim states. “Quite frankly, we’ve all been in shock and we are only starting now to get the word out.”

  “This is terrible. I am so sad. We have differences, Errol and us, but we are friends, like true Russians. We mourn for him and family.” I hear a muffled sound. Is Alexei crying?

  I can’t remember the rest of the conversation. All I know is that if they killed Errol or ordered him killed they are fantastic actors. But we only heard from Alexei. I think of Boris and his obvious fear, so great that he had to leave town. And all that Russian being spoken in the background. Who knows what was being said?

  I glance at Straler. He is scribbling in his notebook. He looks at me and smiles broadly. His eyes twinkle. He’s having fun, I realize.

  …….

  “What you probably don’t know about detective work,” Straler says, into his third cup of coffee that afternoon at Ritter’s, “what I have learned – through training, mind you – is that it is never, and I mean N-E-V-E-R,” he says spelling out the word, “the first suspect who is the killer. That’s Detective 101.”

  Clearly I am a neophyte. But someone has to say it. “Detective,” I start. “They might not…”

  “Look, Brie,” he interrupts, “You know that I’m new at this too. I’m leveling with you. I didn’t know. I really didn’t. It was a good try. I really wanted it to be them. To prove the saying wrong, you know. Hey, they’d probably have my badge if they knew what I just said. But I appreciate your help. I can’t solve it on my own. You were the one to finger the Popovs. I wouldn’t have known. You’re trying; you’re helping. That’s good.” He pauses and I see a pink flush on his cheeks. “You’ve got guts, Brie. You’ve already gotten further than I did. Together, we make a great team.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling. They are a crystal clear blue.

  “We aren’t ruling them out,” he says, and brings out a little book and pen. “I brought my own, today.” He clears his throat. “99% of this process is instincts. Yours are obviously strong, and I believe in that.” He smiles again.

  I ignore the flutters.

  “My boss warned me earlier; it’s usually getting stuck on the wrong guy – or gal – that proves the problem.” He looks at me and smiles as he takes a sloppy gulp of coffee. “So, we’re not crossing them off of our list. Not yet. Just that we have to examine all angles. Right now, my investigation will stay neutral.”

  OK, I think, taking the last bite of my donut. If this keeps on, I’ll gain weight.

  But Straler is not done. He takes a slurp of his coffee and flips to a new page of his notebook. “Let’s talk about some other possibilities,” he begins. “Starting with who could have been with Errol on the boat.”

  I know that I look shocked. “I do my homework too, you know,” he says with a chuckle.

  …….

  Walking back to the office, I wonder about my conversation with Straler. Popov Brothers could be the killer, but Straler encouraged me to trust my instincts, and they screamed at me during the call that Alexei was genuinely shocked and distressed. We really don’t know Grigorii so he’s an unknown, and, therefore, not above suspicion. There’s also a third Popov brother. The one that Boris knew. Speaking of which, Boris is not above suspicion either. They’re all still on my list along with Gigi, Jim, Matt, and even Amy

  I think about the other investors, how Errol was not happy about the VCs. I didn’t like Jeb Brooks from Sanguine. He was dismissive and arrogant. He couldn’t even remember my name, even after I told him, “It’s Brie, like the cheese.” I remember driving him from the airport when he came that first time. He wouldn’t look up from his cellphone, like he was super important and I was super not. He didn’t react as we emerged out of the tunnel to the glorious view of downtown. He didn’t say a word when I pointed out the three rivers, even when I mentioned that there was a fourth river that ran underground. Usually people are interested in the Pittsburgh story. Outsiders coming to Pittsburgh for the first time have no idea what to expect. Most know about the steel heritage and the decimation of the industry – Pittsburgh as the center of the rust belt. But Pittsburgh has emerged from its smoky, dark days of the past to become the best little city in America. “Rust built,” Errol called it. And Errol was right; VCs are jerks.

  The others seemed to not care. Jeb invested $5 million. One of their partners had a mother with HD. Did he get the test, I wonder? I wasn’t able to find out. Errol did a funny parody of Jeb and his relationship to his phone, I remember. We had all laughed at his antics. Is Jeb on the list? They all are. We’re on the list too.

  I was disturbed by Straler’s questions at Ritters about Errol’s students. I’m embarrassed at my outburst. “That’s ridiculous,” I snapped. “They’re his students. They love him; I’ve met them; they worship Errol, um worshipped. They cried at his memorial service. No, we’re going too far now. If Errol knew that we suspected his students, he’d go ballistic.”

  “How well do you know them?” Straler queried.

  I didn’t respond. How well did I really know anything or anyone?

  “Look, you’re probably right,” the detective admitted. “But we have to investigate all angles. I’m going to pay them a visit tomorrow. Unannounced.”

  I didn’t agree right away, but he encouraged me, “Brie, you know them. You know a lot more about Errol than I do. They’ll be more comfortable if you come. It’ll really help. It’ll help me.” He smiled. Who could resist?

  …….

  That night I sit at my kitchen table with a half bottle left of Merlot. Could the killer really be one of his students? I think of lovely, warm Shala Mukerjee. Errol had introduced me to his post-doc some time ago when he invited me to visit his lab. “Shala,” I said and extended my hand. Shyly, she gave me a light handshake. “What a beautiful name,” I had said, giving her hand a slight squeeze. Her smile lit up her face. Since then, I have grown to love her heavy accent and lilting voice. She has gorgeous thick black hair almost down to her waist. I doubt she knows how beautiful she is. She’s usually dressed in a baggy t-shirt and jeans. We’ve met a couple of times for coffee since then. She’s sweet and kind, and she was proud of her work in the lab.

  She introduced me to Errol’s other students. “Brie, this is Yahya Kazmi.”

  “Hello Miss Brie,” he said politely with a thick accent and a cold look. He must be Middle Eastern, but I’m not sure from exactly where. He did not put his hand out to shake. I droppe
d mine.

  “Very pleased to meet you, Yahya.”

  A young man stood next to Yahya. “This is Patrick,” Shala told me. “He’s new.”

  “Hello Patrick. I’m Brie.”

  “Hallo,” he said. I couldn’t place his accent, but it was obviously somewhere where English is spoken. Scotland, maybe? Australia? “Nope; the north,” he guessed my thoughts. “Northern Ireland. You know where that is?” he asked, and pointed to what I assumed was north. His accent was lyrical but nasal, very Irish, now that I heard it clearly.

  “Yes I do,” I answered, taken aback. “I’ve been there, actually.”

  “Ach, you must be one in a million, 40 million actually, who call themselves Irish in America. You know, we’ve only five million total in all of Ireland: one and a half million in the North; three and then some in the South. But only a few know that there even is a North. So we feel very small indeed.” He smiled, but his eyes were angry.

  Errol had interrupted then, shaking his head, “Guys?” I remember that the three students turned simultaneously to look at him. He gestured to them. “Back to work, eh?” They nodded in unison. They looked like his beagle, totally devoted and loyal. Disgusting.

  I pour another glass of wine and contemplate the journey of a startup.

  Chapter 18

  May 3, one year before the incident

  “Damn! To hell with this!” Errol exploded in his university lab. “We’re getting nowhere trying to find a Parkinson’s drug. Take a break. All of you, go home. We’ll reconvene in the morning. I’ll work on it tonight. See what I can figure out.” Errol dismissed his students with a wild wave.

  “Oh, Dr. Errol, I am so sorry. I know that I have made mistake. Please…”

  “Out now!” Errol commanded. “Mistake or no, I’m going to fix what I just saw happen here.”

  Yayha looked at Errol with a dark scowl. Patrick shrugged his shoulders. Shala’s hands shook as she gathered her things.

  “Come back in the morning. We’ll see what we have by then.” Errol almost pushed them out the door and turned his back as they left. As the students hustled down the hall, Errol got out his lab notebook to record what happened. He looked at what he had just written:

  “We killed the mouse. Instantly. A complete failure.”

  How could we be so far off? Errol glanced up at the clock. It was 10 p.m. He called Amy.

  “Hi, babe. What’s up?”

  “I’m at the university lab. What are you up to?”

  “Oh, I’m having a quiet night. The kids are reading. I’m in bed. What’s going on?”

  “I’m having trouble with one of my experiments. It might be a long night.”

  “Wow, that’s a first,” she said, chuckling.

  “OK. Sorry, but I just can’t let it go.”

  Amy yawned, “I know, Errol. Don’t jingle the bells when you come in. I have a big day tomorrow. It’s a $50 million ask.”

  “Big fish on the line, huh?”

  “You could call it that. I gather that you are still fishing?”

  I can’t seem to find the fish anymore.

  …….

  8 a.m. the next day

  Shala opened the lab door. “Oh, Dr. Errol,” she said, obviously surprised to see that he was still there.

  “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he responded. “And sorry about exploding last night. I was just frustrated. I have something for you all to see. We’ll wait for the others.” Shala dutifully got out her notebook to record whatever it was that Errol would show them.

  They heard shouting in a guttural foreign tongue and then Yahya yanked open the door holding his cellphone to his ear. He stopped shouting abruptly when he saw Shala and Errol. He said nothing, cutting off the call without another word and slinking into a corner to take off his coat and backpack.

  Errol knew that Yahya was from Syria, but he didn’t know much else about him. Yahya never said much. Errol felt sorry for him, knowing that things were really bad in Syria. He had read how the people’s revolution had been co-opted by those with political agendas. It had become a flat-out war with extremists on both sides and no signs of an end. Errol had noticed that recently Yahya seemed distant. He had been taking time off for long weekends. Normally, he didn’t question his students about what they did with their time. As long as the lab ran smoothly, the experiments were done correctly, and the science was advanced, he let them be.

  Patrick was the last to arrive. Seeing the others, he immediately launched into a rapid-fire excuse, “Sorry, got detained by a bomb in the subway. All the officials saying it was Johnny’s work, but I know that it was Sean’s. You see, a Sean bomb is…” he stopped talking long enough to see that Shala was staring at him in horror, and Yahya looked like he might jump him. “Hey slow down the crew,” Patrick said. “No offense here. Just joking an’ all. You know there is no subway here…”

  “OK, guys, we’ve got serious business to do. I’ve got something to show you. Shala, I don’t know what you’ve done, but you’re not going to believe this.” He gazed at them with a professorial air. “You know that we start with low doses, anticipating potentially negative effects?” They nod. “And, of course, if that happens, we continue to lower the dose?” They nod again. “Watch, lady and gentlemen.” Opening a small cage with a flourish, Errol extracted a mouse. Picking up a small syringe he injected the mouse. Within seconds, the mouse began to gasp, its little mouth opening and closing, then its body began to spasm. It was all over.

  “Holy shite!” Patrick exclaimed.

  “Yep, that’s my reaction exactly. Holy shit indeed.” Errol peered at his students over his glasses. “That was 100 microlitres.”

  Shala added, “And five seconds, Dr. Errol.”

  “It’s a killer,” announced Yahya, looking at the dead mouse on the benchtop. Shala retrieved the body and lowered him gently into the animal disposal container.

  “Lower the dose,” Errol commanded. “By one half.”

  “50 microlitres,” Patrick stated as he squeezed the dropper. Seconds passed. “Holy crap, again!” Patrick yelped.

  “Killer,” Yahya said quietly. They stood for a moment, silent in the shock of what was happening. Shala picked up the second dead mouse with a grimace.

  “Lower the dose,” Errol commanded again. “The same, by one half.”

  “25 microlitres,” Patrick announced loudly.

  “Why is it doing this?” Shala asked. “We have many dead mouse.”

  “Not sure,” Errol told them honestly. “I was as surprised as you.”

  “You always tell us that science is not a science but an art; I see that this is what you mean now, Doctor Errol.”

  Errol frowned and balled his fists. “This is not art,” he barked. “This is a mistake!”

  “Oh, Dr. Errol, I am so sorry,” Shala began. “I must have mistaken…”

  “Not now, Shala. We have to focus on what we are doing wrong. TO FIX THIS,” he shouted. Shala dropped her head, Yahya glared, Patrick turned white. “LOWER THE DAMN DOSE!”

  “12.5 microlitres,” Patrick whispered. “Shite, it’s doin’ it again. Is there no limit, no amount small enough?”

  Yahya’s dark eyes burned. “It’s a killer.”

  Shala didn’t look up as once again she lifted the dead mouse. “Oh, Dr. Errol, this no drug here, I am so sorry, I change…”

  Errol took the mouse from Shala and held it up turning to face the three of them. “Look, I’ve been working all night on this. The same thing over and over. Nothing changes, no matter how small the dose. It’s just a failure, that’s all. This won’t cure a damn thing.”

  Yahya mutterd, “A killer.”

  Patrick looked at him and laughed a deep, nasty sound, “Failure? Ha! Not if you’re looking for a weapon of mass destruction, a WMD, I believe you call it.”

  “What the?!” Errol shouted. “You think this is a joke? This could be the end of the line, you nitwits. This isn’t a fundable invention. This isn�
�t a viable path we’re going down! You may all have to abandon this lab and go home if we can’t figure out what we are doing wrong!”

  Patrick and Shala looked shocked, but Yahya glared angrily at Errol, who continued his diatribe. “Look, something is terribly, terribly wrong. I can’t stay right now. I have patients to see and a few things to do at Quixotic. You guys have to turn this around. It’s important. We cannot fail. We cannot lose the fight!”

  With that he stalked out and slammed the lab door. As Errol stormed to the bike rack, he thought about what had happened. Is death by invisible small doses a huge mistake? Or a discovery? An idea began to take shape.

  …….

  3 a.m. the next morning

  The university lab was empty except for him. Errol had sent everyone home – again. He couldn’t believe the series of events that had led to this moment. He was appalled that they had failed so miserably. How is this possible? Errol reviewed what happened as he wrote in his lab notebook: “Have achieved LD50.” The abbreviation was for "Lethal Dose, 50%," or median lethal dose. It is the amount of a substance required, usually per body weight, to kill 50% of the test population. “We’ve killed 100% so far. No matter how small the dose. Tried picolitres, even femtolitres. All efforts have failed. The treatment is a failure as a drug for the brain. A complete and utter failure. Like me.”

  Errol stared at the page, noodling as he thought. Could a highly lethal death injection be of any use? Maybe I should think about this discovery differently? The others are about disease. This is not. Until now, my inventions have been to save life, to make it better. But this is not a life-saving device; it’s a killer. What to do with it? Certainly not as part of Quixotic. It doesn’t fit. Does it have any value? Probably. Somewhere, not in my world. Who would want a death agent? What would it be worth? The opposite of the term for medical prescription, RX… Oh, that’s perfect. It now has a name – DeathX.