In an extensive interview in the days after his death, his widow acknowledged that Dr. Han had missed a great deal of work due to illness.
“But,” Mrs. Han stated emphatically, “it was brought on by the stress of the position, by the demands of Kenny Benson. Zhong was being forced to sign off on papers that he knew were false. He greatly feared his professionalism and character would be called into question. He had very much to lose, both professionally and personally. He would be first to remind you that his very name, Zhong, means one who is devoted, honest. No amount of money would change him.”
One of the company’s most vocal critics has been Texas businessman and venture capitalist Tom Brahman.
“Look,” Mr. Brahman said, “my v.c. investment company gets pitched some five thousand start-up ideas a year. We green-light maybe a dozen. Of them, we know odds are that almost all will fail miserably, while a few will do really good—but only one will turn out to be a superstar. From everything I’ve seen about NextGen, unless there’s some hole card Kenny’s holding close to the chest, the company is ripe for absolute spectacular failure. Mark my words, that dog ain’t gonna hunt.”
Mr. Benson, in reply to other criticism, specifically mentioned Mr. Brahman’s accusations and stated in a Securities and Exchange Commission filing that Mr. Brahman was making intentionally misleading statements.
“It is the type of conduct that one would expect of a classic short-and-distort scheme,” Mr. Benson said.
When Mr. Brahman was asked if he was shorting NextGenRx stock, he replied, “I don’t discuss details of my investments. But I will say that I would never do that. My strategy is not making money on another’s bad luck. That’s for vultures. I invest.”
Mr. Benson added, “The simple—and, in fact, truthful—answer to those who are making accusations is, NextGenRx is currently at the mercy of the United States government. First, the USPTO’s approval of our patents, and then the FDA’s 510(k) clearance.”
Manufacturers intending to market a medical device must file the U.S. Food and Drug Administration’s so-called Premarket Notification 510(k) to gain approval.
The Securities and Exchange Commission stated that it has found no irregularities with NextGenRx.
Payne looked at Harris.
“You notice that even in talking about Han’s death Benson slipped in a promotion for the company’s ‘game-changing medical devices’?”
“Uh-huh. If nothing else, give the guy points for consistency,” Harris said.
“Well, hell,” Payne said, “if Benson’s company is a scam, that certainly opens up a whole new can of worms. If I was an investor, I’d want to whack him, too, just out of principle. Wonder if we’re about to see Brahman’s predicting its ‘absolute spectacular failure’ coming true.”
“But the SEC gives it, and him, what appears to be a clean pass,” Harris said.
“Yeah. That, and John Austin this morning raved that it’s the real deal, that it would make Benson wealthy. Interesting.” Payne paused, then said, “Anything on the widow? The suicide note could be insightful.”
“I’ve got calls in to her,” Harris said, “and that Detective Murray. And Brahman.”
“What was she telling the media before she clammed up?” Payne said.
“I’ve added those news articles to the file,” Krowczyk said. “It was essentially what’s mentioned in this piece. That this Dr. Han was sick to death—literally, now that I think of it—from having to falsify the findings. He took leave of the company, hoping he could go back to his job in academia—Benson had poached him from Stanford’s bioengineering department with the promise of fame and fortune. When getting back to academia didn’t pan out, he checked out.”
Payne shook his head, and said, “Damn shame. Can’t imagine what the pressure is like that makes someone feel their only option is to off themselves. I guess, at least, it wasn’t a messy way out . . .”
“I also did some drilling down on Han. He got spanked at Stanford—more like a slap on the hand, actually, since we’re talking academia—for questionable practices with other clinical trials. Essentially, got caught taking shortcuts that, while not exactly unethical, were frowned upon by the scientific community.”
“So we have a pattern. Smoke and mirrors at school and at the start-up.”
“Maybe,” Krowczyk said, and shrugged. “Maybe not.”
Payne felt his phone vibrate again. He glanced at the screen and saw that this time it was a text message from Peter Wohl: “Meeting an old colleague for a beer. Come join. You might learn something. McGillin’s in an hour.”
What the hell is that about? he thought. Sounds like an order.
I guess that once a rabbi—“Yessir, Inspector Wohl, sir. McGillin’s. One hour”—always a rabbi.
Must be more of Amy’s meddling.
“Think you can spare me for a bit?” Payne said. “His Highness, Inspector Peter Frederick Wohl, has summoned me to his presence.”
Harris snorted. “What’s up with that?”
“Hell if I know, but I have my suspicions. Would you check in with the M.E. and see when he’s scheduling the autopsies? Maybe we’ll draw straws to determine who gets the thrill of being there. And can you see about that suicide note again, if you can?”
Harris pulled out a chair and slipped into it.
“I’ll let you know,” he said, reaching for the receiver of the multiline phone beside the computer.
“If you need me, I’ll be with Peter at McGillin’s, then headed over to The Rittenhouse. See if I can get that Joy Abrams to talk to me, with or without a lawyer. Or Johnny Austin.”
“Good luck with that,” Harris said without looking up.
[ THREE ]
McGillin’s Olde Ale House
Center City East
Philadelphia
Friday, January 6, 3:21 P.M.
“Turn here, and it’s the next left,” Matt Payne instructed the taxi driver, who drove down Juniper, and a half block later made a left onto Drury, a narrow street that looked more like an alleyway than an active thoroughfare.
Payne, knowing that street parking was nonexistent here and not wanting to leave the 911 to the mercy of the public garages nearby, had left the car with the Rittenhouse valet, deciding that he could either walk or cab back after seeing Peter Wohl and company.
McGillin’s, a freestanding, two-story Colonial surrounded by tall modern buildings, was midway down the block. Hanging from its red-bricked façade, the city’s oldest, continuously operating tavern had American flags and matching bunting and, in neon lights, signage stating its name and EST. 1860.
Payne handed the driver a ten, then stepped onto the sidewalk. Across the lane were a dozen foul dumpsters filled almost to the point of overflowing.
Nice. Bet the truck shows up just in time for happy hour.
All the flags and bunting in the world can’t get you to overlook that stench.
He moved toward McGillin’s at a quick pace and went through the doorway.
Payne stood next to the end of the wooden bar that ran the length of the right side of the establishment. It was half full. But no Wohl in sight.
He scanned the large main room. On his second pass, he caught a glimpse of Wohl at one of the wooden tables at the far side of the room. Blocking Payne’s clear view of Wohl was a beefy older male with wide shoulders and a thick neck. Hanging on the wall behind them were signs from out-of-business Philly landmarks—John Wanamaker’s, Gimbel Brothers, among many others—all of which McGillin’s had long outlasted.
The brown-haired and pleasant-looking Wohl—who was lithe and muscular and stood just shy of six feet tall—had on his usual well-tailored suit. The male sitting opposite him had close-cropped white hair and wore a tartan-plaid woolen shirt and dark slacks and brown leather shoes. Payne guessed he was in h
is mid-sixties.
Payne noticed that they both were drinking martinis.
He caught Wohl’s eye, waved once, then crossed the red tile floor toward them.
—
“Hey, Matt,” Peter Wohl said, motioning for him to take the seat beside him. “This is Tank. Tank, Sergeant Matt Payne.”
“Stan Tankersley,” the big man said, offering his huge hand across the table. “But call me Tank. Howya doin’, Sergeant? You look like you’ve pulled an all-nighter.”
“Almost. A late night, then up at oh-four-thirty for another job,” Payne said, shaking Tankersley’s hand. “Pleased to meet you. Why is your name familiar to me?”
“Back in the Dark Ages,” Wohl said, “when I was a rookie detective, I worked for a short time—too short, because he retired on me—under Tank in Homicide. Actually, I was under Jason Washington, who Tank charged with bringing me up to speed in the ways of the unit.”
“That’s it,” Payne said. “You left one helluva legacy.”
“Don’t try to bullshit an old bullshitter, Payne,” Tankersley said, and grinned.
A waitress, a young, attractive brunette, approached, and Payne quietly ordered his drink by gesturing at the martinis. She nodded and turned before even reaching the table.
“Tank taught me a lot,” Wohl went on, “and quickly, which, because I’m a slow learner, was an accomplishment in and of itself.”
“What’d I just say about bullshitting, Peter?” Tank said, and turned to Payne. “He was one of the sharpest guys in the unit back then. Picked up on things quick . . . Like I hear you do, Sergeant.”
“Don’t feed his ego,” Wohl said, patting Payne on the shoulder. “As Commissioner Coughlin says—and not as a compliment—Matt’s not exactly burdened with any semblance of modesty.”
When Wohl patted him, he noticed Payne involuntarily winced.
“And,” Wohl added, “he’s got a fresh bullet wound to prove it. Sorry about that, Matt. Didn’t realize it was still that tender.”
Payne motioned that it was okay.
Tankersley’s expression changed.
“How are you doing with that, son?” he asked.
“Sometimes I leak like a cracked sieve—I aggravated it during the Rittenhouse shooting yesterday—but I’ll be okay.”
Tankersley nodded.
“Glad to hear it,” he said, then after a sip of his drink, went on. “I was really sorry to hear that Peter left Homicide. Especially when I found out he’d gone to Internal Affairs. That’s a thankless job. But he was the youngest to make staff inspector, you know. And then—now—the youngest inspector.”
Payne grinned. “Yeah, and speaking of modesty, Peter’s never quick to let that slip in conversation—that is, never more than a time or two every other week.”
Wohl, somewhat discreetly, gave Payne the finger.
Tankersley saw it, chuckled, and said, “He did a helluva job putting dirty cops, some of them high-ranking, in the slam. I don’t have to tell you that most cops, of all ranks, while they don’t like to admit it, really have ambivalent feelings toward dirty cops. And, unfortunately, toward the cops who catch the dirty ones and send them to the slam. That thin blue line can be hard.”
Payne nodded wordlessly.
“But dirty cops damn sure do deserve the slam,” Tankersley went on. “And guys like Peter, who put them there, deserve the gratitude and admiration of every honest police officer.”
The brunette waitress delivered Payne’s martini. It, like the others, contained no olives or other garnish.
“One Russian Standard vodka martini,” she said, touched Tankersley’s shoulder, and added. “No fruit, per Tank’s orders.”
“Perfect,” Payne said. “Thank you.”
Matt held it up in a toast. They followed with their glasses.
Matt began: “Here’s to cheatin’, stealin’, fightin’, and drinkin’ . . .”
Tank grinned, and picked it up: “. . . If you cheat, may it be death. If you steal, may it be a beautiful woman’s heart. If you fight, may it be for a brother. And if you drink, may it be with me.”
“Hear, hear,” Wohl said as their glasses clinked.
After taking a sip, Wohl said, “I was telling Tank about Washington’s situation after coming in at number one on the list for captain.”
“And the whole thing stinks to high hell,” Tankersley said. “The Black Buddha is one of the brightest cops I know, and, on top of that, he’s a damn good egg. But it happens. You don’t have to piss in someone’s beer, like I did, to have your career cut short.”
“When I got to Internal Affairs,” Wohl said, looking from Tankersley to Payne, “I learned that, years earlier, Tank had quietly turned in a couple guys, one of whom happened to be related by marriage to a future one-star, who he discovered were skimming cash and narcotics seized from the homes of dealers who got themselves whacked.”
“Thinking dead men don’t talk,” Payne said.
“And then he helped take them down,” Wohl, nodding, went on. “After that, Tank got passed over three times. He finally had had enough of the politics and decided it was time to just retire. It was a big loss for the department.”
“Not for me. While I miss working with some of the men—like Jason, who was just cutting his teeth—I don’t miss the bullshit politics one bit.”
“Do you really think what you said, that Jason’s career is getting cut short?” Payne said.
“I didn’t say that. I said it was my career.” He paused, sipped his martini, then added, “But Jason’s situation doesn’t sound good.”
After a pause, Payne said, “Do you regret your time in? Would you do it again?”
Tankersley turned his head in thought.
“That’s a good question. But, then, times have changed. It’s a tough environment out there. Probably? Maybe? But, I don’t know. Moot point anyway.”
Payne nodded, looking around the room.
“I’m curious,” he said. “How’d you guys wind up here? I’ve always liked the place. They’ve got a lot of interesting history on display”—he motioned with his head across the room—“including over there, every liquor license they have had since 1871, framed on the wall.”
Tankersley held up his martini glass in another toast.
“Because,” he said, “this place appreciates what it is. Here’s to the old Liberties. R.I.P.”
He drained his glass, then looked around and found their waitress and made a circle motion aound the table for her to bring another round.
“Since the bastards bought Liberties Bar,” Tankersley said, “which I’m sure you know was forever the watering hole for us old Homicide guys, there’s been a great hunt for the next one.”
“There’s a nice space upstairs,” Payne said. “Used to be home for the original proprietors, Catherine and William McGillin. If Ma and Pa reared a dozen or so kids up there, it might be able to handle some slugs from Homicide.”
Tankersley smirked and nodded.
“Anything would beat what those hipsters did to Liberties,” he said. “Turned the damn thing into a artsy-fartsy place with fruity drinks, gave the food fancy names, and jacked up the prices on everything. I don’t know what the hell is going on with this city. Gentrification is turning that whole NoLibs-Fishtown area weird. Guys shaving their heads while growing dirty beards damn near down to their navels. And the girls not shaving their legs and armpits. With all that hair, squirrels could nest.”
Payne chuckled.
“Thanks for that mental image,” he said, “but you’re right. It’s become a mini Brooklyn wannabe.”
“And what the hell is a craft cocktail, exactly?” Tankersley went on, holding his martini up. “Just pour me a simple drink, for chrissakes.”
“I’m working on moving my fiancée out of that area,” Payne
said. “I probably missed out on one place today. Someone put in an application on the condominium I wanted ahead of me.”
“Hell, Matt, there’s others,” Wohl said. “There’s always others.”
“We talking condos or women?” Tankersley said.
They all chuckled.
“You know,” Tankersley said, his tone turning solemn, “I was just thinking about how I once lost a really good friend—lost a great drinking buddy—to a tragic accident.”
“Jesus,” Payne said. “Sorry to hear that.”
Tankersley nodded as he looked, stone-faced, back and forth between Payne and Wohl.
“Crazy part,” he said, “is it was entirely avoidable.”
“What happened?” Payne said.
Tankersley took a sip of martini, then said, “Poor bastard got his finger caught in a wedding ring.”
Wohl snorted.
“Sorry,” Tankersley said, looking at Payne. “Peter mentioned you were having—how do they say it these days?—issues with your relationship.”
Payne glanced at Wohl, and thought, Amy did stick her nose in this.
“Girl troubles,” Wohl said.
“That’s redundant,” Tankersley said, his tone somewhat bitter. “And I say that whatever the hell’s going on, Matt, she’s probably doing you a huge favor.”
“How so?” Payne said.
“I just had this conversation with my nephew, who’s probably about your age. Told him that forgetting marriage might not be a bad option. I’ve been married twice.”
Payne grinned, shook his head, then made a grand Go ahead gesture with his hand.
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