Deadly Science

by Ken Brigham

  The phone rang, and she answered it immediately. “This is Katya Karpov.”

  “Oh, Dr. Karpov,” the dean’s secretary responded. “I’m glad to catch you. I was afraid you’d be at lunch. Dean Corbett can give you a half-hour at one if that’s alright. He’ll just delay attending his scheduled one o’clock. Can you be here then?”

  Katya answered. “I’ll be there, Lynda, thank you.”

  It was quarter to one. Katya picked up the envelope and held it, staring at the digital clock on her desk for the next ten minutes and then left her office, took the stairs to the sixth floor, and made her way to the office of the dean.

  Harmon Corbitt had been medical dean at the university for twenty years. It was, he thought at the time he accepted the position, exactly the job he wanted, and that had turned out to be true. He had played a major role in increasing the size and the academic quality of the school faculty. He had spearheaded a major expansion of the physical facilities for both the clinical and research components of the enterprise. Research funding for the school had quintupled since he took over. He had developed exceptional skills as a fundraiser and had even come to enjoy that role. He had generally good relationships with both the university board of trust and his faculty.

  He had to admit, though, to himself if not to others, that there had been a major shift in the direction of medical institutions in recent years. There was an emerging new breed of leaders who appeared to be setting the course for the future. These people were different than the old school academicians whom the dean had always admired. This new breed marched to a different drummer.

  As he awaited the arrival of Katya Karpov for her urgently requested appointment, he thought specifically of his department of psychiatry. The transition of leadership of that department had been difficult for Dean Corbitt, but he was satisfied that the right thing had been done. While he had great respect and affection for Larry Walker, the world of academic psychiatry had passed him by. Cy Bartalak was of the new generation of bright, articulate, effective academic entrepreneurs who were the future not just of this institution but of academic medicine in general. It was that conviction that led Corbitt to recruit Bartalak and his group from Houston, and that had turned out to be a stellar move. Bartalak had not only had a major impact on the institution’s research funding from federal and foundation sources, but had, in just a few short years, come up with this unique drug that may just prove to be the major pharmacological advance for chronic neurodegenerative diseases to happen in the last century. There was the potential for enormous institutional credit for such a major advance in therapy and they also stood to reap substantial monetary rewards. Corbitt knew, of course, that there was a ways to go before discovering whether those things would turn out to be true. Bartalak knew that too. But the potential was there.

  Granted, Corbitt thought, Bartalak was aggressive. His push to ascend to the chairmanship was ahead of the schedule that both the dean and Bartalak had agreed on when the psychiatrist was originally recruited. But it was true that Larry Walker was on the downside of the academic hill. And Bartalak didn’t resist the dean’s insistence that he keep Katya Karpov on the faculty, even though it was common knowledge that she was a special favorite of Walker’s. Corbitt insisted on keeping her on the faculty because she was a rising star, and there were far too few of those around.

  Corbitt got up from behind his desk and walked around to greet Katya when the secretary showed her in. They shook hands and he motioned her to a sofa in the corner of his large office that he used to meet with visitors. He took a seat in an upholstered chair opposite her.

  “Can I have Lynda bring some coffee?” Corbitt asked.

  “No, thank you,” Katya replied.

  Corbitt met with Katya only occasionally, and it had been a while since they last spoke. He had forgotten what a striking woman she was. It wasn’t just her physical appearance, but that she seemed to radiate an air of modest self-confidence, maybe self-assuredness was a better word for it. Someone had described her to him once as pleasantly aggressive, a description that he thought oxymoronic at the time, but there was truth to it.

  “What can I do for you, Katya? Why the urgency?” Corbitt had only half an hour to spare and wanted to get whatever this matter was dealt with expeditiously.

  “Thank you for making time to see me, Harmon. I realize how busy you must be,” Katya said, aware that the dean had always insisted that the faculty address him by his given name.

  “Of course, of course,” he responded. “Never too busy to deal with urgent matters of my faculty. So what is it?”

  “I’ve come to do a very unpleasant task,” she began. “Unpleasant for me, in fact, the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. And it will be unpleasant for you as well and for a lot of others.”

  “What could possibly be so ominous, Katya?” Corbitt said, leaning forward and looking directly into her green eyes.

  Katya laid the envelope she had in her hand on the coffee table between them and continued. “This envelope contains a confidential letter to you leveling a charge of scientific misconduct against Beth Bartalak…”

  “My God, Katya,” the dean interrupted her. “You can’t be serious. I mean, I know the two of you have had your differences. Cy has told me about that. But scientific misconduct? Come now, Katya.”

  “I realize the gravity of this, Harmon, and it is not done without a lot of agonizing. However, as you’ll see from the other documents, I have what I believe to be incontrovertible proof that Beth has falsified data related to the study of this Alzheimer’s drug of Cy’s that makes the results of the study appear more favorable than they actually are.”

  “How could you possibly have such information? Where did it come from?”

  “I’m hesitant to tell you only because it reflects negatively on me. But I obtained it from Beth Bartalak’s laboratory computer without her permission. I recognize that is an ethical violation and accept responsibility for it. At the time I did it, I thought it was justified.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Corbitt exploded. “I can’t believe this, Katya, any of it. I can’t believe that you of all people would compromise your ethics. And I certainly can’t believe that this charge has any merit. There has to be an explanation. Have you discussed this with Cy?”

  “Yes, I have. I told him of my suspicion and gave him most of the documentation that is included in this envelope. As far as I know he’s taken no action. That’s why I’ve come to you. I don’t think I have a choice at this point. And there is another thing.”

  “Please don’t tell me anything can be worse than what you’ve already said.”

  “Possibly so. The initial subject in the clinical trial of the drug was the elderly gentleman who was murdered in Printers Alley recently.”

  “Old Bonz Bagley?” the dean asked.

  “Yes. He is the only subject to have completed the six month study. He had completed the laboratory tests and was scheduled to come in the day after his murder for the final clinical examination.”

  “Too bad on all counts,” Corbitt responded. “But how is that relevant?”

  “It may be relevant because of the coroner’s autopsy findings. Although Mr. Bagley was shot several times in the head, so that much of his brain was destroyed, parts of what remained showed what was interpreted as possible exposure to a neurotoxic chemical.”

  “Who knows what the old guy was exposed to? What’s your point?”

  “We know that he was exposed to the experimental drug over six months. And the data from the lab tests that I retrieved from Beth’s computer are entirely consistent with some severe injury to critical areas of his brain.”

  Forty-five minutes had elapsed since Katya entered the dean’s office. The secretary knocked on the door and cracked it to remind the dean that he was way overdue for a meeting.

  “Look, Katya,” Corbitt said, summoning his most decanal tone of voice. “Let me review what you’ve brought here. I will keep it in con
fidence until I’ve had time to decide what to do. I will, of course, go through with the investigation of whatever charge you wish to bring. You are aware that there is a process for doing that. I will do everything I can to protect the integrity of this institution. Rest assured of that. But, I must say that I find this difficult to believe. I also must tell you that I hope to God you’re wrong.”

  “Thank you, Harmon, That’s all anyone could expect. And, for the record, I also hope to God that I’m wrong.”

  They left the office together without speaking further. They parted in the corridor. The dean scurried off to his important meeting. Katya took the stairs down a flight and returned to her office. The deed was done.

  Dom Petrillo exited the Kefauver Building and walked the short block south on Broadway past what had been the grand old central city post office building now reincarnated as an art museum. He entered the Union Station Hotel just beyond, also a reincarnation, a hotel instead of the main train station that it had been for years until the passenger rail business dried up. He entered the bar directly from the side entrance that faced Broadway, ordered a Manhattan, and sat down at a small table in the corner of the room to await Mitchell Rook’s arrival.

  By the time Petrillo had returned Rook’s call, it was almost six and Rook suggested that they meet for a drink at the bar in the hotel that was close to Petrillo’s office and also on Rook’s route home. Rook said they needed to talk and he preferred that they do it in person. Petrillo was anxious to discover what information his old colleague had been able to garner. Petrillo thought that they were making some progress on the Bartalak case. He was anxious to pull the trigger on the planned sting as soon as they had enough information to support that decision. They didn’t have that yet and Petrillo thought that Rook had the best chance of getting it. Maybe he had done that.

  “So, tell me what you’ve got,” Petrillo said just as Rook was joining him at the small table.

  “Let me order a drink and I’ll fill you in,” Rook replied. “I think we may be close.”

  The room had filled up, and Rook was unable to attract the attention of a waitress. He got up, went over to the bar and ordered an extra dry gin martini, stirred, up with a single olive. As with most of what he did, Mitchell Rook gave very precise instructions for preparing the drink. He felt strongly about the importance of controlling with precision the things in his life that affected him directly.

  “Sure,” the bartender sighed. “I’ll have the girl bring it to you. You’re in the corner with the fed guy, right?”

  “Right,” Mitchell smiled.

  Seated back at the table, he said. “Well, Dom, it looks like some fecal matter is about to encounter the wind currents.”

  Petrillo smiled and said. “Go on. But first, can you tell me how you came by this information? Is it credible?”

  “No and yes,” Rook replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t tell you my source; I vowed I wouldn’t reveal it. But it is credible. I’m sure of that.”

  “OK, shoot.”

  “It seems,” Mitchell began. “That our Dr. Karpov believes that she has information indicating that Bartalak’s wife, Beth, the biostatistician, fudged some of the data from the subjects in the drug study.”

  “How solid is the information? Does she have documents? Does Cy Bartalak know about this?”

  “My source, whom I trust and who knows Dr. Karpov well, says that she does have documentation but that she obtained it at least unethically and maybe even illegally. My source hasn’t seen the documents, but is certain that Karpov has them. He also says that Karpov went directly to her boss, gave him copies of her documentation, and told him about her suspicions, but that he hasn’t done anything about it.”

  “Any way we can get our hands on the documents?”

  “From my brief encounter with Dr. Karpov, I seriously doubt that. She was very guarded with me. And she’s married to that ex-detective, so he’s likely advising her as well.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “There’s more information,” Rook said.

  An attractive young woman wearing a short black skirt and a black T-shirt with the words Jolly Roger scrawled beneath a large skull and crossbones on its front approached their table, placed Rook’s martini in front of him without speaking and walked off swaying her hips and dangling the drink tray at her side.

  “Yes?” Petrillo queried. “What more information?”

  Rook sipped from his drink and said. “It seems that Dr. Karpov is going to lodge a formal complaint of scientific misconduct against Beth Bartalak with the dean of the medical school. That will precipitate an internal investigation. And…”

  “Sure,” Petrillo interrupted. “But they’ll claim it’s not true. Those investigations are done by faculty committees, and we know how rare it is for those guys to hang one of their own. I doubt if medical faculties are any different from faculties of law or anything else.”

  Rook responded. “That may well be, but here’s the other development. Bartalak has stopped the drug study because of the marked positive effect it appears to have had on the few subjects studied. He thinks he has enough to do a deal, probably with Big Pharma, that would greatly increase the value of the startup company. And, if there was this charge of scientific misconduct hanging over the thing, that alone might be enough to queer the pharma deal, regardless of the eventual outcome of the investigation.”

  “Hmmm,” Petrillo said. “So timing. Timing is critical. We need to spring the trap before there is common knowledge of the scientific misconduct charge, but after Bartalak is close enough to finalizing a deal to make it credible to unload his interest in the startup at an inflated price.”

  “My thinking exactly,” Rook said.

  “When is Karpov going to file the charge?”

  “My source didn’t know that but suspected that she would do it sooner rather than later. Could have done it already. But the way these things work, apparently it will take the dean a little time to review the charge, appoint a committee, all that stuff. So it won’t be common knowledge for a little while.”

  “What about the other piece? Where is Bartalak in the dealing process?”

  “I don’t know that either, but he’ll move fast. He’ll move especially fast if he knows something that he’s not telling. He’ll want to get everything nailed down. At any rate,” Rook continued, “given the fact that I’m one of Cy’s angels, I should know as soon as he has anything solid to say.”

  “Never really thought of you as an angel, Mitchell,” Petrillo said. “Good guy, but angel?”

  “Well, I suppose technically I’m borrowing that identity. It’s your money.”

  “And,” Petrillo added, “I trust it will have been well spent.”

  Rook finished his martini and said. “I guess we’ll see.”

  Chapter 28

  Cy Bartalak had arrived home late after his day in New Jersey. Beth was asleep and he didn’t wake her. He hoped that she had seen Oscar Orbitz. Cy had arranged that and was interested to know what the examination showed. He was concerned about Beth.

  Cy was surprised when he got up early the next morning, showered, shaved, dressed for work and went to the kitchen to find that Beth wasn’t there. No coffee, nothing for breakfast. He went to her bedroom, cracked the door, and looked in. She appeared to be sleeping still and so he left her there and headed for work. Although he couldn’t remember Beth ever having failed to prepare his morning coffee and habitual light breakfast and see him off to work, he had other things on his mind and so didn’t dwell on whatever was his wife’s problem. He stopped by a Starbuck’s on the way in and bought a grande Sumatra, which was all he really needed to get started with his day.

  When he arrived at his office, his secretary was not at her desk yet. There were three pink message slips on his desk left there the previous day. Each message—one from Mitchell Rook, one from Oscar Orbitz, and one from Susanna Gomez at GPI—requested
a return call as soon as possible. He was especially interested in the call from Gomez. He felt really good about the previous day’s meeting. If he read the situation right, GPI was going to want to move quickly toward a deal for the drug, which is exactly what he had hoped would be the case.

  He arranged the three message slips in order of their priority—Gomez, followed by Rook, followed by Orbitz. He switched on his computer and entered his password. He clicked on the Outlook icon and then on contacts, scrolled down to Gomez, and dialed the number.

  He was surprised that the call was answered after the third ring by Susanna Gomez herself.

  “This is Sue Gomez,” she said.

  “Oh, hi Sue,” he responded after a short pause. “This is Cy Bartalak and I’m returning your call from last evening. I’m surprised that you answered the phone. Don’t vice president’s get a secretary to do that for them?”

  “Thanks for calling, Cy,” Gomez said. “I often answer my own phone, actually. It can be interesting to catch callers off guard sometimes. You should try it.”

  “Perhaps,” he responded, thinking that he wouldn’t do that, didn’t like the impression it would leave. “But thanks again for setting up the meeting yesterday. I enjoyed meeting your folks. Are we going to be able to work together?”

  “That’s why I called,” she said. “I think that’s a real possibility. I’ve asked my people to get with you and whoever else is relevant there to review everything, do the due diligence. But if it all checks out as you led us to expect, I’m ready to move forward with this.”

  “Great news, great news, Sue,” he replied. “Just have your people let me know what they need. We’ll have to get the confidentiality agreements signed and whatever other preliminaries are necessary, but this sounds exciting.