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The Cure
By: Antoine Devine
Category: Mystery & Thrillers
Date Added: Nov 11, 2009 | Views: 291
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Chapter 1
The windows of Dr. Clouseau’s office revealed a beautiful summer day, evidenced by the diffused light that rent its way through the half-drawn blinds. The feeling of warmth from the August sun was in tune with his mood on this morning, a morning that was unlike the others that came before. Today was a special day. As he looked back from the view to rearrange the papers on his desk, he thought back to the years spent in this room in the Royal Victoria Hospital, and that now, today, the recognition he had sought so patiently, so diligently, had finally come.
Tonight there would be a celebration in his honor, for the publication of his work in the venerated New England Journal of Medicine. Twenty-five years of hard work in the quiet obscurity of Barrie, a small community outside Toronto, had put him in the limelight. His work in breast cancer research had uncovered a feasible cure, a process that would free thousands of women from the frightening ravages of this terrible disease. However, this achievement did not come without its costs. A marriage lost, a torn relationship with his best friend and closest colleague, alienation of countless research assistants and doctors. All in the singularly focused pursuit of one goal - to cure breast cancer for all time.
But before any celebrations, there were the daily responsibilities, like checking on the patients who were the subject of his tests. He assembled a top-notch group of assistants, but it pleased him to take a hands-on approach occasionally. Brave souls, his patients.
Terminally ill women with nothing to lose but their lives, and their pain. Every one of them, as brave as any soldier going into battle. In this case, the battle was against the insidious cell mutation that has caused them so much pain and suffering. These women, aged 60 and above, were surrendering their lives for future generations. All those people marching, walking, donating their time and so much of their money, have these brave women to thank for the generations that will be saved because of their sacrifices.
The process was long and arduous. At many times over the years, it was not certain that funding would continue when society sometimes lost hope, stemming the flow of financial support. Fortunately, organizations like the Jimmy V Foundation brought needed attention back to cancer research after the disappointments of the Seventies. Other processes were developed. Magic pills appeared that were purported to prevent the dread mutation from ever occurring, threatening to eliminate the need for his painstakingly discovered process.
One by one the new cures emerged. But every time, the new highly touted drug was proven to have limited effect, leaving his work, at least in his mind, as the one true path. As the preliminary results showed progress, the funding increased, the volunteers came, and the research assistants, eager to associate their names with his, signed up, each with nearly as much desire to sacrifice their lives to the work as the patients.
Then there were the review boards. The National Cancer Institute, the Office of Research & Integrity, peers at dozens of universities and research institutions worldwide - all excruciatingly scrutinizing his work, judging his results, evaluating the possibilities of his research and its effectiveness on the general population. Now, everyone, EVERYONE would want a piece of the man who cured cancer. Cancer - the most feared disease in humankind. This disease, so often undetectable to its carrier, would either quickly kill, or painfully devour its victim slowly. Even the most time-tested treatment, chemotherapy, brought additional pain with no assurance of success. But his results had survived all the rigorous scrutiny, and now, with the publication of his results in the Journal, the world could move on to other things. Women who developed breast cancer would know that they could be effectively treated, and forever cured by his process.
But for now, there was the daily ritual. Making the rounds, and visiting with the patients who had donated their bodies to science, putting their trust in him. First, Patient 10D, whose real name is Mrs. Clara Atkins. Mrs. Atkins lost her husband to a heart attack 10 years ago. Two years later, their only child was killed in an auto accident. She was only 23, her life barely begun. Mrs. Atkins, like many other participants in the clinical trial, had nothing to lose.
“Good Morning, Patient 10D,” Dr. Clouseau said jokingly.
“Oh, stop it,” Mrs. Atkins replied, chuckling at Dr. Clouseaus’ attempt at being impersonal. He had actually grown rather close to his patient group, even though he had seen many of them come and go, taken by the monster that quietly devoured them before he could complete his work. In fact, his staff speculated that they were the only people he was able to develop a relationship with, believing that the prospect of their all too imminent deaths made it easier for him to relate to them rather than to healthy people. Long term relationships were not his forte. Some reasoned that it was a God complex, and that rather than having a good bedside manner with his patients, he actually likened his patients to lab rats who could talk back.
“How are we doing this fine morning,” Dr. Clouseau inquired.
“I'm feeling better than ever,” Mrs. Atkins explained. “In fact, I haven’t felt this good in years.”
“I have good news for you. The cancer has not returned. The treatment was a complete success. You are totally free of its effects. You should be able to go home soon, and enjoy a much healthier life.”
Dr. Clouseau smiled down at her, watching her wrinkled face react to his prognosis.
“That is wonderful news,” Mrs. Atkins replied, though not as enthusiastically as he would have thought. Her smile seemed forced, and she cast her eyes toward the ceiling.
“Is something wrong? I would have thought that you would be overjoyed to hear that you can go home soon.”
“No, no, its wonderful news, doctor. It's just so unexpected. I guess I just have to let it sink in.”
“Well, I’ll leave you with your thoughts.”
He patted her shoulder before leaving her alone.
Mrs. Atkins confusing reaction was based on her expectations when she volunteered for the trial. When she entered the program, she was certain that she would not survive. She thought that by participating she could make a lasting contribution that would serve the next generation. What did she have to go back to now? No husband, no family. There were few friends, and no one thought she would make it, even though they would never say it. Now that she was cured, could she make a new life? That, she thought, might not be so easy at the age of 78. But realizing the miraculous second chance she had just been granted, she slowly began to consider what her new life might look like. She allowed herself to dream of the trip to Paris she had put off so many other times in her life, which brightened her mood.
After he left Mrs. Atkins to contemplate, Dr. Clouseau continued through the morning rounds, spending a little time with each patient. In the afternoon, he went over the charts with Sarah Hughes, his chief administrator, who was responsible for maintaining the records of all the work done in the hospital.
“Are you ready for this evening doctor?” Her bright smile revealed how excited she felt about this momentous event.
“I think getting ready will be the toughest part. I’ve never been much for fancy, black-tie affairs, but I’m sure everyone at the hospital will enjoy the ceremony.”
Sarah laughed, sensing the thoughts going through the doctors' mind. She thought it would be a welcome change to see him in something other than the long white lab coat he wore every day.
Actually, his thoughts drifted back to the old days with Clarice, his former wife. She always liked all the fancy dinners, the retreats - all those things that go with being married to a successful doctor. She could not wait to get a new evening gown for every event, even though he always thought the dresses she already had were good enough. Still, she always looked stunning. Unfortunately, as time went on, she found herself competing with the research. It was a contest she could never win, and eventually decided she was not going to try anymore. One day, an otherwise uneventful one, he came home to find her things gone. She left a note simply saying she loved him dearly, and had tried as hard as she could to be the dedicated, sacrificing wife that many of his colleagues had, but the sadness she kept bottled up inside was more than she could bear. The last line read, “Be well, my love,” and was stained with what must have been a tear. Her ring sat on the table beside the letter, further confirmation that she was not coming back. He wished she could be here for this, to see the culmination of the work that stole him away from her.
“Have you finished the NCI submission package, Sarah?”
“Yes, doctor. It will be done in time for the overnight delivery pickup.”
The package contains the summaries of all the clinical test results, and more significantly, the details for new procedure that, with final approval of the National Cancer Institute, will be used by doctors worldwide to prevent the spread of breast cancer. All those years of dedication and perseverance reduced to a single envelope.
“So doctor, how do you feel about what you’ve accomplished,” Sarah inquired.
He thought for a moment.
“Sarah, it's hard to find the right words to describe how satisfying it feels to have finally discovered a procedure that really works. This will not please most of the drug companies however. They have spent untold billions trying to develop a drug that would stave off the onset of cancer or eliminate it once it appears.
Time and time again, we have seen announcements that a breakthrough had been reached, only to find out that the drug was not as effective as promised, or sometimes caused more problems than it was supposed to solve. They will see this procedure as a threat to their current efforts to sell a hopeful public on the latest miracle cure.
They will also see this development as a threat to their continued ability to attract investors. In fact, the many institutions that operate to find a cure on a non-profit basis may find it more difficult to raise funds. Don't get me wrong. If someone finds a way to prevent cancer from ever occurring, or can cure it with a noninvasive procedure, I'll be the first to raise a toast. But for now, the landscape of cancer research has been irrevocably altered, and nobody is going to change that.”
“It’s going to be a wonderful evening, doctor. We’ve all been working so hard. It will be nice to see some smiles around here.”
“I’m sure it will Sarah.”
As he turned and walked down the hall to another part of the hospital, he smiled to himself. In a separate wing of the facility, he sequestered a small number of patients for a separate study based on some recent discoveries. As far as the staff was concerned, these patients were part of the control group for the primary study. They received the same treatment, with one key exception. In place of the post-operative drug therapy, he used an untested combination of drugs that he stumbled upon out of sheer curiosity. New drugs were appearing on the market in rapid succession. While none of them proved to work as touted by the pharmaceutical industry, he wondered whether a combination of certain drugs might accomplish what an individual drug did not. He spent the last several years working quietly to formulate a multi-drug cocktail, with no success.
Recently, a new drug was released to the market that, based on its chemical composition, could provide the key. After months of secretly testing his reformulated cocktail on mice, he believed he had his answer. But he tortured himself over whether he should dare to try it on his patients. Doing so would violate countless ethical rules, and most certainly a few laws as well. Was it worth the risk? His white, furry subjects showed amazing progress, like nothing he had ever seen. But he knew the human experience could be vastly different, even deadly. What the public doesn’t realize is that many of these drugs contain chemicals that, in a different state, can literally tear a human body apart at the cellular level. While appreciating the potential success, he faced the greatest ethical dilemma of his career.
He also feared premature discovery of his tests. The drugs coming in for the trial were closely monitored, and anyone who paid attention to the orders might have suspected the purpose for some of them. However, Dorthea Hamilton, one of his most efficient staffers, only asked once about why a particular drug, one not normally used in post-surgical follow-up, was on his list. He came up with a plausible explanation, telling her that the drug was meant solely for mice, not people. That story satisfied her curiosity, and she never asked again.
It was times like these when he missed his old friend and colleague, Benjamin Calabresi. Ben would tell him to follow the rules, and do everything by the letter. He was one the most brilliant scientists he had ever known, but was not much of a risk taker. Dr. Clouseau believed that tough problems required bold solutions, and the occasional leap of faith. What if Marie and Pierre Curie had not stepped into the unknown to discover polonium and radium, ushering in the use of radiation and X-rays for medical science? They could not even see the particles they worked on, but they knew they were on the path to a historic discovery, and worked tirelessly to prove their theories. Modern chemotherapy would not exist without the incredible risks they embraced with the zeal of passionate explorers.
Even when they disagreed, which they did often, he always respected Ben’s opinions. What would he tell him now? He would probably point all the risks, as he always did. In the end, Ben was at his best in the lab, and teaching. He just was not cut out for high-risk research, despite his brilliance.
He decided to try the drug cocktail, despite the potential for irreparable damage to the patients and his legacy. Fortunately, since he worked at a small hospital, away from the major research facilities, he could work with little outside influence, and avoid undue scrutiny. While it was true that he had siphoned funds from the primary clinical trial for this program, he deeply believed the outcome more than justified the fraud. When the time came to disclose the results, which would be very soon, the world was going to be a very different place. But for now, it would have to be one revelation at a time. He warmed at that thought as he swung open the doors to pay a visit to his special patients.
Chapter 2
“It’s finally happened, boss. We got a report from one of our operatives. Some doctor at a no-name hospital in Canada cracked the code, and found the solution we’ve all been working our asses off to prevent.”
The Director, sitting at the end of the boardroom table in a dark blue suit, fidgeted with his Sulka tie, or cravat, as he liked to call them. He favored the use of the old world term. “Tie” sounded so pedestrian. He rarely showed concern, but he could not hide his emotions this time. This new development brought uncertainty into the equation. He despised uncertainty.
“It’s not the first time boss, and won’t be the last.”
Dominic Vencinzo, his liaison to a private corporate security firm the company used from time to time, appeared calm, taking a drag on his cigarette. He was smarter than most security people, who were mostly thugs wearing shiny sharkskin suits tailored in Miami, like they were part of the Rat Pack. Dominic actually understood the business. He took the time to read research reports, follow the company’s R&D efforts and their competitors’ products. That made him far more valuable than the usual corporate spy, and the reason he had an exclusive arrangement. That also made him far more expensive, but it was worth it to keep his type of talent at the company’s sole disposal.
The Director also had him to thank for a unique idea. Early in their relationship, Dominic advanced that notion that the company place specially trained research assistants in key independent clinical trials at universities and hospitals. It was not difficult to get information on competitors in a similar fashion, and it was easier than trying to hire away their top talent. No confidentiality obligations to get in the way. In fact, it was common for companies to lend mid-level researchers in academic outreach programs. At first, he thought about the enormous expense. But if they were selective in picking trials, it would expand their intelligence net even farther. He would own an insurmountable advantage over his competitors by acquiring information about the latest cutting edge developments before their senior management even knew of their existence.
Dominic suggested they recruit their unwitting spies from online correspondence schools rather than medical schools - such people would be easier to manipulate, and cheaper to hire. They could place the research assistants in trials run by doctors with the best track records, since they were the ones who attracted the lion’s share of funding. It was this suggestion that made him realize that Dominic was special.
He did not enter into this clandestine arrangement with unrestrained enthusiasm. He found the idea of spying on his competitors generally distasteful. In time, as the fruit of his network bore profitable fruit, he came to accept the relationship with Dominic’s employers, well-aware of the nefarious underworld affiliations they maintained. Though he was convinced that Dominic and his minions were a necessary tool, the arrangement still frightened him. If the shareholders and certain members of management ever found out, he would certainly find himself on the street, out of the business and likely behind bars. However, it was the knowledge that he obtained through Dominic that gave him the edge that kept him in the director’s chair. The risk, so far, was well worth the benefits.
He suspected though, that if anyone outside the group in this meeting did discover his secret, they might be reluctant to talk. Profits continued to rise, and the company maintained its position at the top of the drug industry year after year, affording huge bonuses for management, and a happy group of shareholders. Who would want to mess with that? So far, he had not faced that risk, and hoped he never did. Seeing his name plastered across the front page of the Wall Street Journal, like those bastards at Enron, Adelphia and other companies found guilty of fraud, would be most unpleasant indeed. He would probably commit suicide before going into federal prison.
He started at the company 30 years ago as a lab assistant, delivering samples to the doctors performing tests. His father was a Jersey longshoreman, a man who showed him his fists far more often than he ever offered him praise. For him, the world was a place where a man toiled with his hands until he could not stand, went home and drank, and came back the next day for more. His mother left them when he was five, no longer willing to make the effort to comfort and support a husband who hit her one too many times.
Many kids in his predicament turned to the streets, but he saw a better way. His mother used to take him to the library, sometimes leaving him there for hours while she did who knows what. Pretty safe place to leave a kid, and nobody usually questioned a boy with his head stuck in a book, even ones with subjects too mature for young eyes. The place became a quiet refuge for him after she deserted him, a way to keep a piece of her with him. He didn’t blame her for leaving, but he couldn’t understand why she didn’t take him along. When he grew older, he realized she probably didn’t want anything in her life that reminded her of his father, not even him.
Those books introduced him to a world far removed from his own, and the stories he read formed the foundation of his dreams. Stories about spies and detectives, murder, addiction and fast women influenced his young mind to believe that living on the edge was the way to wealth and comfort. When he received the eventual beatings for no reason other than his being present, he would run back to his room, slam the door, and hide under the covers, dreaming of a world where he would answer to no one. He forced himself to sleep each night, promising that he would be nothing like his father when he grew up. Somehow he survived. Over the years, the drinking became more frequent and the beatings less so. His father would come home and just sit in his chair, staring at the walls, eventually falling asleep to the drone of the television with a bottle of cheap drug store liquor in his lap.
He made it through high school, but there were few options available for the son of a drunk from the wrong side of town. He joined the Coast Guard, patrolling the shores of New Jersey and the harbors of New York. After a while, though, he realized that if he remained on this path, his life would be much as his father’s was. The old man had passed away not too long after he left home, dying in his sleep from alcohol poisoning, a victim of the one solace he had in life. He knew he had to do something, or face the same fate.
He took advantage of the Guard’s tuition benefit program and enrolled in a small New Jersey college. It took awhile longer, but since he started at 19, he was finished when most people his age would be coming out of grad school anyway, and well beyond his three year commitment. The part of the Guard experience he liked the best was saving lives. He found having the power to bring someone back from the brink of death was exhilarating. He was never too enthusiastic about using a gun, and fortunately he seemed to miss the raids on drug smugglers, which could sometimes turn into wild shootouts. Most of the time, however, they simply dumped their load and hightailed it to the open sea when they spotted the white, red-striped boats.
When he finished college, a recruiter told him about a job in a clean, cushy air-conditioned lab at a major pharmaceutical company. After years of looking at the docks, both from the shore and the sea, he jumped at the offer. The recruiter, a tall, leggy blond with a well-filled bosom, told him this first job was only a beginning, and that a real 'go-getter' like him could go far. He thought she was coming on to him, but realized she got paid based on the number of bodies she delivered. He would never see her again, but her looks were as persuasive as the prospects. With a decent job, he pondered, there would be more like her coming his way.
The more he learned about medical research, the more he found himself drawn to the business side. He recalled a meeting where a senior executive came down from the rarefied air of the corporate suites to berate one of the senior research fellows because some new drug had failed in the field although it had tested well in the lab. He was awestruck with the way this highly respected scientist and department head cowered in his presence. Until that point, the only hierarchy he knew was the pecking order among the lab technicians, where this man was king.
He possessed power, to be sure, but only so much control. After he witnessed the most respected man in the department get dressed down by some guy in an expensive suit, he realized where he wanted to be. A few years later, he enrolled in an employee enrichment program, eventually acquiring an MBA in business from a semi-prestigious East Coast school. He moved up the ladder slowly, and his knowledge of what happened in the bowels of the labs served him well in the corporate office. A senior executive noticed his drive, took him under his wing, and mentored him to very offices that once housed the angry man he observed years before.
But it wasn’t enough. Once he got a taste of true power, he could not be satisfied. He became ruthless, eventually betraying confidences his mentor placed with him, taking his job. Coming across people who knew how to get information, he played the executive suite members like a master chessman, manipulating himself and others he controlled into key positions until he executed his coup - ousting the Managing Director in a nasty proxy fight and taking his place at the top of the food chain.
During his rise to power, his connections among the corporate espionage community deepened, eventually leading him to Dominic. He and his associates provided a network that reached quietly into the offices of his major competitors, acquiring personal information on key executives that might provide valuable leverage at some point. When he was named Pharmaceutical Executive of the Year, he held a huge celebration at his summer home in the Hamptons. Deep inside however, he knew he had not exactly earned that distinction. But he rationalized that the business world was a jungle, and only one who was willing take extraordinary steps to destroy the competition would win. This victory merely validated his methods.
“Those things are going to kill you,” the Director quipped sarcastically.
“Look at Panzem, Vincristine, Taxol, Tamoxifen, Neovastat and all the others. Angiogenesis was supposed to be the holy grail. Each discovery was hailed as the answer, yet their flaws were eventually exposed.”
“Yeah, but it’s getting tougher to keep the new research in check. It’s these new technologies, like genetics. The new processes make the research easier, despite our efforts to slow things down. Don’t forget about the anti-metastics, anti-oncogenics, chemoprevention therapy, gene therapy, monoclonal antibodies and vaccines. It was bound to happen eventually. What do we do now to maintain our market position?”
“He’s about to be published, which is only half of our problem. Once the news of his procedure gets out, he’ll be famous. He probably plans to release the results of his secret tests soon thereafter, while he’s in the limelight. Once that happens, we’re screwed. Our new product is set to roll out in six months. Once his new cocktail is announced, we’ll lose billions. You know what happens to biotechs when a competitor supplants their premier product? Shareholders bolt, capital dries up, and we’re all looking for new jobs. He has to be stopped, at all costs.”
Lucius Santiago, his director of security, cleared his throat before commenting on the situation. He was a man of few words, so when he chose to speak, he got everybody’s attention. Even the Director.
“Kudos to young Jordan here.”
He pointed to a young man sitting at the far end of the table, his place suggesting his current status in the corporate pecking order.
“If it wasn’t for him, we never would have planted an operative in his clinical trial. We all thought it was too small to warrant our attention. But he stuck with his gut, and persuaded us that this Dr. Clouseau might have something that required our surveillance. He was absolutely right.”
The other junior associates surrounding Emil Jordan smiled, the ones closest to him patting his back. The kid had done his homework alright, and it paid off. Emil had taken a particular interest in Dr. Clouseau, and the fact that he had left a position at a major research facility at the University of Pittsburgh under a cloud of controversy to start a new program at Royal Victoria, a small hospital with no distinguishable history in clinical trials, but a well-established palliative care program. Just the place to find patients to test a high-risk procedure. Still, he had to press hard to get his superiors to listen, risking his short career. He would be sitting a little closer to the Director at the next management meeting.
********
The assignment was a typical inside set-up job. The operative was usually young, smart and pretty if the targeted research investigator was male, tall and handsome if female. In either case, because these researchers tended to have limited social lives, the distraction worked. The operatives were instructed to simply do the work assigned, and keep an eye open for any groundbreaking developments. Usually, there was nothing new to report. But this trial revealed a bountiful harvest of information. While helping a clerk catalog some test records, she noticed that while the control group’s records listed an older set of post-operative drugs, which was typical for this type of trial, there were requisitions for a different set of drugs that did not appear to be prescribed to anyone.
One night, she stayed late, well after the staff had left the facility. She jimmied the lock on a drawer she'd seen Dr. Clouseau place some files in, even though she was instructed not to do anything that might jeopardize her assignment. She noticed he only carried those files when he visited patients in another part of the hospital. She found prognosis reports for the control group patients that differed from the ones in the primary files. These reports showed that these patients were experiencing complete remission following the lumpectomy and chemotherapy procedure. That could not be right. The control group was only provided one treatment or the other to compare to the primary group. But there was something even more startling in his notes. He wrote that he believed that this drug combination could prevent cancer. What formula was he referring to? Were they the drugs that were unaccounted for, or were those drugs combined with others? She was not aware that there was any drug testing involved in the protocols.
She could not believe what she was reading. Was he right? Had the doctor found the answer humanity had sought for centuries? One thing was for sure - if he was right, her people needed to know, and quickly. She was not a full-fledged scientist yet, but she could appreciate the financial implications for her employer and the rest of the drug industry whose products were not part of Dr. Clouseau’s miracle cocktail. Before turning out the lights and leaving she called Emil.
********
The Director, eyebrows rising slightly, listened patiently before speaking.
“You are correct. Mr. Jordan deserves our gratitude. I know you’re all thinking about our next step in light of this seemingly damaging revelation. In response, we will do what we have always done. Stop our competitors before they build too much momentum. As long as the general populace remains skeptical, we will maintain a prominent market position. We need only create a scintilla of doubt in the clinical trial results, which will start a debate within the medical ranks, giving us time to launch our new product.”
Dominic shifted in his chair, obviously uncomfortable with the Director’s surprising laizze-faire attitude.
“Boss, how do you intend to pull this off?”
“I read Mr. Jordan’s report last night. Hell, I have to admit I kind of like this guy. We could use some of his moxie around here. It appears to me that this Dr. Clouseau is somewhat of a rebel, and despite warnings from the NCI, he has continued to use aggressive methods in his research. They even threatened to cut his funding at one point, but his colleagues rushed in to rescue his project. As one of the more prominent scientists in the field, he has been difficult to hold down. The fact that he works in Canada in some out-of-the-way hospital has also impacted our ability to slow his progress, or stop him all together.”
“That is precisely the problem boss. Because he also receives funding from sources in Canada we don’t control, he’s effectively immune from our direct influence.”
“Yes, but I’m certain your people can get to anybody, eventually.”
Dominic rubbed his dark, goateed chin, stroking the thick black hair through his thick fingers.
“Our sources report he receives grants from the Canadian Cancer Society, the Canadian Breast Cancer Research Initiative, the Terry Fox Founda . . . .”
The Director interjected, a bit irritated at the interruption. Sometimes Dominic acted a little too comfortably with him.
“He was not part of a cooperative group, but when his results are published, protocol dictates that he will simultaneously become a member of a Cancer Trial Support Unit for Phase III trials, which will result in more money, and more attention. There’s no way he can announce the results of an unsanctioned study, using stolen funds, if the clinical trial is proved bogus. So, we’ll deal with him like any other competitor. Send 2 people to take care of Dr. Clouseau. I’m afraid he’s performed his last trial. Tell them to get the original trial notes if they can. If we can delay the NCI review process, that will at least buy us some time.”
Dominic, even though he had seen sides of the Director he believed he never revealed to others, had his doubts. Even he could not believe he was willing to put a contract on a scientist.
“One more thing.”
The Director rose from his leather chair. When the trial is closed, the staffers will scatter. We need to keep tabs on them. Emil, I want you to engage a relocation service, and have these people placed in companies or institutions whose research does not compete with ours. Make sure they are all separated. Once placed, I want Dominic to set up surveillance on each of them. The NCI and possibly the ORI will want to talk to them, and we need to know what they know, and make sure Dr. Clouseau’s work is never continued.”
Dominic rose to ask a final question, thought the better of it and remained seated. No need to upstage his meal ticket.
“Boss, how do we deal with the publication of the results, or slow down the NCI, for that matter?”
“We don’t have to impede the NCI process. In fact, they’re going help us, although they won’t know it. And don’t worry about the announcement. I know somebody.”
Dominic raised an eyebrow, wondering who that could be.
Chapter 3
The party was lavish, yet maintained an atmosphere of austerity appropriate for the occasion. The administrator decided to hold the celebration in the auditorium of the hospital, rather than a ballroom at a local hotel. The event was still black-tie however, which lent an element of style to the old hospital were Dr. Clouseau had toiled in relative obscurity, at least until now. Still, for what was meant to be a modest affair, doctors, professors and research scientists from nearby Toronto and the United States were in attendance. Also present were representatives from the National Cancer Institutes of America and Canada, the American and Canadian Cancer Societies, the National Institute of Health and a handful of smaller organizations. Despite the fact that the award was for a surgical procedure, several pharmaceutical companies were also represented. The drug industry had long ago discovered the profit potential of cancer drugs, making their presence more prevalent in the general research community. Some would say their presence was not welcome, but few rejected their generous funding.
After spending time greeting as many guests as he could, Dr. Clouseau took his place at the head table. The administrator of the hospital, Dr. Carl Badjader, provided the opening remarks, and introduction of Dr. Clouseau.
He began, “I have served as the administrator of this hospital for 30 years, having begun my internship at Johns Hopkins, and transferring here as a surgical intern. After many years of service, I traded my scalpel for a pen. In that time, I have had the pleasure of overseeing several interesting, though minor medical research projects. But never in all those years did I encounter anyone with the tireless dedication and devotion displayed by Dr. Clouseau. Over and over, as he seemingly faced defeat, he found a way to keep going. His perseverance and strength are an inspiration to me, and should to be all you young researchers out there, especially those of you who had the unique opportunity to work directly with Dr. Clouseau and share in this marvelous achievement. We stand at the dawn of a new age of man, an age where we can say we have finally defeated one of our greatest enemies, breast cancer, the silent killer. Millions of women owe you a debt of gratitude, so let me be the first to say thank you, Bernard.”
Rising to take the podium, Dr. Clouseau felt overwhelmed by the joyous adulation. He took a moment to gather himself before speaking, wiping a tear from his wrinkled face.
“Most of you know I’m not one for long speeches, so I’m going to make this short. First, I want to thank Dr. Badjader for those generous comments. I know that I have not always been the easiest person to deal with, and have many times been most difficult to be around. So, I want to thank our wonderful administrator for his patience, understanding, and tolerance of me over these many years. Of course, none of this would have been possible without all your great efforts. There is one person who is not here who also deserves mention. Some of you will not remember him, but he was my partner in this research for many years before departing to pursue his own work. I am speaking of Dr. Benjamin Calabresi. Wherever you are, Ben, know that I share tonight’s honor with you. I also must thank my former wife Clarice for all her sacrifices and support. Unfortunately, our marriage did not survive, but I know that she understood what I was attempting to do. Finally, I want to thank all the women, living and departed, who stood up to participate in the clinical trials. They are the ones who deserve the applause. Now please, enjoy your dinner, and thank you all for sharing this night with me.”
The audience applauded appreciatively, a few whoops and hollers coming from the research assistant’s table. He returned to his seat, and as he began dinner, Dr. Badjader interrupted.
“So, are you prepared for all the attention that is coming? We are going to have a lot of doctors coming to get a first hand look at your procedure. Some will probably want to take residence. Our little hospital is going to get much busier. Up to now, we’ve been limited to offering nursing courses and palliative care for terminal cancer patients. Now, we have a chance to expand our education program, and attract some top-flight professors. And you, Bernard, are virtually assured of receiving the Robert L. Nobel Prize once the NCI review is complete. It will be a tremendous honor, will it not?”
The Robert L. Nobel Prize is the Canada’s most prestigious cancer research award. It is bestowed annually to the research investigator whose efforts have led to a significant advance in cancer research.
Dr. Clouseau sipped his champagne as he pondered the possible changes. Hospital administrators think of two things, profits and liability. He presumed that at this very moment, Badjader was thinking about how many more beds would be required, the cost of a new wing, profits per patient, and all the other things that made him giddy. He was a fine doctor once, but he has all but given up that mantle for spreadsheets and cost forecasts. Robert L. Nobel Prize? Receiving that award was assured. He thought he should give him a scare by saying he was seriously considering moving the entire operation to Toronto. The facilities already exist, given the excess capacity created by an over expansion of hospital facilities when the investment banks all thought health care was going to generate their next wave of ridiculous profits.
He had actually made inquiries into such a move, but decided that this facility would serve his needs for the immediate future, and perhaps ancillary facilities would be established later. Of course, if the results of his secondary trial could be duplicated in a large trial, none of that might be necessary. There would be no need for new clinical trials for breast cancer if his peers proved him right. Celebrity status would put him on the global lecture circuit, giving him abundant opportunities to leave, maybe even go back to New York.
Not that he failed to appreciate the bucolic setting of Barrie, an attractive city with beaches and an abundance of parks scattered throughout the city. There’s a perfect balance of all the great things big cities offer combined with the safety and peace found in a small town. But every once in a while he missed the vibrancy a city like Toronto or New York offered. For now, the agricultural community that stood hard by Kempenfelt Bay would suffice. From his office in the Cancer Centre of the hospital, he could see Georgian College, which also overlooked Little Lake. He enjoyed his walks through the campus, seeing the new students arrive every year. He often imagined how they felt. They were starting out fresh, having no idea what surprises life had in store for them. Despite this great personal achievement, he was nearing the end of his career, and was happy with the simple things in life. He was especially pleased that the administrator decided to loosen the purse strings and hire Black Opal as the caterers, and not Wildwood Hospitality. Wildwood was affiliated with Molson Brewery, whose beer he detested. Only Americans like Molson, he thought.
Thinking of beer made him think of what happens when you drink too much. He leaned over to Dr. Badjader and told him he would be back in a moment.
“Don’t be too long. You don’t want to miss the big toast before dessert is served.”
With that, he rose and headed for the lavatory. When he got up, two men sitting across the room also followed. One was short, stocky and slightly balding with a thick dark beard. The other man was taller, slim but somewhat muscular, with a shiny bald head and small snake-like eyes.
“I’ll go inside with him. You stand out here and keep an eye on things.”
The bearded man nodded, and waited near the door, arms folded. While Dr. Clouseau relieved himself, the tall man approached, slowly pulling a shiny object from his pocket. When he came within a step of Dr. Clouseau, raising his hand to employ the weapon, he heard a soft staccato knock, the signal that someone was coming. When the door opened, he quietly backed away into a stall, tucked the object away, and waited.
“Dr. Clouseau!”
It was Frank Gosset, one of his research assistants. He was also the biggest kiss up on his staff. He never missed a chance to promote himself.
“I am so excited for you sir. Sorry for following you into the bathroom, but I thought this might be my only opportunity to congratulate you personally. I just want you to know that I plan to remain at this facility, and look forward to assisting you in continuing your brilliant work. You can count on me, sir.”
He grinned at the doctor, looking like a puppy expecting a treat from its master.
Dr. Clouseau smiled sheepishly while quickly thinking of a way to extricate himself from this embarrassing scene.
“I appreciate your dedication, Frank. There will be some new administrative positions coming up as we expand the facilities here. I will keep you in mind. Now if you don’t mind, I think I need to go to my office for a moment.”
Gosset beamed, and after relieving himself and washing his hands, he returned to the banquet room. Just for a moment, while in front of the mirror, he peered into his reflection, thinking that if he played his cards right, he could be running this place before long. After all, the doctor was getting old, and Badjader was just a fussbudget. He believed he could turn this sleepy hospital into a world-class facility. He never noticed the shiny black shoes that peeked beneath the stall door behind him.
Dr. Clouseau took the elevator to his office, walked past his old oak desk. It was stacked with papers that needed to go somewhere, but always seemed to pile up until he had no room to work. Only then would he allow his staff to organize the mess and put things away.
He stood for a moment admiring the view of the moon reflecting on the lake. Robert L. Nobel Prize, he thought. He regretted that Ben was not here to share this moment. He was more than a partner. He was his best friend, and his collaborator in this research during its initial stages. Unfortunately, they found themselves in an irreconcilable disagreement over how to manage a key discovery.
Unable to see through their differences, Ben left the hospital to continue his work on his own. They barely spoke over the years, but did share a recent brief phone call. He wished his old friend could have attended the ceremony, but knew that was not possible.
He looked around his small office. The walls were covered with awards and degrees, both earned and honorary, although he felt he had worked just as hard for them as well. However, there were no pictures, not even of his former wife. He put a hand on the creaky leather chair that had held him in comfort for so many years. The faded burgundy leather was cracked in places, reflecting the wear time had taken on him as well.
“My old wingback,” he remarked to himself. He moved the chair back and forth, listening to that old familiar squeak, considering the purchase of a new one as a personal reward for his achievement. Lost in thought, he had not noticed that he had been followed.
His pursuers talked quietly in the hallway.
“I was interrupted in the bathroom by some idiot ass- kisser.”
“No matter,” the bearded man replied. “He should be in his office now. It will be easier there - no witnesses.”
They took the stairs to avoid the revelers. The bald man entered the cluttered foyer of his office where his secretary worked. Through the frosted glass that separated the foyer from the office, he saw the silhouette of Dr. Clouseau, standing at the window.
He whispered to himself, “Don’t move now,” as he slowly made his way across the moonlit office, which gave the room a eerie bluish-white glow. Once again, his hand came from his right pocket, revealing a garrote, a thin wire with small handles at each end. It was his weapon of choice for quiet eliminations, and one he thought would be especially effective on an old man who was not expected to put up much resistance. This time, there would be no stopping him. He raised his arms, and quickly brought them over the unsuspecting doctor’s head. He pulled the garrote tight around his throat.
Suddenly shaken out of his peaceful repose, the doctor pulled at his neck, trying desperately to get free. He attempted to shout, but with the wire wound tight around his constricted larynx, only gurgling sounds emerged. His legs jerked in the air, his arms flailing as the man, much larger than he, lifted him from the ground, bracing his knee in Dr. Clouseau’s back. He desperately tried reaching back with his hands to strike back, but he was already weakened by the loss of oxygen. His heart beat faster and faster, feeling as if it would explode from his chest. He tried again to cry out, to scream for help, but his vocal cords were already tearing. The man pulled the garrote tighter about his neck until his convulsing body finally became limp.
The razor-sharp wire sliced deeply into his neck, causing a rush of blood to flow down his chest, turning his white shirt to a dark crimson. Soft gurgling sounds could be heard from his throat for a moment, the last of his oxygen expelled, then a thin line of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. In that final moment, darkness fell over his eyes, a darkness from which he would not return.
His executioner released his body, which slumped to the floor, limp and lifeless, eyes still wide open, his tongue hanging over his lip, the shocking appearance of death a stark contrast to the doctor’s gently wrinkled face. He checked his pulse to be certain, and, satisfied he had strangled all signs life from his body, began searching the room for the package that contained the review notes.
Through Dominic’s informant, they were told that the package was being readied for submission earlier that day, and there was a chance the party preparation might delay the mailing. While he searched, he wiped the blood from his hands, carefully cleaning his favorite weapon. Unable to locate anything other than a pink shipping slip, he left the room as quietly as he had entered.
“That took longer than usual. I thought you were skilled with that thing.”
“He put up quite a fight for an old man.”
“You’re just losing your touch.”
“Shut up. You do it next time.”
“You and your damn red necklaces. Did you make sure?”
“Of course I did. It may have taken a little longer, but I got the job done, just the same. It’s my signature.”
“Enough already, ‘Tony Rosato.’ Were you able to locate the documents?”
“No. Apparently they were dispatched earlier today. His desk is a disaster area. All I saw was a shipping receipt on top of his ‘In’ box,” his partner replied.
“Well then,” the bearded man whispered, “our employer will have to deal with that. Our job here is done. The sweepers will be here in the morning to take care of the computers and the records. Let’s get out of here. The plane is waiting.”
They quietly exited down the stairs to the emergency exit and out into the warm summer night.
Dr. Badjader looked at his watch. Dr. Clouseau had not returned, and dessert was about to be served. The time for the toast was near, along with a surprise presentation. He waved to Gosset, who came to the head table.
“Frank, Bernard’s going to miss the toast. Could you track him down and bring him back, my boy?”
“Of course, Dr. Badjader. He mentioned he was stopping at his office.”
“His office? Whatever for? Can’t he stop working long enough to enjoy the occasion?”
“He probably wanted to reflect for a moment, sir. I’ll have him back in a jiff.”
Gosset headed up the stairs to Dr. Clouseau’s office. He looked around the foyer, not seeing him at his desk.
“Dr. Clouseau - are you here?”
He called out a couple a times before walking into his office. It was not until he reached his desk that he found Dr. Clouseau’s body on the floor, a pool of blood still forming beneath his head. He clasped his hand to his mouth, whispering, “Oh, no.”
He knelt beside the body, placing his finger on the carotid artery, hoping for but feeling no pulse. He then laid his head over the doctor’s heart. He heard nothing, but felt the body was still warm. He placed his fingers over the doctor’s eyelids, closing them reverently.
“My goodness. Oh my goodness,” he gasped as he stared at the doctor's corpse.
He ran down the stairs to the auditorium door, and frantically gestured for Dr. Badjader to come over. The administrator looked perturbed as he closed the door behind him, but then he noticed that the young man was white as a sheet, his hands trembling. There was also a splotch of blood on his cheek.
“What is it?” Dr. Badjader demanded, his eyes registering concern.
Gosset, tears streaming down his face, grabbed him by the shoulders and whimpered, “Sir, you won’t believe this. Dr. Clouseau has been murdered.”
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