by T. K. Thorne
She sniffs and looks down. “I was beginning to wonder if he was telling the truth or leading me on. He’s been married a long time. I was wondering if I was just being stupid and naive.”
“And—?” My pulse picks up its tempo.
She sniffs again and looks at me. “But I decided it didn’t matter because . . . I loved him.”
“You would share him with her? With his wife?”
She nods. Her voice is barely a whisper. “If I had to.” She pauses, studying her hands. “That makes me a slut, doesn’t it?”
I lean back. Close, but no cigar. She didn’t kill him out of jealousy or at least she isn’t going to admit it. Back to ground zero.
“I’m not going to judge you,” I say.
I give her a few minutes to make sure she’s not going to change her mind. “Are you sure that’s all?” I prompt.
She chews on a ragged nail. “Yes.”
“Tell me more about the research project.”
She sniffs. “What do you want to know?”
“You were working on verifying the effects of zahablan on Type 1 diabetes, right?”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it directly. Benjamin. . . um, Dr. Crompton, was monitoring the research as part of the bigger project under the CDC.”
“CDC?”
“Comprehensive Diabetes Center. Dr. Crompton actually volunteered to help on the data end. It wasn’t part of his normal scope.”
“He would have a personal interest in finding a cure, wouldn’t he?” I say.
“Yeah, I think he would have volunteered for the human trials if he could have, but it wouldn’t have been appropriate.”
“Let me ask you something.”
She looks up. Her eyes are red and despite her efforts, a black eyeliner streak runs from one corner across her cheekbone.
“Did you know my partner before we interviewed you?”
“The big guy?”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“He never came in to visit Crompton?”
“Well, he might have, but I never saw him. I would have remembered. He’s a hunk.”
“Okay, one more thing. What would happen if the trials show this drug is able to treat or even cure diabetes?”
“That would be great. That’s what we’re all hoping for.”
“It would be great for people with the disease.”
She looks at me as if I have mentioned fish live in water. “Well, yeah.”
“But what about all the billions of dollars invested in treating the disease?” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“The drugs, the testing strips, the insulin. Somebody has to make all that and profit by it.”
“I guess.” She shrugs. “Then they make something else.”
“I’m not sure it’s that simple, Laurie.”
It obviously was for her. But the world doesn’t work that way. Money is power and people or companies don’t let go of power easily.
“What about the opposite?” I ask. “What if the results show that zahablan doesn’t work?”
She sits up. “That would be disappointing. It looked really good in the lab and animal studies. But, animal results aren’t human results. They pound that into our heads enough.”
“And that’s it?” I ask.
She frowns. “Actually, that would shift everything over to the private lab’s work.”
“What private lab’s work?”
“UAB’s research is funded by the government, so they can’t market it. If something looks good, they partner with a private lab and drug companies to see if their research can be turned into something profitable.”
“But if the drug doesn’t work, wouldn’t it be less likely that whatever a private lab came up with would work?”
“Not necessarily. The lab work on TXNIP was solid.”
At my confused expression, she says, “It’s a protein that can inhibit beta cells from producing insulin. The discovery that zahablan might help was actually kind of a side thing.”
I decide not to go down the technical detour of whatever she is talking about. “The research will go on either way then,” I say.
She nods. “Yeah, but that path with the private lab will take years. They’ll be looking at different molecules and seeing what works on a cellular level first. Benjamin wanted to help people now.”
Chapter Thirteen
Follow the money.
When I left Stokes, my mind was buzzing and the sight of the complex’s swimming pool reminded me that I haven’t been to the gym for the last four months. I’ve kept up my membership at the downtown YMCA, so I headed that way for a much-needed workout. Then I rewarded myself with a swim in the pool. While I stroked through the pristine water, those three words popped into my head—follow the money.
Physically drained, but feeling better than I have in a long time, I sit cross-legged on my bed in the basement of Alice’s house, laptop in lap. Angel curls next to me, a paw on my arm.
Alice moved all of her plants back upstairs, and I have made the basement room mine in little ways, like clothes and books scattered about and one of my early attempts at a landscape that I like, which hangs on the wall. I keep my easel and paints at my own house because the sunroom light is perfect there. I miss the privacy of my house. I miss painting, and I miss windows. The front porch is a preferable hangout, but this time of day, the mosquitos hang there too.
My basement room is the best place for privacy, which I need if I’m going to have a chance at figuring out why Laurie Stokes killed Benjamin Crompton. Tracey is convinced there’s no evidence Crompton was murdered, but I know better. There must be some motivation for Stokes to have killed a man she was supposed to be in love with. Maybe they had a big falling out.
Or maybe if I hunt from a different perspective, I’ll stumble on something. A lot of what I want to know can be found on the Internet, including verification of what Laurie Stokes told me about the drug research Crompton was helping with.
Angel keeps her paw on my arm while I type in a few queries. “Aha!” I announce. UAB is indeed, as Stokes said, partnering with a private lab in a separate research effort to look at “more effective” drugs that might shut down TCIP cells, the little devils responsible for inhibiting insulin production.
“Fine,” I say to Angel. “But why would they be going to all that trouble when they have a good drug at hand like zahablan that does the same thing? It costs millions of dollars to do scratch research like that.”
Angel decides I have been at my toy long enough and crawls on top of the keyboard where she sprawls on her side, looking coyly up at me. I don’t know if that’s because the laptop is warm or she wants to be petted but, in any case, she’s not going anywhere unless I stop and give her attention.
“Alright,” I say. “I get it.”
I set the laptop aside on my unmade bed and pull her into my lap. I don’t know how Alice handles all the cats in the house on top of Daniel and Becca, but she never complains. I should do more helping with them.
Angel butts my hands, reminding me that my attention has wandered. I lift her to my chest, feeling the little power-motor of her contentment. How on earth did I become a cat person?
“Dinner is ready!” Daniel cries from the top of the basement stairs.
“Coming!” I shout back.
At the table, Alice has made fried chicken, green beans, black-eyed peas and cornbread. A Southern meal if ever I saw one.
“Looks great,” I say, joining everyone.
“Looks great,” Becca says, and my heart sinks. Not because I don’t think she is enthusiastic about the meal, but because she is just echoing me, like she is trying to find her way in a strange world. Where is she—the Becca I knew? Is she in there somewhere?
Nora i
s picking at her food. I wrinkle my nose. I don’t think she’s had a shower for several days.
Alice catches the look on my face. She knows I’m sensitive to odors. “I’ll handle it,” she says under her breath.
After dinner, dishes are put up, and then Nora retreats to the couch and the TV.
“Go Fish?” Daniel asks.
“I have some work to do,” I say.
“Go Fish!” Becca agrees and produces the stack of playing cards.
“Your turn,” Alice says to me. “I want to read my book. I’ve been playing ‘Go Fish’ all day.”
Resigned, I sit back down at the table. Daniel deals, careful to count every card, and Becca follows what he is doing with hungry eyes.
“Do you have a frog?” Daniel asks me, apparently not aware that the dealer never starts.
I consult my hand and nod at the stack of downturned cards in the center. “Nope, go fish.”
Two hours later, after several games of “Go Fish,” and reading two bedtime stories, I’m back in my basement hideaway. Angel is curled on my pillow, fast asleep as only a cat can sleep. Careful not to disturb her, I pluck my laptop from the bed and settle into the rocking chair.
During “Go Fish,” a thought occurred to me, and I want to check it out—a possible reason why a drug company or a university would invest all that money in a separate research effort with a private lab when zahablan already exists. It doesn’t take but a few minutes of searching to confirm my suspicion. It’s all about asking the right question.
It seems the patent on zahablan-based brand drugs, which are used to treat blood pressure, has run out. Zahablan is now a generic drug, which means it’s cheap, and the pharmaceutical company that owns it can’t make any real money on it. Browsing the Web on that subject yields confirmation. In fact, researchers who had identified possible clinical uses for other generic drugs all gave up trying to find financial partners because there was no incentive in repurposing drugs. The head of one drug research company came right out and said that because of the high cost for FDA approval and the low return on a generic drug, no generic drug has ever been approved for a new use without modifying it. This means if the human trials on zahablan’s effect on diabetes turn out well, nobody would make a profit by getting it approved for diabetes treatment.
To make it profitable, they have to tweak the same molecule, making it “different”—long-acting or combining it with aspirin or something. Then it’s considered a “new” drug by the FDA, and a new patent can be issued for it. And then the cost will go up, and the money will roll in.
Over a million people have Type 1 diabetes, just in the United States. Having a “new” drug with a patent would be a lucrative endeavor for a pharmaceutical company, especially since university and government funding are being tapped to share the costs of development. And that’s exactly what’s happening at the private lab. If there is a drug company helping to fund that private lab research—to tweak the zahablan molecule and have, in effect, a “new” drug—that pharmaceutical company would have a vested interest in the failure of the University’s generic zahablan drug trials failing.
But there’s a big, gaping hole in that hypothesis—a lot of other companies would have an interest in zahablan failing. All the manufacturers of other drugs for diabetes, the makers of insulin and drug test strips would lose a lot of money if there were a cure.
And Benjamin Crompton wasn’t exactly a linchpin in the research or the test results. According to Stokes, he wasn’t even directly involved, just helping some with the data, along with many other people.
I’m not sure what I need to look for next. I need my partner. Unfortunately, my partner may be somehow involved. I feel like I’m picking at a thread in a giant, tangled ball of yarn.
Chapter Fourteen
The next morning, Lieutenant Faraday takes the gloves off and assigns us several cases. The Homicide Unit works serious assaults and kidnappings as well as homicides. Tracey and I agree to work the first one together, an assault victim at UAB Hospital, and then he’ll drop me off back at the Administration building, and we’ll split up to handle the rest.
On the way to the hospital, I ask Tracey about his martial arts class.
“Is it open to anyone?”
“Sure. But sensei doesn’t advertise. It’s word of mouth.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“Nope.”
“Do I need a special uniform?”
He grins. “Why don’t you try it out in sweats first? Sensei has some extra if you decide to stick with it.”
My back stiffens. “You don’t think I will?”
“It’s not for everybody.” He glances sideways at me. “But you’re pretty stubborn.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment, Lohan?”
“Yep.”
Parking is a hassle, and we finally use the deck. Once inside, we find our victim, whose condition meets the definition of “assault with a deadly weapon resulting in serious injury.” That puts his case in our camp. In this case, it’s a stabbing.
The assault happened last night, and patrol interviewed the victim in the ER. His name is Ferdinand Johnson. Today he is in a room. There are two beds, but the other one is empty. According to the patrol report, Johnson is an African American male, twenty-four years of age with heavy sideburns and a short beard. A man fitting that description is lying in a bed. His left foot appears to have been amputated, the stub wrapped heavily in bandages, although blood is seeping through one side.
I check the report again. It says a stab wound to the abdomen.
“Are you Mr. Ferdinand Johnson?” Tracey asks.
He opens one eye. “I’m Ferd Johnson. Who the hell are you?” Then he catches sight of me and the other eye opens wide. “And hell-lo, sweetheart.”
I’m not amused, but it’s not worth the effort to be offended, especially by a man who has just had his foot removed. “I’m Detective Brighton,” I say, flipping open my badge, “and this is Detective Lohan.”
“Cops,” he groans and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. “Here I am dying, and I gotta do twenty questions.”
“Our report says you have a stab wound to your abdomen.” Tracey looks pointedly at the abrupt end of his left leg. “It’s been a while since I had anatomy, but that seems rather low for the abdomen.”
“Yeah, ain’t that sweet? I come in to get my guts stitched, and they take off my damn foot.”
“Why?” I ask.
“It was rotten. Doc said if it didn’t go, I would die. They were opening me up to stitch my guts anyway.”
“Diabetes?” I ask.
“Yeah, had it since I was a kid. Poor circulation in my feet. It was always messing with my life. I could of run track. I was fast.” He shifts in the bed and groans, clutching his belly and panting, his eyes shut tight. After a moment, he opens his eyes again, but sweat beads his forehead.
“I could of gone to college on a scholarship, but I got an infection that wouldn’t go away. They kept chipping away pieces of my foot, and I couldn’t feel nothing down there anymore.”
“I’m sorry about your foot,” Tracey says, “but tell us about how you got stabbed.”
“Like I told the po-lice last night. My old lady done it.”
“How come?”
He shrugs. “I was drunk. I think I may have whacked her a couple of times.”
“She stabbed you?” I ask.
“Yeah, she grabbed up a kitchen knife and came at me. She don’t like it when I drink in front of the kids. But she don’t have a rotten foot.”
I’m thinking what a train wreck this man’s life is. Would it have been any different if he had been able to run track in school, if he’d gone to college? There was a time when he would have disgusted me. He made choices that put him where he was, but some of his choices were stolen from him.
Zahablan, or something like it, might have made a difference in the trajectory of his life and his family’s.
“What about your wife?” Tracey asks. “You said you whacked her.”
“I said I may have. I don’t remember. If I did, it didn’t amount to nothin’. She ain’t hurt.”
According to the police report, the wife had no sign of injury and admitted to stabbing him with scissors, but Tracey is making sure.
“What?” Johnson fumbles in the sheets. “Where’s that damn call button? I’m hurting, man.”
I follow the cord under a tangle of sheets and press it for him.
He’s sweating.
“Can I help you?” a female voice says over the intercom.
“Where’s my pain meds? This is shit!”
“I’ll check with your nurse,” she says with a cheerful lilt.
“Mr. Johnson.” Tracey leans over him to get his attention. “We’ll leave you alone, but first tell me if you want to press charges on your wife for stabbing you.”
“Put Shanna in jail? Who would take care of the kids? No man, don’t do that to me. I got problems enough.”
Chapter Fifteen
That evening I meet Tracey in Trussville, a small municipality just to the east of Birmingham. The Trussville Sports complex is a red brick building that holds a gym and several rooms set off from the road in a row, like a strip mall. I’m early.
Until Tracey pulls up, I stay in my car, staring at the paper with results of the phone records on Benjamin Crompton sent by the phone company in response to my warrant. I’ve starred two calls to a city hall number. More disturbing are the two outgoing calls Crompton made to Tracey’s cell over the past three months. The relationship between Tracey and Crompton was ongoing when Crompton was killed. Why is he hiding that from me?
I’ve backed into the space, so I see Tracey’s car when he pulls into the lot. Hastily, I fold the paper, put it into the depths of my purse and join him at the back of his car, scanning the area while he opens his trunk. He makes no comment about my nervous fidgeting. Cops are supposed to be aware of their environment and suspicious of everyone.