HD66: Search for a cure or a killer?

by Babs Carryer

  “While most drug candidates fail in clinical trials, HD66 made it to a Phase III clinical trial, which is typically the final step before drug companies seek approval from the Food and Drug Administration to commercially market a treatment. That raised the expectations of Huntington’s patients and their families.

  “‘Getting this to a Phase III clinical trial was of huge importance,’ said Molly Mohab, executive director of the Pennsylvania chapter of the Huntington’s Association, a nonprofit working to find better diagnoses and cures for the disease. ‘We were stunned today. The news came out of left field, and we are shocked and disappointed.’

  “The experimental treatment had earlier shown ‘some minor effectiveness in a smaller clinical study, conducted by Quixotic,’ Dr. Stronghold said, but there were ‘no observable benefits in function or survival for Huntington’s patients or any subgroup in the larger NGX-sponsored Phase III clinical trial. We are sorry for those who continue to suffer from this devastating disease,’ Dr. Stronghold concluded.”

  “Fuck this,” Matt declares and stops reading. Jim lets out a long, slow breath. We had all been holding our breaths, trying to hear every syllable and word as Matt read the NGX press release.

  “Has it hit the press yet?” Gigi inquires.

  “Not sure,” Matt replies and his fingers are already pounding his keyboard in an obvious search of the Internet. “Yep,” he informs us. “Seems like the Boston World – of course – and some others have picked it up. It’s all over the Internet,” he finishes.

  “Oh my God, we have to call Errol!” Gigi says. “He’ll just die at this.”

  “He already knows,” Jim says quietly, glancing at his phone. He looks around at all of us, the shock resonating around the room like a wave off of a cliff. “Don’t panic,” Jim cautions.

  …….

  It’s like a bad dream. I can’t go back. I can’t go forward. Reminds me of my bee dream. I can’t escape. I drain the last of my glass of Chardonnay.

  Chapter 23

  March 18

  I’m scheduled to meet the detective at 9 a.m. at the Soldiers and Sailors Garage. From there it’s an easy walk to Bocci Hall where we are heading to talk to Errol’s lab students. I see Straler waiting for me by the ticket booth. He’s frowning into his phone. He heaves a sigh of relief when he sees me. “Brie,” he greets me brightly. “Thanks for coming. I was worried that you might not show. You’re friends with Shala and I thought…” He looks at me rubbing my arm. I bumped it on the door to my deck. It’ll be a bruise by now I am sure.

  I nod and we start walking up the hill and then left to walk along Centre past the engineering building to the newer health sciences wing. The building is mostly glass and was designed by a Centre alumnus architect who works in Atlanta. While some of the university’s buildings are cement structures from the 1960s, and others are historical buildings, this newer one is hyper-modern, with all kinds of features. “You know, this building earned a green building award when it opened four years ago,” I inform Straler. “It has a living, green roof. All kinds of things are growing up there.” Straler looks at me, tilting his head like a dog. I’ve impressed him!

  As we enter the shining glass doors at the front, I glance longingly towards the Tazza D’Oro café on my right. Janeen, the owner, also has the café in Highland Park, near Errol and Amy’s house. I have been there several times to meet Errol. The first time I looked at the coffee menu, I noticed the usual lattes and macchiatos. But it also listed an Italian Cappuccino. “What’s that?” I asked the young woman behind the counter who sported tattoos and a nose ring.

  “Oh,” Errol said before she could answer. “An Italian Cappuccino? This will change your life.” He promptly ordered two of them and I caught him winking at the girl behind the counter. Indeed, it did come pretty close to changing my life. Because I joined Quixotic. The coffee meeting was another non-interview. I’ve craved Tazza’s Italian Capps ever since.

  Straler must have noticed my glance. “Brie, it’s still early; would you like to get a quick coffee first?”

  “You’re in for a treat,” I say with a smile. When we were in line, I point out the Italian Cappuccino.

  “What’s that?” he asks the young pierced man behind the counter.

  “Oh, that,” I quickly say. “An Italian Cappuccino? This will change your life.” And I order two of them, winking at the barista behind the counter, who grins.

  Straler laughs, “Well I definitely need one of those!” His blue eyes twinkle at me. I feel the heat in my cheeks.

  20 minutes later we are on the fifth floor. I am walking fast to keep up with the detective’s lanky gait. I had learned that he moved from Pattensen, Germany when he was young, had two siblings, both younger, was a University of Pittsburgh engineering alum and had studied criminal forensics. He had a loose, easy way about him. He was unabashed about this being a big assignment for him to prove himself to his boss. “I appreciate your honesty,” I told him. “You said that I care; so do you. That matters.”

  The lab door is closed. This is not unusual, given that labs deal with chemicals and experiments. As we knock and then immediately open the door, I see the students clustered together by the window. They’re in an intense conversation. I hear Yahya say a loud, “No, not agree.” Then they notice us. I hear the inhales of surprise. Shala looks at us; she looks frightened. Then she recognizes me and her eyes lower. The other two look at me, then to the detective, and then back to me with wide eyes. Yahya is frozen; his arm half lifted from when he was talking. Patrick looks angry, but quickly changes his face into a forced, tight smile. Shala sneezes and covers her face with her hands. I nod and smile at her. She gives me a sad smile in return. She must miss him terribly. She knew him the longest.

  Straler introduces himself, “Hello, I’m Detective Henrik.” He nods towards me. “You already know Brie, here.” He tells the students that I am helping him with his investigation. The students stand perfectly still, shock registering on their faces.

  “About Dr. Errol?” Shala asks, her mouth hanging open. She sneezes again, grabs a tissue from a nearby desk and blows her nose. Poor thing. She has a cold on top of everything else.

  “Yes,” Straler replies.

  “Shala,” I say gently, knowing how much she cared for him. “We’re visiting everyone who had a connection to him.” Her eyes grow even wider, and her pretty face is distorted by grief. She looks like she will burst into tears. “This is routine, it really is,” I assure her.

  “Shala? Brie has told me about you, about all of you. She’s right. This is just a routine visit, not to worry. We don’t know how Errol died, and we’re investigating the circumstances, trying to figure out what happened to cause his death. For our report.”

  “Investigating?” Shala asks. “Like on television?” Patrick shoots her a dirty look. Shala starts coughing and covers her face with her hands again. Yahya stands there, his brow furrowed, in a brooding silence.

  “Are ye thinking that there was something wrong about what happened?” Patrick inquires in his broad Northern Irish accent. “Something not natural?” Shala coughs. Both Yahya and Patrick look at her; she looks down, her long hair covering her face. Her rounded back heaves with a silent sob.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions. Can we please sit down?”

  Patrick nods in the direction of a table and he brings over another chair. We sit down. There are crumbs on the table. Shala sweeps them neatly into her hand and deposits the crumbs in the sink. This is where they eat their lunches. There is complete silence as we all take a seat.

  Straler clears his throat, “To start, I’d like to ask if you three would tell me a bit about yourselves, how long you’ve been at the university, whether you’ve worked with Errol the whole time, when you graduate, that kind of stuff. We’ll just do this as a group, and it will be short, I promise.” He turns his head. “Shala, Brie has told me that you are a post-doc, that you’ve been here the longest. Can you pl
ease give me the basic information about when you started working with Errol?”

  Shala blinks and relates her information. “I came here seven years ago to complete my PhD here in this lab. Dr. Errol was my thesis advisor. After my PhD is awarded, Dr. Errol, he gives me opportunity to stay here as post-doctoral researcher.”

  “What are you working on here at the lab? Is there anything in particular? Anything important?”

  Shala looks surprised. “Detective, we are scientists. This lab is science. Everything is important. And working with Dr. Errol, it is very important. We have made important discoveries. But maybe that is over now,” she finishes sadly.

  Patrick butts in, “Detective, what Shala says is true. We like to think that everything that we do is important,” he pauses and looks at Shala. “The work isn’t over, is it now? But I don’t think we have anything that really relates to, you know, to anything that could have happened to Errol.”

  Straler turns to Yahya. “Can you please tell me your full name, where you are from, and the other things about your education here and working in the lab?”

  Yahya remains silent, his black eyes gleaming, his jaw set. We wait a moment. Just before Straler opens his mouth to speak, Yahya starts, “I am Yahya Kazmi. I am from Syria, Damascus. I am here three years. Before, I attend university in my country.” There is something very stilted about his speech, more pronounced than just his accent. I don’t know Yahya well, but I don’t think that he usually sounds like this. Straler glances at me. Yahya notices this and glares.

  It’s Patrick’s turn. “My name is Patrick Bailey. I come from Northern Ireland, a place called Portadown. I’m new here’n all. This is the first year of my PhD. I went to university in Belfast. And here now, while we are happy to answer your questions, Detective Henrik, we really didn’t have anything to do with what happened. I mean, I’m here because of Errol. He recruited me. Along with the others here as well. We worked for him, with him. We’d never allow anything…” Yahya glares at him and Patrick stops talking. “I’m sure ya know what I mean.”

  Straler asks some general questions about the work they do in the lab. I can tell that he has trouble understanding the answers because the students answer with technical explanations. I explain that this is a diagnostics lab where they look at different disease states and what triggers them and then try to find solutions that un-trigger the disease. It’s overly simple I know, but what does he really need to know more than that? Does he need to understand the intricacies of RNA? I doubt it will help him in the investigation.

  Since we sat down no one has mentioned that Errol’s death might not have been natural. It doesn’t seem right to me, but Straler had warned me that he didn’t want to trigger a panic among the students. He’s cautious in his questions. He asks them how they are coping and whether they will continue as before? After they answer he asks what will happen now, moving forward.

  I am curious about this too. Do they stay on? In this lab? Will they be reassigned? Will a new Principal Investigator, or PI, step in and take over from where they are?

  Patrick explains that they are in a holding pattern while the department figures this out. A PI has been assigned to them and they are continuing with the work – Errol’s work. “For me it’s OK,” he explains. “I’m the newest. I’m early in my PhD, and I could go to another lab, no problem,” he says. “But I don’t fancy that. I like the work here and, even though Errol is gone, we’d like to stick together. It’s been quite a shock you see,” he pauses. “We were discussing what to do when you all came in,” he explains. “And we decided that, unless we are forced to disband, we’d like to stay together. We’ve got some interesting discoveries that we’re on about now. Sometimes that can take years, you see. We’re committed to developing what we’ve got to the next level, don’t ye know?”

  Yahya is quiet and looks down as he says, “I already commit to thesis. I like to finish. Here. Yes, new PI has step in. Dr. Rees her name. We can continue under supervision of her.” He looks intently at Straler.

  Shala dabs her nose and then says, “We not know for certain. Maybe we stay together not such a good idea. Maybe Yahya and Patrick have new assignments. I think maybe other new PIs.” They both look at her and frown.

  Straler puts his notebook away and stands. “So, will you all be here for the next couple of weeks? In case I have any more questions?”

  Shala and Patrick nod. Shala looks at Yahya. He glares back. “I not here weekend.”

  “Oh?” Straler asks. “Where are you going?”

  “New York City,” he answers with a glower.

  “What’s in New York?”

  “Nothing, I need go there.” Yahya answers ambiguously.

  “He goes four times in the last two months,” Shala announces.

  I could see Yahya tighten his whole body like he wants to react, but he holds himself in check. “Well alright, just give me the exact dates and where you’ll be,” Straler tells him, adding, “please. And for all of you, I’d like your cellphone number, home number, if you have one, Pittsburgh address, and email address. Just in case we need to get a hold of you individually. Please email the information to me.” He hands them his business card.

  As we walk towards the garage, Straler asks me, “How well do you know them?”

  “Not much,” I respond. . “Except for Shala. We’ve had coffee a couple of times. She’s sweet. She adored ‘Dr. Errol’ as she calls him.”

  “That Yahya…”

  “Yes, he’s kind of weird. I mean he’s from Syria and all that. I think Patrick’s kind of on the edge as well.”

  “Yes, agreed. Yahya said he would be in New York from Thursday through Sunday, I don’t get it,” Straler said. “Why now? What’s in New York?”

  Chapter 24

  November 10, one year before the incident

  Dear Pliya,

  Please do not be alarmed from what I wrote to you two months ago. It not a mistake that I made. It is a new thing that we have discovered. A very dangerous thing. But not my fault. So I am off a hook as they say in America. I am writing quickly to you so that you do not worry that I arriving home any second. I not arriving home because I am still staying in the lab and in the United States. I have a plan now. Dr. Errol, he is part of this plan for me and for the future. You will be very happy, I assure you.

  Your sister who is not mistake making,

  Shala

  Chapter 25

  March 18

  I get a call from Amy that night. She tells me that she didn’t want to bother Matt, Jim, or Gigi, but she has something and could she drop it by? I look at my phone for the time. 9 p.m. My apartment in Shadyside is not far from her home in Highland Park, but I offer to meet on neutral ground – Tazza D’Oro. Twice in one day. I long for the Amherst scotch bar, but the Pittsburgh coffee house hasn’t made the leap to alcohol. Maybe eventually, I hope, as I walk out my apartment door.

  She’s already there when I pull up and park. I can see her blond hair through the window. Luna is tied up outside. She wags her tail and whines as I smile at her and extend my hand. “Out for walkies?” I asked the beagle in my best Barbara Woodehouse voice. My father had loved the British dog trainer, and I had grown up with a series of golden retrievers, all of whom we had trained the Woodhouse way. “I’ll bet you miss your master,” I told her as I stroked her silky coat and gazed into her soulful eyes.

  Amy hugs me and we sit down after ordering some herbal teas. Then she hands me something out of a plastic bag. I can see at a glance that it is a lab notebook. It must be Errol’s. Oh my gosh, maybe this contains what Errol wanted me to know?

  “He brings these home sometimes to write in them late at night or early in the morning,” Amy tells me. “I didn’t think it was important, but, since I don’t believe his death was accidental, it might be… important,” she adds hesitantly. “You know I’m not a scientist, and I can’t make it out.” She pauses. “I didn’t want to turn it over to the students. Or
even to the detective. I haven’t told anybody else about this, Brie. I want someone to take a look, to make sure, just to see, if there’s anything. I don’t know,” she ends miserably.

  “I’ll take a look,” I tell her gently. “It might be, well, relevant.”

  We exchange chit-chat about the kids, trying to avoid the obvious. I don’t want to look too eager. But I can’t wait to get home and go through the book.

  She doesn’t know that there was someone else on the boat. I don’t tell her. Everyone is on a need-to-know basis.

  …….

  I stay up half the night reading the lab book entries and doing some research on the Internet. I don’t find any references to Huntington’s or my dad. Nothing that will help. But I do read about the science behind a terrifying discovery. He called it DeathX. Errol discovered something that is lethal and entirely non-traceable at nano-scale doses. That a postage stamp quantity, applied directly to the skin, could result in death without identifiable causation. That it could be applied by a naked hand as long as the chemical remained on the other side. A deadly nerve agent. Wow. That’s significant. Who else knew? Did he disclose it to the university? Certainly his lab students knew about it. They didn’t mention it to us when we interviewed them. Were they hiding something from us? Why?

  I can’t help myself. At 3 a.m. I pour a glass of The Balvenie. I need something to calm my nerves, to help me focus, to channel my thoughts. What Errol discovered is clearly dangerous. In the wrong hands it could be used in terrifying ways. It could harm on an enormous scale. It’s odd that Errol never mentioned any of this to any of us at Quixotic. He wasn’t the secretive type. Why didn’t he tell us? Was he hiding it – from us? Does someone know and they’re just not saying? Jim? Gigi? Matt? Does Boris know?

  …….

  I research nerve agents that afternoon. Chemical weapons, I learn, are cause for much concern because they are indiscriminate. Chemical weapons can’t tell an old lady from a soldier. They can injure or destroy people, animals, plants, and anything living that is in the chemical path. In the U.S., we frown on the use of chemical weapons – publicly that is. However, we dropped napalm on Japan, killing more people than the atomic bomb. We used the toxic defoliant, Agent Orange, in Vietnam. During the Cold War of the 1950s and later, we stockpiled liquid VX and sarin – both deadly.