by Brian Deer
At 17:21, she was nearly hit by a car, running to a corner near the hospital. Then a quarter hour later she leaped from a taxi and paid the driver without waiting for change. Only then did she realize she still wore a lab coat and had slipped a capless pen in the pocket. A puddle of black ink soaked through the white cotton, through her blouse, and into her skin.
The granite facade of the Hall of Justice building receded like a Hitchcock dream. She’d seen its seven floors a thousand times from the freeway, but never had grounds to go in. She’d never been ticketed for blocking her wheels wrong, or parking where street cleaning was due. On the steps, she’d hesitated, as if once she went in, in some sense she might never come out.
A half hour back, MacKenzie/McKechnie appeared in the waiting area. He was trim, in his sixties, with backswept silver hair, and the suit of an Italian prince. “Might take a while,” he said, retreating through the doors. As they swung, he called back, “Thanks for coming.”
She imagined the cells, somewhere deep in the building. Were they part of the modern extension? Were they clean and bright, or dirty and gloomy? She felt for Hiroshi’s desperation. Even that the charge was filed might destroy him. Could he, or Sanomo, bear the shame?
He didn’t do it. She was certain. She knew he was innocent. But is innocence always enough?
THE DOORS opened. And wider. First, MacKenzie/McKechnie. Then Hiroshi, with hesitant steps.
He stared at the floor, his face pale and pained, like the survivor of a catastrophic quake. His white shirt hung open at the neck and cuffs, a black suit-leg was snagged in a sock. His shoes: unlaced. His jacket: creased. His red tie trailed from a pocket.
The lawyer stepped aside as she moved toward her lover. He was in her arms now. But no words. She held him, frightened, uncomprehending, paralyzed, as the doors swung open and shut.
Forty-two
THE CHOCOLATE silk pie didn’t deliver on its promise. It was silky but far too sweet. The dark mousse filling and white whipped topping were adequate to follow the ribeye. Certainly. But, as Dr. Viraj Grahacharya plunged a spoon and shoveled, he experienced too much of a rush.
He stared around the tables in the Garden Cafe before returning to his cellphone screen. With the vaccine’s license Monday, there was so much to do, and barely enough hours left to do it. He closed the proofs of a brochure, “Has the Time Come For You?” after correcting typographical errors. Next, he checked his column for HIV Today, zeroing-in on figures and charts.
At times like this he felt blessed by his heritage as the scion of an astrologer sub-caste. His forebears had grappled with the heavens’ infinities, like he probed the Earth’s infinitesimals. They’d watched for movements among the stars and planets, like he did in microbes and cells. They’d looked outward; he looked inward. The same spirit of inquiry brought to both.
Another glance around the restaurant and he shivered with disgust at the proximity of degenerate souls. In a booth to his right, a round-shouldered couple pressed corn to their faces like squirrels. A waitress’s complexion was more creased than a sari left forgotten overnight on a stone. A Bengal herdsman would hardly feel lucky to raise a stick to such run-out stock.
But who was this now? Who was this at the door? Who was this with his hand raised, waving? He knew that face. He knew that person. My word, Mr. Louviere. Ben.
HE ACCESSED a smile and installed it on his face as he picked his way across the busy restaurant. The executive vice president sat in a booth in the back, with his cellphone propped on a dish. A puffy right hand clutched a white cloth napkin which he patted round his forehead and cheeks. His nose sported a dab of dark chocolate mousse, as if he’d forgotten the location of his mouth.
“Is Mr. Hoffman with you?” Doctorjee’s eyebrows twitched. “My word, what a surprise.”
“Still with Dr. Mayr talking about, you know, what needs to be shared. Sent me over to gas the car and grab a coffee.”
“I see. Very well.” Doctorjee pointed to a chair. “That is very satisfactory. A relief.”
Ben glanced through the menu—lots of meat and vegetables—but felt more like vomiting than eating. “Maybe I’ll just have the coffee to wake me up. Still a way to drive yet tonight.”
The EVP lowered the napkin and whispered across the table. “He has appraised Dr. Mayr of the, shall we say, her situation?”
“Enhanced progression,” Ben whispered back. “Yeah, everything. Complicated stuff.”
“I see. That’s good. And how did she take it? Trudy Mayr can be prodigiously difficult.”
“Well, not wanting to speak out of line, or anything, sir, but I think you might be off her Christmas card list.”
A waitress approached, poured coffees, and walked away.
“He told her how much? He told her everything?”
“Yup. The whole thing.”
“And my contribution?”
“All that. Yeah. Sure. The whole thing. Must have been difficult for you. Took her a while taking that in.”
Doctorjee graced the room with his trademark half-smile as the chocolate nosedab bobbed. “Then this matter may be resolved, you think, tonight?”
“She’s none too delighted, that’s for sure.”
“Of course. None of us are. But what will she do, do you know? Did she say? Did she indicate she’s on board with our solution? I assumed she would perhaps be exhorting blue murder until she’s had sufficient time to reflect on her predicament.” He raised the napkin and rubbed his lips. “With Trudy you can never predict.”
“Pretty big thing to get your head round.”
Doctorjee reached and tapped Ben’s shirt sleeve. “Ahh, yes, but she will get over it. You see, we may change the world with this vaccine. Yes, we might. We might accomplish all our aspirations. But it will be she who gets the glory. Indeed, it will.”
“Even with the… what’s happened, and what you had to do?”
“Of course, there will be a far superior product in the fullness of time. That we can deduce a priori. But pause to consider being cited in the literature, in history, as the inventor of the first vaccine licensed for the prevention of HIV-1. My goodness think of that. We could be talking Nobel Prize.”
Ben lifted his coffee and licked the froth. “Guess it’s got to be a pretty big deal.”
“Let me show you something.” Doctorjee raised his phone, tapped at the screen, and slid the device across the table. “Here’s Wilson et al, our forthcoming paper. Now you look at the authors.”
Prevention of HIV-1 infection with WernerVac
A phase III double-blind placebo controlled trial
Frank V. Wilson MD, Simone R. Thomas MD, Stephen Kwong PhD, Heinz Hendricksen MD, Wang Lei Wu MD MS, Maureen S. Valentine PhD, Viraj Grahacharya MD PhD MPH, and Gertrude S. Mayr PhD.
The nosedab moved closer. “You see the order? The order is critical. Whose name is last? Trudy Mayr. Now everyone knows this means she’s the chief. Of course, her PhD’s somewhat questionable for inclusion, of course, being only honorary, but she’s technically senior. She’s the person in charge. Here’s how they read it. They read Wilson’s the first author, the dogsbody, did the work. I’m nothing, the seventh author. And Trudy Mayr’s last: the chief. You see?”
Ben studied the screen. “So, she’s the chief then? You said she was the inventor.”
“Indeed so. But that’s not my point. My point is motivation. Trudy will come on board. And she will come on board for one reason alone. For what drives her.”
“What drives her?”
“Precisely.”
“What drives her?”
“Oh, I see, vanity.” He took back the phone. “Yes, indeed. Vanity.”
“Guess she must have played a humongous part in the thing.”
“Indeed. She led the early work, in vitro, proof of concept, supervised the animal studies, and the phase I and II. But did she direct the phase III, the pivotal controlled efficacy trial? No, s
he did not. I did. And I indicate that not to be boastful. Did she deal with the practical dilemma we had out here? No, she did not. And I certainly don’t boast about that.”
“Guess she wasn’t up for it, what with her condition.”
“Ben, Trudy Mayr was tending her azaleas on Vedado Way when I was out here may the gods know how many times with Ms. Glinski.”
“The sister said that. She was very complimentary.”
“Thank you, but I’m not seeking praise.” The nosedab retreated, and the voice got louder. “I’m really more concerned to help people. But it was I who took care of that woman. And that involved work for which, to be candid with you, the Grahacharyas are not renowned.”
“Must have been tough seeing to her. And a long way to come, what with all your responsibilities.”
“Ahh, yes.” The EVP leaned forward and reinstated the whisper. “But, you see, who can you trust in that building? It would require an MD. And we could hardly send Rachel McVittie from the sixth floor, could we?”
“I can see you had to deal with it, what with this problem with the vaccine. I mean…”
Doctorjee raised a palm in a gesture of stop! “Please. Do not ever deploy that most unfortunate and inaccurate concept. Do not even think it. There is no problem with our vaccine. Let’s be clear about that. We have a remarkable first product. It’s merely a few individuals who have a problem, and two of those hardly to speak of. Three individuals in an enrollment of nearly twenty-seven thousand. That is all.”
“Mr. Hoffman was saying…”
Tap and tap: the finger on Ben’s sleeve. “Mr. Hoffman may say all manner of things. But he’s not a scientist. He only thinks he understands this material. WernerVac isn’t one hundred percent effective. Nobody ever thought it would be. As a matter of fact, the first polio vaccine was only sixty percent. Seasonal flu vaccines forty to sixty percent, even now.”
“Right.”
“But there is no problem with WernerVac. There’s only an exceedingly small number of individuals who—probably due to some idiosyncratic genetic frailty—cannot accommodate its efficacy.”
Doctorjee ran a finger around the dish in front of him, making the most of the last smear of chocolate. “You must understand, our general counsel has talents. He’s an indefatigable analyst, a man with remarkable connections, and of considerable physical strength for his age.”
“Smart guy.”
“Indeed. But does he understand clinical research? Of course not. He lives in the world of product liability, contracts, money. He’s quite unable to grasp the ethical dimension.”
“The ethical dimension?”
Doctorjee craned forward and scratched his hairline. “The physician’s responsibility to the patient. That’s always the most important duty.”
“Like the Glinski lady.”
“Quite.” The EVP studied his hand, now smudged across the palm with the nosedab chocolate. “The responsibilities I was obliged to shoulder in dealing with Ms. Glinski confidentially, and, more important, compassionately, were significantly onerous.”
“I can see that. Mr. Hoffman explained all that.”
“Naturally. Administering intravenous fentanyl without triggering an autopsy is by no means a guaranteed procedure.”
Forty-three
BEN STEPPED from the restaurant like he’d just come ashore after a month at sea in a rowboat. The ground felt unstable, an unreliable support, an untrustworthy foundation for reality. Was that a Chevron filling station, or some monstrous illusion? Was that the Regency Inn, or a mirage? The night gripped his spine like a drowning man’s overcoat, dragging him to the depths of hell.
This was over the line. This was through the looking glass. This was beyond his brainpower to process. Planting coke on Murayama: that was nothing, drug induced. That was typical biotech conduct. But administering fentanyl? That’s what the guy said. “Without triggering an autopsy.”
Murder.
The Executive Vice President, Research & Medicine, murdered Helen Glinski with a shot.
Ben unlocked the Camaro as his mind raced back through a week of mounting chaos. Maybe Luke was right. That fall on the subway… That curtain thing… And now that gun… So, what would happen next? Was Sumiko in danger? Who else might they murder for their vaccine? Would they murder Doc Mayr if she didn’t “come on board”? After that, would they murder him too?
The car’s springs sagged as Doctorjee heaved beside him. “Could I say, I think you have shown the greatest maturity? I’m greatly impressed, yes I am.”
Ben reversed the car and opened the windows. He smelled tangerine and lavender cologne.
“We should think perhaps of finding you new challenges, new horizons, when we return to Atlanta. I am sure marketing has its fascinations under Philip Crampton. But there’s so much of a more challenging nature. I predict an opening in regulatory affairs.”
Ben hit the turn signal and swung onto State. Regulatory affairs. Marketing. Murder. He felt like someone had stuck a knife in his chest and the handle still protruded, drenched in blood. He passed the Chevron station, the Regency Inn, a Chinese restaurant, and a bank. He passed a Rite Aid drug store and a Starbucks coffee shop. Then he realized he was driving the wrong way.
He turned sharp right into a Safeway’s lot, spun the car in a circle, and signaled left.
He’d call 911, just as soon as he could. But when? Right now, or soon? Hoffman was in on it. He had to be in on it. He was an accessory to this thing—this murder. This man he’d respected, trusted, known forever. Could anyone give an answer for this?
He felt dizzy, on the edge, like a high-wire clown spooked by a downward glance. Should he abandon the car, escape through the supermarket, call the cops, and turn everyone in?
Or should he return to the Bottle Shop and collect more evidence? There was something to be said for that.
He leaned on the steering wheel and waited on a stoplight. He felt outrage, nausea, disgust.
Sweat gathered on his forehead. His shirt stuck to his back. He shivered. His pulse raced. He was scared.
But then… Something else… He felt something different… He felt something tug… What was that?
What was it he felt? What was it? No, impossible. What was it? Curiosity?
What?
No, it wasn’t that. It wasn’t curiosity. He felt more than curiosity. A lot more.
What he felt was… No, crazy… What he felt was… Don’t think it… At that moment, what he felt was… a thrill.
He felt like some pervert in a pedophile ring. Disgust and desire. Evil and beauty. An outcast and belonging. At once. In that hot, dense night, with danger every whichway, he felt agonizingly, deliciously, whole.
His right sneaker shifted from brake to gas. The car turned.
But where did it come from?
He knew to resist it… the way a chick resists the air when it falls from its nest—and can fly. He could swoop, he could soar, he could do what he liked. He could prove himself any way he wanted. He felt like he’d stepped into the path of his own ghost; slid his feet into ready-worn shoes. This feeling was so wrong, and yet felt so right. What was it? This desire. This hunger.
He stretched damp shoulders, left arm through the window. A clenched fist punched at the night.
Brake. Turn signal. Gas. Brake. Gas.
He wondered what his father would do.
Forty-four
THE PARKING lot was black, the Bottle Shop closed, its windows glowing weakly from Miller Lite and Snapple cabinets buried somewhere deep in the back. As the Camaro turned in from Talmage Road, its LED halo beams swept the old girl’s scalp as bright as a camera flash. Her hair was thin, all strays and tangles, the skin beneath a day past dead.
“Trudy,” Hoffman said. “Now, we’re all cool and calm. I’m hoping we can stay that way.”
She hadn’t yet noticed the kid wasn’t alone. He must have found Dr. Dickhead in the
restaurant. But as the coupe edged forward to park alongside the Sentra—not four yards apart, both facing the curb—its two doors opened, and she noticed.
“Him,” she gasped. “He’s here? He’s here? That murderer? What on earth’s going on?”
Hoffman hadn’t revealed Doctorjee’s presence in Ukiah but had made a little progress on the background. The old girl’s body might be falling to pieces, but her powers of deduction were just fine. She’d pressed and pressed over the heart failure angle until the remedy for Helen Glinski was obvious.
The EVP pulled his briefcase from the trunk of the Camaro and heaved into the back of the Sentra. Ben came the other way—tie loose, hands in pockets—and slid behind the wheel. Neither spoke.
The interior light died, and they sat in darkness until a vehicle passed behind them on Talmage. Outside, a dog barked from somewhere near the airstrip while, inside, the odor of tangerine and lavender brewed with cigarettes and piss.
The Sentra rocked as the EVP shifted, giving notice of his intention to speak. “Trudy…”
“Don’t you say anything. Don’t you speak to me.” She scrunched her shoulders in the pillows.
“But I have to speak to you. I most eminently have to speak to you.” His tone sounded warm, even friendly. “We need to talk, scientist to scientist.”
“Scientist to scientist? You’re no scientist. You’re a criminal. You murdered that woman and destroyed our trial. The only explaining for you is to the police.”
He shifted again. “Now, let’s be sensible. Please. At least hear what I must tell you. And I did not murder Ms. Glinski. I provided a compassionate medical service.”
“Compassionate? Service? How can you say such things?”
“Perhaps I could explain?”
“You’re a lunatic, a psychopath. And I think there’s more. The Ramirez boy. I checked his file.”
“Ramirez? Oh, no, no. That young man received placebo, exactly as the unblinding indicated. He never received one molecule of your vaccine.”