Deadly Science

by Ken Brigham

  Entering the alley from Church Street, Mitchell Rook walked under the big arch emblazoned with the words Printers Alley in brilliant red neon and into the carnival montage of sound and light that was just taking shape in hopes of luring in clientele for the clubs as the evening wore on. Rook thought it a gaudy and tasteless scene, but then maybe that was the point of the alley; perhaps gaud and tastelessness were its raison d’etre. But who’d want to live there?

  It was easy to locate the address he was looking for. The building was on the right just past the middle of the block-long alley and it was the only building with a balcony. Following the instructions that Dr. Karpov had given him on the phone, he went to the door that opened from the ground level and pressed the button beneath the words Karpov/Hadley in bold black letters in some unusual font that Rook couldn’t identify. There was a loud buzz that signaled release of the door and Rook entered. The elevator door that occupied half the wall of the small foyer promptly opened and he got on. After the short ride to floor 2, the door opened and he exited directly into the center of a large living room tastefully furnished in expensive modern furniture and into the presence of a beautiful blond woman and a thin handsome man sitting in a wheelchair and fondling a glass of wine.

  Katya walked over to Rook and extended her hand.

  “Mr. Rook,” she said, “I’m Katya Karpov.”

  “Yes, Dr. Karpov,” Rook replied. “I recognize you from your picture on the university web site. But do call me Mitchell.”

  “An awful picture, and I’m Katya, please,” she said, then gesturing toward Shane she continued, “This is my husband, Shane Hadley.”

  Shane wheeled himself over to the visitor and they shook hands.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you Mr. Rook,…er…Mitchell,” Shane said. “Please have a seat. May I offer you a sherry? It’s a special wine from my old Oxford College and it’s quite a pleasant beverage.”

  “That would be very nice,” Mitchell replied.

  As Shane went to the bar, poured a glass of wine for their visitor and refreshed his own glass, Katya showed Mitchell to the sofa and took a seat opposite him in a comfortable leather chair that she liked. Shane delivered the wine to Rook and parked himself just beyond the margin of the space separating Katya and Mitchell. Katya and Shane had discussed this earlier, and agreed that this was to be Katya’s conversation and Shane would be only an observer, a role with which he was entirely comfortable.

  Shane’s observations of their visitor to that point were focused on his accent and his shoes. The accent was that of a southerner who had spent time elsewhere and had consciously attempted to shed the unmistakable vocal evidence of his origins. That effort was almost never completely successful. A few tenacious residua of a person’s original way of speaking invariably persisted and were obvious at least to the practiced and attentive ear. And the shoes. Rook was a slim, fit middle-aged man wearing an obviously expensive sport coat and trousers, an elegant pale blue shirt, probably silk, open at the throat and then the incongruent shoes—black clunky numbers that resembled orthopedic appliances of some kind more than shoes that would have been appropriate for the rest of the attorney’s outfit. Shane was forever intrigued by incongruities. He thought that incongruities were unconscious attempts to convey the message that things might not be exactly what they appear to be to the casual observer. Shane suspected that there was a great deal more to Mitchell Rook than he wished them to perceive.

  Rook sipped from his glass and said, “Very nice, Shane, a very nice sherry,” he gestured toward Shane with his glass, and turned his attention to Katya. “I’m sure that this may seem an odd disturbance of your evening, Katya, but I appreciate you taking the time for us to talk.”

  “That’s true, Mitchell,” she replied. “But I’m happy to help if I can.”

  She felt a little uncomfortable calling the stranger by his given name. It seemed to imply a level of intimacy that she didn’t feel.

  Mitchell said simply, “Thank you,” and drank another swallow of the wine.

  “Before I answer whatever questions you have,” Katya began. “Can you tell me how you identified me as someone who might be able to help you?”

  “Of course,” he replied. “As I said on the phone I’m working with a client who has a business relationship with the company, Renaptix, Inc., the startup company out of the university that was founded by Professor Cyrus Bartalak who is, I believe, the chairman of the department where you work.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I’m responsible for doing what we lawyers call due diligence on the company.”

  “I’m not likely to be much help to you, Mitchell,” Katya said. “I’m a physician and a scientist. I have nothing to do with Dr. Bartalak’s business ventures and know nothing about them.”

  Rook answered, “I’m aware of that which is the reason I wanted to talk with you specifically. The company’s sole asset is the new drug for Alzheimer’s disease that’s in clinical trials and I understand that you’re one of the investigators doing the trials. Is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Katya answered. “I’m responsible for the clinical examinations that are part of the study of the drug. The laboratory testing is not my responsibility.”

  “I understand,” Mitchell paused for another sip of sherry.

  Katya felt a little uncomfortable with the conversation. She and Shane had spent the afternoon composing the scientific misconduct letter which she intended to deliver to the dean and so her concerns about the drug study were fresh in her mind. She wanted to be certain that she didn’t reveal anything inappropriate to this stranger. She had also, uncharacteristically, consumed several glasses of sherry over the afternoon and so would have to pay close attention to be sure that it was she and not the wine that was doing the talking.

  “According to my client,” Rook continued, “Dr. Bartalak is extremely excited about the preliminary results of the drug studies. Is that your impression?”

  He paused a moment and when she did not respond, continued, “Oh, but I didn’t answer your question about how I came to seek you out, did I? Well, a member of the medical faculty and I were undergraduate classmates at the university many years ago and we still stay in occasional contact. I asked him about who was involved in the study of Dr. Bartalak’s drug, and he mentioned you as a possibility.”

  “Who is your friend?” Katya asked.

  “Syd Shelling,” he answered, “I think he’s a pathologist or something. Not sure exactly what he does.”

  Katya didn’t respond but she wondered how much Syd had told his old classmate. Katya was pretty sure that Syd wouldn’t share anything she had told him in confidence. Syd just wouldn’t do that. But, she wondered what else he might have told Rook.

  “So,” Rook continued, “no real mystery there. And the preliminary results? Do you share Dr. Bartalak’s enthusiasm?”

  “Some of the preliminary results are quite interesting,” Katya replied. “But they are preliminary.”

  “Of course, of course,” Mitchell said. “But apparently Dr. Bartalak is very excited about them. I don’t sense that you share that excitement. Is that correct?”

  “I’m a scientist, Mitchell. We scientists tend to be excessively skeptical, I suppose.”

  “Are you implying that Dr. Bartalak isn’t a scientist?”

  “No, of course not,” Katya answered. “He has a distinguished scientific reputation. But Cy has other skills that I don’t share. Not many academicians are Cy’s equal as communicators.”

  “I understand that. My client has made the same observation…And Dr. Bartalak’s wife,” Mitchell continued, “I understand that she is also part of the investigative team?”

  Rook noticed a distinct twitch of the right side of Katya’s face.

  “Yes, Beth is the biostatistician on the study,” Katya replied.

  When Rook paused as though thinking of what to ask next, Katya rose from her chair and said, “It’s getting rather
late, Mitchell, and my husband and I haven’t eaten dinner yet. I don’t think there is anything more that I can help you with.”

  “Of course, of course,” Rook said, rising and walking over to shake her hand. “I really do appreciate you permitting the intrusion. This has been very helpful. Let me leave you my business card.” He took a small leather case from his pocket, extracted one of the beige cards, and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else that might be of interest, please do contact me.”

  “Thank you,” she replied as she ushered him to the elevator and pressed the call button.

  “Good to meet you, Mitchell,” Shane called to their visitor, waving at him from across the room; those were the only words that he had spoken since Rook and Katya began their conversation.

  As Rook made his way back down the hill to the Batman Building garage to retrieve his car, he reflected on the conversation with Dr. Karpov. She had been deliberately evasive, he thought. Dr. Bartalak “has a distinguished scientific reputation,” rather than he is a distinguished scientist. And retreating behind a cliché—the excessively skeptical scientist—instead of saying whether she agreed with her boss about the interpretation of the preliminary data. And his mention of Bartalak’s wife that caused Dr. Karpov to abruptly conclude the interview, had clearly struck a nerve. It was obvious from his conversation with Syd Shelling and this conversation with Katya Karpov that both of them knew something that was too important to reveal to him. That’s the information he needed. Rook resolved to have another go at his old classmate. That seemed to be his best chance. Rook had a special feeling of antipathy for crooked businessmen. He wouldn’t allow an academic conspiracy of silence to protect this Bartalak guy if he was a crook.

  Cy Bartalak was feeling a complex mixture of exhilaration and concern as he drove home from the medical center. He had managed to convince the DSMB to take the action that he wanted. He had made certain that his investors understood the significance of what was happening. He had called Susanna Gomez, his contact at Global Pharmaceuticals, Inc. and opened the conversation, he thought effectively, that just might culminate in a deal. He sensed that his GPI contact was trying to restrain her enthusiasm when he told her about the preliminary results with the drug, but he could sense that she had taken the bait. He would get at least a verbal deal done quickly. He would bet on that.

  Bartalak also thought about the autopsy report on his drive out West End to his home in Belle Meade. Belle Meade. He had done his homework before moving to Nashville and had concluded that he needed a presence in the old area whose residents were for the most part people who comprised an echelon of Nashville society entry into which could not be bought. No problem. Cy had no particular need to break into the social scene. He needed access to the city’s money and putting a foot on the ground in that part of the city was a potential entrée into old money. New money was another issue, but area of residence and lifestyle were less important to accessing the assets of the nouveau riche. Cy had some experience in how to go about charming the new rich who often believed their good fortune was a result of their superior intellect. Cy’s experience had taught him otherwise. He had found that people who got rich on their own were by and large the fortunate recipients of the largesse of the Fates rather than because of any exceptional personal qualities. Those guys were an easy sell for the most part.

  But the autopsy report haunted Cy for several reasons. He was still concerned about the mysterious way that the report had arrived in his office. Who might have left it? And why should they be concerned about revealing themselves? And then there was the content of the report. The fact that some pathologist had made some vague comments about findings in what remained of Bagley’s brain probably didn’t really mean anything. Even if it did, there would be no more information obtained from the unfortunate Mr. Bagley, so the cause of the nebulous autopsy findings would never be known. But, if those autopsy results became common knowledge and if someone linked the unfortunate Mr. Bagley to the clinical study of RX-01, the value of the drug and therefore the startup company, perhaps even any possible deal with Global Pharmaceuticals, might be compromised. Timing was critical.

  He headed the black Mercedes up Jackson Boulevard, turned left through the black iron gates and maneuvered the car up the winding driveway. He pressed the button signaling the garage door to open and parked the car inside.

  Upon entering the house, he was surprised that Beth didn’t greet him. She was always alert to his arrival and often waited for him at the door.

  He dropped his battered briefcase by the door and called out, “Beth, Beth. I’m home.”

  When there was no answer, he went to the den, again expecting that his wife would be there preparing, as usual, the dry martini that he favored at the end of the day. But, the door to the bar was closed and the room was dark. He switched on the lights and looked around the room. He almost didn’t notice that a high backed chair had been repositioned with its back toward the room, facing the French doors that looked out on the formal garden. He walked over to the chair.

  Beth sat there, staring out at the garden. She wore a pair of cherry red running shorts and a cropped sky blue T-shirt, both of which appeared fresh; although dressed for it, she didn’t appear to have been running. She held a piece of paper in her hand.

  “Beth?” he said.

  She turned and looked up at him.

  “Oh, Cy,” she said, slipping the piece of paper under the waistband of her shorts. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Although he had been aware of some changes in his wife’s behavior of late, this was the first time that it registered with him that something clearly wasn’t right.

  “Are you OK, Beth?” he asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m fine. Maybe I’m coming down with a virus or something.”

  But Cy didn’t think that she was alright. And he didn’t think it was a virus. There was something troubling about the vacant and unfocused way she looked at him. He thought about her recent behavior—less time spent at work, less concern about her appearance. Cy’s professional experience made him wonder about drugs. But Beth was practically obsessive about her diet, and her exercise routine was a matter of pride. She was careful about her body. He just didn’t think that Beth was the type to get involved with recreational drugs.

  “Are you sure you’re OK?” he repeated. “You haven’t been quite yourself for a while now. Maybe it’s time you got a thorough checkup.”

  “I’ll do that, if it’s what you want me to do,” Beth said absently.

  “Good, good,” he replied. “I’ll call Oscar Orbitz tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll arrange to see you. If he’s in town, he’ll probably even carve out some time to see you tomorrow.”

  Oscar Orbitz, known as The Double-O among the characteristically irreverent medical students, was chairman of the department of medicine. He was a world-famous endocrinologist who had achieved fame by discovering a minor hormone produced by the adrenal glands, a rare deficiency of which caused a clinical syndrome that bore his name. No doubt he had a grueling schedule, but if Cy insisted, Orbitz would make time to see Beth.

  “That’s fine, Cy,” Beth said. “That’s fine.”

  She turned back to stare out at the garden.

  Chapter 25

  Shane placed the call immediately after he saw Katya off to work. Katya had not slept well, and her restlessness had kept Shane awake much of the night as well. Neither of them said much as Katya showered, dressed for work, and sat with Shane for coffee and a bowl of instant oatmeal that he prepared for their breakfast. The events of the previous day—the ordeal of preparing the letter and the odd visit from Mitchell Rook—weighed on Katya and also concerned Shane. As Katya placed the brown envelope containing the letter to the dean in her briefcase, she hesitated for a moment and then snapped the case closed, slung it over her shoulder, kissed Shane and set off to do the deed that she felt compelled to do but the consequences of which she feared. It seemed li
kely that she was embarking on a course of action that would change their lives. She didn’t want her life changed. She liked it the way it was.

  Shane had obtained the number of the Pinellas county sheriff’s office in Greensward, Texas, from a real live information operator, an anachronism that was only one of many in that area of Texas. His call was answered by a female voice with what sounded to him like a rural Texas drawl. When he identified himself, stating his association with the Nashville metro police in the investigation of a crime and requesting to speak to the sheriff, the voice said something that sounded like “S-h-o-r-e-I-l-l-r-i-n-g-B-u-d-d-y-f-o-r-y-a,” the words stretched out to the limits of their tensile strength but run together with no distinct spaces between them. There was a rather long pause and then the call went through and the sheriff answered after a couple of rings.

  “This here’s Shurf Tisdel,” the sheriff answered.

  “Yes, Sheriff Teasdale,” Shane responded, deliberately pronouncing the man’s name with care, feeling the need to emphasize the contrast between his and the sheriff’s speech pattern. “Thank you for taking my call.”

  “Jes’ say what you got to say, boy,” Teasdale answered. “I’ll help if I can but can’t take all day with it. Got my own stuff to worry about.”