Miracle Drug

by Richard L. Mabry M. D.

  “Doctor, I have to ask again if you are willing to speak to us without a lawyer present,” Warren said.

  “I am capable of defending myself,” Chavez said. Apparently, in response to the lifting of Warren’s eyebrows, he added, “In addition to my medical degree, I have a law degree from the Universidad del Rosario in Bogotá. In my position, it is quite useful for me to be knowledgeable in that area.” Chavez said this flatly, not so much bragging as stating a fact.

  “Very well,” Warren said. “Why don’t you tell us where you’ve hidden the . . .” He looked down at the wrinkled top page on the yellow pad that lay in front of him. “The RP-78. Where have you hidden it?”

  “I have not hidden it,” Chavez said. “I suspect that since you arrested me, you’ve obtained the proper warrant and searched my rental car. In the trunk is a cooler containing the drug in question.”

  Warren thought he heard a faint sound like a door closing. It was probably one of the police, watching via the interview via closed-circuit TV, leaving to check out Chavez’s statement.

  “All right. Then let’s hear about your scheme to extort money from the Madison Foundation in exchange for the RP-78.”

  Chavez turned his hands palm upward, to the accompaniment of rattling from the handcuff chains. “I made no effort to extort money. Perhaps Ms. Marks or Agent Lang did not understand me. After all—” His smile was almost a smirk. “English is my second language. Perhaps there was miscommunication.”

  “I don’t think fifty thousand dollars is something you’d miscommunicate. And certainly not a million dollars.”

  “I do recall mentioning that the Madison Foundation might wish to express its gratitude for my finding the missing RP-78—perhaps by a monetary reward. But I’m not sure of my exact words. I may even have given some suggested dollar amounts. I don’t recall. But there was no demand.” He smiled. “Unfortunately, we have no record of what was said by either party.”

  Warren glanced to his left and caught Lang frowning. In Texas, a phone conversation could be recorded if one of the two parties gave permission, but the initial call from Chavez had come to Lang’s cell phone, and it was highly unlikely the agent taped his phone conversations. He’d have to check into that later. As for the second call, the one Lang made to Chavez, Warren searched his memory and decided that recording wouldn’t help. The Colombian doctor hadn’t really made an extortion demand.

  “So how did you come to find the missing drugs?” Warren asked, anxious to move on.

  “I was outside the loading dock behind the hospital having a cigarette,” Chavez said. “I saw a cooler sitting nearby. I have to admit that, although it was none of my business, my curiosity got the best of me. I opened it, recognized the contents, and made my call to Ms. Marks.”

  There was a light tap at the door, and a patrolman entered. He bent to whisper in Warren’s ear. “Say that again.” The patrolman repeated what he’d said.

  “Thanks. Be sure a crime scene crew is rolling to the scene. I’ll be right behind.”

  Chavez’s expression was one of puzzlement. This seemed like more of a response than finding the cooler in his car would cause. “May I ask what’s going on?” he said.

  “Dr. Chavez, in view of this new evidence, you may wish to reconsider your decision to represent yourself.” Warren pulled a plastic-laminated card from his shirt pocket and read, “I’ll refresh your memory. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.”

  “I don’t understand,” Chavez said. “What new evidence do you have? Explain.”

  Warren pushed back from the table. “How about finding a cigarette lighter with your initials engraved on it at the scene of a murder?”

  “Murder? What murder?”

  “The patrolman told me that one of the hospital staff was taking a smoke break outside the loading dock in the rear of the building when he found a body hidden behind one of the dumpsters there.” Warren motioned Lang to follow him. He paused at the door and turned back to Chavez. “For right now, they’re going to put you in a cell, but when we get back we’ll talk about the murder of the night relief nurse on President Madison’s ward—Barbara Carper.”

  20

  Josh and Rachel were in Allison’s car, on their way back to Prestonwood Hospital. “No answer,” he said, stowing his cell phone in his pocket.

  “Lang or Warren?” Rachel asked.

  “Neither one is answering,” Josh said.

  They were near the hospital now, prompting Rachel to say, “I still don’t see why I have to go back to the hospital.”

  Josh had been afraid that a taste of freedom would lead to this line of reasoning from Rachel. On the one hand, he’d been glad to have her along for the search. However, he knew that it would be best if she were kept under observation for at least the remaining four days of her treatment, with regular outpatient visits after that. After all, this wasn’t a simple strep throat. This was an infection generally considered to be lethal. And despite the success of RP-78 to that point, Josh wasn’t willing to consider the cure a certainty—nor forget the possibility of late effects of the experimental drug.

  When Rachel reminded the two doctors that David Madison was already out of the hospital, they were quick to point out that he’d basically signed himself out against medical advice. “We think it’s prudent to have you—and Mr. Madison, if he’d followed our recommendations—under close observation until you finish a course of RP-78,” Allison said, her eyes never leaving the road.

  Josh was about to mention the need for continuing exams, including blood tests looking for major organ malfunction, but he stopped when flashing lights caught his eye. To get to the physicians’ parking lot at Prestonwood Hospital, they were circling around the side of the building. A number of cars with colored lights flashing—some on bars atop them or hidden behind their grilles—were parked helter-skelter around the loading dock. Although twilight was advancing, portable floodlights illuminated the area of the loading dock behind the hospital.

  “Hang on,” Josh said to Allison. “Stop for a second. I want to see what’s going on.”

  Allison brought the car to a halt and everyone scanned the scene. “I wonder what all that’s about.” she said.

  “I don’t know,” Josh replied, “But I think it’s worth checking out.”

  Allison put her car in gear and drove slowly toward the assembly. They stopped at a strip of yellow crime scene tape that blocked the road. A Dallas police officer approached their car, and Allison lowered her window. “Sorry, folks.” He looked at the decal on the car’s windshield. “If you’ll go back the way you came, you can circle the hospital in the other direction to reach the doctors’ parking lot.”

  “Why can’t we see what’s going on?” Josh asked.

  “Crime scene,” the officer replied. “Now if you—”

  “Wait,” called a familiar voice. Detective Warren separated himself from the group near the loading dock and took a few steps toward the car. “Murphy, let them through. I have some questions for them. All of them.”

  ***

  “No need for you to see the body,” Warren said as Allison, Rachel, and Josh exited their parked car. “The worker who discovered it has already identified her for us. Let’s step over here so I can ask you some questions.” He inclined his head toward an empty police car at the periphery of the activity.

  “Who is it?” Rachel asked.

  Warren consulted his notebook. “Barbara Carper. She was—”

  “The night nurse who took care of David Madison and me,” Rachel said. “What happened?”

  “We’ll get to that,” Warren said. “Right now, I need each of you to confirm your whereabouts for the last three hours or so. You can come by police headquarters tomorrow to finish the process.”

  “I’ll go first,” Rachel said. She ducked into the passenger seat of the nearest police car, while Warren climbed behind the wheel.

  Josh and Allison stood by, each lost in th
eir own thoughts. After a couple of minutes, Josh said, “I wonder—”

  “Should we be talking with each other?” asked Allison.

  “He didn’t tell us not to, which tells me he really doesn’t suspect us,” Josh replied. “As I was saying, I wonder if this ties in with the disappearance of the RP-78.”

  “I’m wondering if there isn’t more to it than that,” Allison said. “I think it’s all tied together. It began with someone infecting David Madison and Rachel Moore while they were in South America.”

  “Then there was the disappearance of Ben Lambert’s body.”

  “And the man who tried to shoot Madison.”

  “Now this nurse turns up dead, shortly after Madison’s supply of RP-78 goes missing,” Josh said. “It’s certainly complicated.”

  “And what we found in Ben Lambert’s office doesn’t make it any easier to understand.”

  “Well, I intend to tell Warren about it when it’s my turn to be interviewed,” Josh said.

  “Do you think we compromised the investigation by searching the office?”

  “No, as Lambert’s colleague and successor I had every right to look around there,” Josh said. “Since there were three of us together, there’s no way we could have planted anything. I’ll just tell him about searching the office for notes about Madison’s care and finding the safe in the closet. After that, we’ll leave it up to him.”

  “What about the combination to the safe and the things we found in it?”

  Josh shook his head. “If we discovered the safe and the combination, you can be sure the police will as well.” He looked up as Warren and Rachel approached. Josh opened the door and climbed out of Allison’s car. “Then we’ll see how they think this all fits together.”

  ***

  Karen Marks frowned as she ended the call. She’d tried three times to contact Dr. Pearson, and each time there’d been no answer. Until she could get in touch with Pearson, the problem of treating David Madison remained partially unsolved.

  As she often did when sitting at her desk thinking, Karen pulled a pad toward her and began doodling. First she drew a question mark, outlining it and shading the interior to achieve a three-dimensional effect. The question, of course, was whether the vial recovered from Chavez was a dummy of some sort. She agreed with Jerry Lang that that was probably the case. But that conclusion led to another problem.

  Next, she drew a stylized caduceus . . . or was it a staff of Aesculapius? In either case, the next question was medical. She had to contact Dr. Pearson and see if he’d resume caring for David Madison until this illness was definitely controlled or cured or whatever the medical term was. Dr. Dietz didn’t want to take over at this point, and Madison had discharged Dr. Pearson. Until she could contact Pearson and convince him to step back into the picture, her boss was a patient without a doctor.

  On a second page of the pad, Karen drew an airplane—a representation of a fighter jet. A Navy pilot was waiting at Dobbins Air Base to receive the vial of RP-78 from Dr. Gaschen and fly it here, but Atlanta was experiencing terrible storms. Although rain wasn’t a problem for airplanes, high winds and lightning had forced a ground stop, preventing flight line crews—even military ones—from carrying out the tasks necessary for planes to get on their way. The best predictions were that the weather would break in about three hours. But would that delay be a problem for Madison’s continued treatment?

  The solution to this last problem lay in using a dose from Rachel Moore’s treatment vial, but that required the cooperation of Dr. Allison Neeves. Karen’s last doodle was a telephone, with a line through it, because three calls to Dr. Neeves had gone unanswered so far.

  Oh, David, if you only realized what I do for you. Well, one day he’d know. In the meantime . . . she reached for her phone to try another call.

  ***

  David Madison was home . . . and enjoying it immensely. Not even when he called the White House his residence did he luxuriate as he now did in the feeling of being “home.”

  Why had it taken him so long to exert himself and demand that Dr. Pearson discharge him from the hospital? He should have done it as soon as his fever broke. Well, maybe not at that instant, but certainly as soon as the doctor declared that isolation precautions were no longer necessary. Oh, he knew he’d need more injections of that drug, whatever its name, but surely he could arrange for a nurse to come by once a day to give them. Meanwhile, he had papers on his desk to read and sign, decisions to make, things that had been piling up for two weeks while he was in South America and then virtually incarcerated in Prestonwood Hospital. But that was about to change. He was back at home, back in charge.

  He sat in his study, comfortable in jeans and a golf shirt, when his wife appeared in the doorway. “You’re an idiot,” she said. There was probably no one else in the world who could have called David Madison an idiot and gotten away with it, but Mildred could. She didn’t do it often, but when she did, he listened—because she was generally right.

  Madison removed his reading glasses and looked up at his wife. “Why do you say that?” he asked. His tone was casual. There was no need to argue. He’d learned to pay attention.

  “Dr. Pearson saved your life, then you decided you know more medicine than he does.”

  “But—”

  She continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “He was handpicked by Ben Lambert, who you’d known since childhood, to succeed him as your physician. You were all set to let him punch and poke, take care of your everyday ailments, but when something really serious happened, you began having doubts. He diagnosed an illness that’s unheard of in the United States, one that’s been universally fatal for years. He found an experimental drug that might cure you. He worked miracles to get it and start treatment. Then when you were feeling better, you decided you wanted to go home. Not only that, you listened to that Dr. Dietz, who’s more of an administrator than a physician, and let him persuade you to name him your personal physician.”

  Madison grimaced as his wife talked. What she said hurt, but what hurt most was that he realized she was right. Pearson had worked what amounted to a miracle to save two lives—his and Rachel Moore’s—and David had shown his gratitude by walking away with the process unfinished. And Dietz had made a very convincing argument about letting someone with an impressive curriculum vitae take over the position as physician to the ex-president. Unfortunately, whereas Dietz had written numerous papers, contributed textbook chapters, and garnered teaching honors throughout the world, Pearson had produced results when it counted—when Madison’s very life was on the line.

  When he was sure his wife was through talking, Madison paused to chew on one of the temple pieces of his glasses as he considered her words. Then, as he’d done so many times in his life, both personal and professional, he said to his wife, “You’re right. Tell me how I should fix this.”

  ***

  Detective Stan Warren leaned forward in his chair as though to emphasize the earnestness of his words. “The Secret Service agent who heads Madison’s detail keeps telling me how important it is that we keep a lid on this one. It’s absolutely imperative that word doesn’t get out that Madison’s been terminally ill, or that he’s anything but fit as a fiddle.”

  Lieutenant Pat Donovan glanced up to make certain the door to his office was closed. The blinds that covered the plate-glass window on one wall were drawn, separating him and Warren from the rest of the detective squad. The clock on his wall said it was almost nine at night, well past time for him to leave, but Warren had said it was important they meet. “Why is that?”

  “He didn’t say, but I’ve got an idea. Madison’s foundation is about to choose a site for a clinic in Colombia. Some of the people who control medical facilities in that area aren’t too happy about the competition. If the story gets out that Madison’s not in good health, especially if rumor has it that he’s not sound up here”—he tapped his head—“the Foundation Board might question his decision.”
r />   “And if he’s critically ill? Or even if he dies?”

  “The whole thing goes on the back burner.”

  “So where do you want to go from here?” Donovan asked.

  “I think we’ve got four different crimes. There are the attacks on Madison—infecting him with some sort of unusual bacteria, then trying to shoot him. Then we have the Ben Lambert thing—the mysterious disappearance of his body, plus what Pearson found in his office yesterday. And we have Chavez—did he really try to extort money from Madison’s Foundation in return for the last of that drug? Finally, the murder of Barbara Carper—is that related to any of this?”

  Seeing Donovan nod, Warren continued. “Here’s what I’m going to do. See if it makes sense to you.”

  The lieutenant tented his fingers and leaned back in his chair. “I’m listening.”

  “Although it’s really his case, Lang can’t backtrack the hired assassin who stole Lambert’s body and took a shot at Madison without risking information getting out about the illness. The ex-president is adamant that we have to keep a lid of secrecy on the whole affair. We can do our own investigating, but it might involve some long-distance and international phone calls, and I may need your help getting access to some of this information.”

  “Okay.”

  “I want to follow up on what was found when we searched Lambert’s office after Pearson’s tip. I’d like you to put Robinson on that. He’s sharp, and he’s a whiz with the computer in case we need to chase down something. And he might be able to help find out who hired the assassin, too.”

  “Done.”

  “Meanwhile, I’m going to make Chavez my personal project.”

  “What about the Carper murder?”

  “I can only do so much,” Warren said. “You can let another team investigate it, but I want them to keep me in the loop.”

  “Okay,” the lieutenant said. “Do it. And keep me posted.”

  ***

  “Derek, thanks for flying back with the RP-78,” Josh said. “And for your help in managing the two patients with Bacillus decimus infection.”