by Brian Deer
Sister…
No information…
Forwarding address unknown…
The sister’s signature:
Gabriella Ramirez
“This is so tedious. Ben, I’m thinking…”
But she stopped mid-thought, blinked twice, looked again, and tapped keys like a hen pecks corn. The form for Helen Glinski reappeared on the screen. Then back to Ramirez, and again to Glinski. Then back to Ramirez once more.
“No,” Trudy gasped, under her breath. Then she whispered, “Ben, close the door.”
Nineteen
TWENTY MINUTES south, in Brisbane, California, Dr. Frank V. Wilson gripped the wheels of his chair and stared at the sloping street. He felt like garbage. This was no life for anyone: rolled out each morning like beer cans or plastics to be hauled to the municipal dump. He found no consolations or unexpected dimensions. He found only deficiency and defeat.
His wife, Dr. Nancy Wilson, made today’s third attempt to maneuver their Dodge Grand Caravan into position. What with the narrow concrete ramp on their hillside home, and the powered steel ramp on the royal blue minivan, the two must be reconciled at precisely the right angle if he was to board without Nancy getting out.
At last, task accomplished. He anchored himself. Then his life’s other torment resumed. “You’ve got to be positive,” she chirped from the driver’s seat. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
At the time of his accident, Nancy hadn’t a clue he was a week from announcing their divorce. But then came disaster, and all hope became a memory. The “other woman” turned off like a lightbulb. All that survived were wedding vows and other lies to get his cooking, cleaning, and driving done for free.
“Don’t be so negative,” Nancy spoke into a silence left vacant by his failure to reply. “Chief Ironside was never negative, was he?”
“Honey, Chief Ironside was a fictional character. He got out of the chair and walked off the set.”
“You did take a shower, now didn’t you?”
As they descended to the freeway, he grunted compliance while searching for his name in the news. He hadn’t taken a shower. He wore yesterday’s shorts. What the heck, was he having an affair?
Next on the calendar, the gruesome twosome: Trudy Mayr and the module man. They would be waiting at the center to pry, so superior. Source data verification. Ha.
But if they wanted to waste time, he could show them how to do it. He’d squandered half the morning already. Atlanta locked the database, so what was the hurry? He could get nothing done if he wanted. And the vaccine would be licensed in five days’ time, so screw you Dr. Honda. End of story. No Washington administration would let FDA revoke. After Monday, she’d be pissing in the wind.
He didn’t even think they’d find much of interest. He’d run the trial cleaner than most. A few tickles and fudges, here and there. So what? What’s not given a polish for presentation? He personally knew the guy who faked the InderoMab data. Half the patients didn’t exist. But it still got its license and it still saved lives. There was nothing like that with WernerVac.
AT THE satin-frosted doors, he pushed the chrome handles, and rolled himself into reception. Inside, he found the youth with the fancy French name, laughing across the counter with Ardelia.
“Dr. Wilson, sir.”
“Ha. What is it?” He scooted toward his office.
“Dr. Mayr wants a word, if possible. In consultation suite 7. And I think maybe it might be kind of urgent.”
Wilson changed direction to follow the boy and his insufferable squeaking sneakers.
“Yes, my honeysuckle? And what service may I provide you this morning?”
Beside Trudy’s hand lay printouts from the database. Beside them: two forms from SPIRE. “What on earth’s been going on?” She spoke in a whisper. “And please keep your voice down. Just explain.”
She twisted the forms and beckoned him to look. He ignored them and picked up the printouts. “So, what are we playing here? Wheel of Fortune or Weakest Link?”
“Not those. These. What do you say about these?”
“What about them?”
“Look.”
“I’m looking. Yeah, I’m looking. SPIRE crap. Nothing to do with me.”
“Frank.”
“What?”
“Look at them. Look at the signatures.”
Wilson read the names aloud. “Peter Ginski. No, Peter Glinski. And Gabriella Ramirez. Fine Castilian name, I imagine. Are you recording this?”
“We haven’t got to that.”
“Well, when you have, I’m out of here and calling my lawyer. I’ve done nothing here.”
“Frank, look at the Gs. The Gs. In Glinski and Gabriella. Look at the Gs.”
“Yeah. Gs. So what?”
“The size of them.”
“Yup.”
“And the cross-strokes.”
“They’re sure Gs alright.”
“And the ls.”
“Yup. They’re ls. I guess they can spell their own names.”
“And the way the Gs and the ls are joined to the other characters. The way they’re joined.”
Wilson stared at the forms. There was no point arguing. The statistically unthinkable had occurred.
The first signature—Peter Glinski—was smoother, more fluid, while Gabriella Ramirez was more stilted. The first was in ballpoint; the second, felt-tip. But, printed off and laid together, side-by-side on the desk, you couldn’t doubt what she’d found. The ls were one thing. But the Gs were the giveaway. The fool couldn’t hold himself back. The Gs were cross-stroked with sociopathic bold diagonals which seen together exposed their provenance as shared.
Bottom left to top right. Southwest to northeast. No denying the same person signed both.
“Yeah? So what? I mean, ha.”
“What on earth do you mean by that, ha?”
“I mean, you want to see my writing? Got plenty to look at. Don’t you go shitting on my porch, Trudy Mayr.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean you better take this up with your boss.”
“And you let this happen? You let Dr. Grahacharya do this?”
“Dunno what you’re talking about. All I know’s we’re doing a job of work here. One thing that happens is a protocol telling us we gotta mail out a bunch of reply crap to our people for the SPIRE folks back east, for Christ’s sake. Never seen so much bullshit.”
“That ‘bullshit,’ as you call it, was government funded. Participation in the SPIRE study was part of a one-hundred-thousand-dollar line item on our budget.”
“Yeah, well budgets is budgets.” His voice began to rise. “But let me tell you about the real world, shall I? If we don’t put everything into that damn database, all filled-in nice and dandy, with who’s gone away, what time of day, what they were wearing when they crossed the county line, then those damn people down the corridor here come banging on my door wanting to know if we mailed them forms to fill in, called them, met up with them for brunch at Denny’s.”
“This is outrageous. And please keep your voice down, will you?”
“Let me tell you, I got better things to do than figure out why some guy doesn’t show for an appointment. I got too many who do.”
“So, what you’re saying’s, you couldn’t be bothered to chase these folks up, so Doctorjee mailed the forms to SPIRE himself?”
One smart lady. So quick on the uptake. “I never said that. Who said that? I never said that. That guy standing next to you’s my witness. I never said that. Call FDA. Call the Inspector General. Phone’s on the table. Go on, call ’em. Nobody’d notice anything till you print them off and put them together like that. Who’d ever want to do that? Nobody would do that. We got fifty thousand pages on these people. You want me to say it’s wrong? Okay, it’s wrong. Happy now?”
“It is wrong. It’s shocking.”
“Oh, and how’s life back
at the convent, Doctor Mayr? Stole any patents lately?” He spun in his chair. He’d take no more of this. He wouldn’t take an ethics lecture from Trudy Mayr.
“Frank, listen to me.”
He scooted toward the door.
But, before he reached it, the handle turned.
That bitch had been listening outside.
Twenty
HE’D ALREADY tried Mr. Hoffman’s cell twice and left a “highly urgent” message on his voicemail. Now, parked in the white Sentra outside the Hyatt on Union Square, Ben called Corinna Douglas in Atlanta.
“I’m sorry,” she replied when he said what he wanted. “It’s not company policy to disclose staff deployments.”
“But I’m on this special assignment he gave me. I came up Monday to see him. Remember? He’s coming out to San Francisco. I spoke with him about it already.”
“Oh, is that you baby? Oh, pardon me, do. He caught the 11:15 Delta from Hartsfield-Jackson.”
Ben checked his Samsung: another hour in the air—if the plane was on time. Sixty minutes before hope of advice.
He wasn’t yet sure how to explain the situation. What occurred hadn’t wholly sunk in. But when the door swung open in consultation suite 7, the room became a tableau of trouble. Wilson scooted round like a Paralympic racer, Doc Mayr inflated till she looked ready to splatter the walls, and Sumiko glowed with disgust and satisfaction: a nun going down on a pope.
Outside the hotel, the doorman wagged a finger. The Sentra was causing an obstruction. Taxis were setting down at Stockton and Sutter, unable to pull in by the canopy. Ben raised a hand, mouthed “one more minute,” and fiddled with his Maui Jim shades.
He tuned the radio to 107.7 and drummed on his thighs to Bruce Springsteen. Two minutes more, and Sumiko hurtled from the lobby and leaped into the seat beside him. She wore a skin-hugging tan sweater and tight black pants. In one hand she clutched a big manila envelope.
Ben pulled away, signaled, and turned left. “You reckon she’ll live then, or what?”
“She’ll live alright. I left her in the bar. Says she needs to make some calls.”
He eased the car westward at walking pace, then pulled over into a space by a hydrant. “You want to go to the hospital, or back to your place? I’m thinking we need to catch lunch.”
She raised the flap on the envelope, looked inside, and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Lunch? Well, I’m telling you, the first thing I’m doing is checking those cases they forged the forms on. Find out exactly what happened.”
This sounded ill-advised; unlikely to help; unlikely to put a lid on the trouble.
“Did Doc Mayr say that?”
“She doesn’t need more stress.”
“But did she say it?”
“In as many words, not exactly.”
“Okay. Can I suggest this? Let’s eat now. Yeah? And we can do whatever after that. I’m getting seriously hungry.”
“I think we need to those volunteers or their families first. Or anything could happen, couldn’t it? Look how quick they shut me out of the database.”
“Yeah, we could do that. But what’s the point? I mean, it’s pretty obvious from the way Wilson reacted he knew what happened. Sounds to me like Grahacharya signed the forms and mailed them in to SPIRE himself to save themselves the trouble. And that’s seriously bad. Definitely.”
“We don’t know that’s the reason.”
“I think it’s a fair assumption.”
“Yes, but why make assumptions if we can find out for a fact? Could be anything. If they’d lie with the SPIRE study, they’d lie about anything.”
Ben smacked his lips. “You know, this could be your career here. I’m thinking you need to do the right thing and follow the right procedures. Otherwise, there might be some kind of pushback. You don’t know. As a lawyer, I’d have to advise you’re best doing everything by the book in a situation like this.”
She didn’t look to be listening. If she was, it made no difference. She leafed through her list, ran a finger down the names, and hammered a fist on her knee.
“Damn.”
“What is it?”
“It’s this list. It’s got the names, IDs, dates of birth, and street addresses. But it doesn’t have phone numbers or emails.”
“Okay. That answers my question. Let’s go get lunch now, then talk with Doc Mayr. Yeah? She can get into the database, if she thinks that’s the right thing to do.”
Sumiko’s face brightened. “Maybe I can find them online. Google Ramirez for a start. Worth trying. He might be listed somewhere or have a business.”
“Think he worked at a 7–Eleven.”
“Okay, so that might mean shift work, irregular hours. And, if we can’t phone him, the SPIRE protocol allows home visits if local resources are available. Which they are.”
“I’ll tell you this, I really want to help. But I definitely think we need to slow down.”
“Well, I don’t. I mean, what could be more urgent? Before they go into that database and change the forms.”
“Yeah, but the forms aren’t even at your center. They were issued at the hospital, but the return address was at SPIRE. It’s a different study. The records on that are somewhere else completely, on the East Coast.”
She produced her iPhone, stabbed “Rafael Ramirez” and “San Francisco” into the search box, and sighed. “There’s a lot.”
“No, really?”
By now she was looking to be pretty wound up. She was practically salivating with motivation. “Okay. I’m going round there, right now. Clementina Street.” She stabbed again at her phone. “Six minutes from here. Home visit, quick as phoning. Back down Sutter to Kearney, turn right across Market to Third.”
Ben raised his hands and scratched the sides of his head, grating furiously behind both ears. “Okay, so then maybe we get there, we find Wilson called Homeland Security on the guy for attending the hospital whilst Latino. Or Ramirez figured out he was on the placebo arm and couldn’t be assed to keep coming back. Or he left town for Tijuana. What does it matter anyhow?”
“What I want to know is what went on between him and Wilson. Humor me, if you will.”
Ben braked at a stoplight. “I feel duty bound to advise this may not be the optimum response. If you don’t want to go the company way, why not get a lawyer, file under the Whistleblower Protection Act, coz it’s government money. Yeah? Then sit back and enjoy the show.”
“I don’t want all that, and it would take forever. Years, I expect. This is science we’re talking about. Besides, Clementina Street’s actually on our way.”
“Way where?”
“Back to the hospital.”
The stoplight turned green. “Yeah maybe. Whatever. I just think we should wait and let more senior people work this out. They’ll have the experience to know what to do.”
“Okay. You don’t have to come. You can let me out here.” She leaned forward in the shotgun, her tan sweater expanding. “If you don’t care about these violations… I thought you did. I thought you were different from the rest.”
“Okay, okay. But I’m just saying maybe later. Might not even be an hour’s difference.”
Now her voice softened, like she was listening to herself. “I’ve clinical appointments later, so I have to do it now. If you’d take me, I’d be grateful. I really would.”
“I’m just saying I think I need authorization.”
She brushed a palm against the sweater. “Well, if you need authorization, then you’re not going to get it, are you? So, I’ll need to get a taxi, that’s all.” She forced the list back into the envelope. “I thought you might be here to help me. Please help me.”
SHE WISHED she could tell him about the proposition: about everything. One of her secret sisters reckoned she should. As they passed Civic Center and crossed to south of Market, the quarrelsome twins slugged it out. One was of the opinion: telling the truth is always best. The othe
r: if you do, he’ll hate you.
“Next left.”
“Check. No problemo.”
But he did look cool in his shades.
They found Clementina Street: a one-way rat-run, bracketed by Sixth and Fourth. Years back it must have classed as upscale residential but was recently redeveloped for mixed use. Here were anonymous condos, chain-linked parking lots, and garish, budget-clad offices.
“Stop there.” She pointed. “Stop there. Pull in.”
“Check. No problemo.” He stopped.
The Ramirez address was among a short row of properties: flat-fronted, two-story, modern brownstones. On the first floor: a blue door and a white-gate garage. On the second: four wood-framed windows.
She clambered from the Sentra and waited for him to join her. But he didn’t get out of the vehicle.
She knocked at the door and rattled the mail slot. No answer. She rattled again.
Then she heard a scrape as an upper window opened. A guy shouted down, “Si. Quien es?”
A slim young Latino shielded his eyes. He was naked to the waist, at least.
“Hi,” she called up. Her Spanish wasn’t great. “Er, nosotros ah somos er del Hospital General de San Francisco.”
The guy glanced along the street. “Quien es?”
“Uhm, sabas que pasa con Rafael?”
“What? Hospital General?”
“Si.”
The guy shouted inside the house, but she couldn’t hear what. Then he vanished, and a woman appeared.
Sumiko waved. This must be the sister. “Was that Rafael? We’re looking for Rafael. Sabas que paso con Rafael?”
“Hospital General?”
“Si.”
“Yo no tengo nada que decirte. Por favor dejanos solos.”
“Excuse me?”
“Fuck off.”
Twenty-one
PARKED ACROSS the street from the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals Building, Ben watched a posse of teenage boys as they failed at kickflips and ollies. He’d been waiting here on Mission since before five o’clock. And it just turned half past six. Through the car’s open windows, he heard the slap of skateboards and caught the odor of cannabis in the air.