Miracle Cure
Chapter 12
Jennifer Riker scanned the contents in the packet.
Little of it made sense. First, there were the files.
Being a doctor's wife, Jennifer had seen plenty of patient files before but these were considerably more vague than most. Specifics were not jotted down more like Bruce's overall opinions and thoughts on the patient. A journal almost. She read the neatly typed name on the label of the first file: Trian, Scott.
She jumped back to the beginning of the file and saw a whole slew of numbers:
1/9 897a83 1/16 084c33 1/23 995d42 1/30 774c09 2/06 786m60 They continued in a similar pattern for two full pages. Jennifer went to the kitchen and grabbed a calendar. She guessed that 1/9 must stand for January 9,1/16 for January 16, and so on. She checked the calendar. January 9 was a Monday, as was every other day that followed. For some reason Bruce had jotted down a five digit number with a letter between the third and fourth numeral on every Monday.
Why?
She shrugged and continued to read. Very little of it made sense to her a lot of medical jargon but early on she read something that she understood all too clearly:
HIV positive. T cell count very low. Signs of Kaposi's sarcoma.
The word wasn't there, but Jennifer knew what Bruce was trying to say: AIDS. In fact she could not find the term anywhere in any of the reports, as though the very acronym should be avoided, whispered, never written in anything but easy-to-erase pencil.
AIDS.
She continued to read. A few pages later another paragraph gave her reason to pause. Bruce's handwriting was bright now, soaring, reflecting the mood he had obviously felt at this moment.
She had seen what the job of medical research could do to a man, the highs and the lows, how every setback brought on depression and every breakthrough a major high. Emotions swayed on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis:
Good news. Trian appears to be getting better. His progress is remarkably similar to the animal tests which proved so successful. It is hard not to get your hopes up when you chart it. The SRI has taken its toll on him, but for the first time he appears genuinely healthy.
Is it simply remission or something much more?
And ten months later:
We are finally ready. Harvey and I will know tomorrow.
I can't believe it. Both of us are so anxious that we keep snapping at one another and anyone who happens to be around us. Poor Eric. Harvey almost bit his head off for nothing.
He felt bad about it afterwards, like Harv always does when he loses his temper. Then he tried to make it up to him by repeatedly complimenting Eric on his work.
I can't blame Harvey for being a little edgy. This is it.
This is what we've been waiting for.
What was Bruce talking about? What were they waiting for?
Jennifer noted the date. Nine months ago. So much had happened to her in the last nine months leaving Harvey, moving to California but when Jennifer read what happened the next day, she realized how insignificant the changes in her life had been.
Bruce's words put her own private world back in perspective, and for the first time in many months she felt the hollow pang of inadequacy ripple anew from the distant recesses of her mind.
"My God," she uttered out loud.
"It can't be."
She swallowed and re-read the page, sure that she had misunderstood the words:
I am not ashamed to say that tears keep running down my face as I write this. Powerful emotions keep crashing over me. It's more than I can take. It's more than I ever expected to hear. But I'm getting ahead of myself so let me go back a moment.
"I'll try to be as precise as possible for the sake of posterity.
Harvey and I wanted to see the Trian results for ourselves. After all, this is hardly the kind of thing you wait for the lab boys to send you a report on. So we walked toward the lab with the controlled rush of school children heading for recess under a teacher's watchful eye.
Winston seemed surprised to see us. He asked what we were doing in the lab. I told him we wanted the results for 443t90. Why the rush?
Winston asked.
Harvey became a little impatient, which was certainly understandable under the circumstances, and told him to hand over the file. Winston did.
We were too nervous to open it in the lab so we did our "trying not to run" bit back down to my office.
Janice stopped us on the way to ask a question, but we just blew right by her. She looked at us like we had lost our minds. We hustled into my office and closed the door. Harvey handed me the file. I can't look, he said.
I opened it. Trian was HIV negative. His T cell count was almost normal. My heart leapt into my throat while Harvey stood without moving. I think he was in shock.
We called in Eric and told him the news. He and I began to shout and jump around like Super Bowl champs, but not Harv. He just stood to the side and looked off at nothing. What's the matter? I asked him. We've done it.
Harv shook his head. Not so fast, he said. We have a lot still to be done.
But look at the results, I insisted. He's HIV negative.
Harvey: Yes, but for how long? It's encouraging but what do we know for sure? We have to test him again.
Me: But this is just what we need to get the place going again. We needed this boost, this kick in the ass. The PHS will give us more money now. Our grant will have to be extended.
Harvey: Timing is everything.
Me: What does that mean?
Harvey: It means that we have to keep this quiet. Can you imagine the uproar if such news got out? The press, the scrutiny? We'll lose our anonymity.
Eric said nothing.
Harvey: No, my friends, for right now, we should tell no one. We will reveal little bits enough to maintain interest and finances but not enough for anyone to know for sure. In the meantime let's make sure everything is well documented. Send the sample to Bangkok on Friday.
Jennifer could not believe what she was reading. HIV negative? They had turned someone who had been HIV positive back into HIV negative.
The disclosure hit her like a heavyweight.
They've cured AIDS.
That was probably optimistic thinking, but the evidence was right in front of her. They had done it. Somehow they had found a cure for the AIDS virus. And Harvey had never mentioned it to her.
It was all so unbelievable. The startling revelation wearied her.
She put the file down and closed her eyes. She wanted just to rest them for a few minutes before continuing to read, but exhaustion got the better of her. She slid into the cusp between consciousness and slumber and her head tilted back. One question kept gnawing at the base of her brain as she glided down into a deep, sound sleep:
Why had Bruce committed suicide right after mailing out this packet?
Ralph Edmund, the county coroner, rolled the stretcher past Max. Ralph looked like a coroner to be more precise, a mortician.
Sallow skin, tall, thin body, thin black hair, long fingers. On the other hand he never dressed like a mortician. He wore loud colors, polyester prints, and ostentatious gold jewelry. He also did not act like a mortician. Ralph was emotional, loud, uncouth as all hell. Even better, he had the charming habit of chewing tobacco and spitting the black-yellow juice wherever and whenever he saw fit.
"I want the autopsy done right away," Max whispered to the coroner.
"Is that why you called me down here personally?" Ralph asked.
Max nodded.
"Check everything."
"Okay," Ralph replied, a thick ball of tobacco bulging in his cheek.
"I'll get to it later this afternoon."
"Now. Right now. And get all the blood samples you can out of him. I want you to run a full battery of tests on him."
"Like what?"
"Well go over it later."
"Hey, Twitch, why you whispering? He's not going to wake up. Ha!"
"Hilarious. Just find out what killed him." Max turned and moved toward Harvey. The doctor looked pale and exhausted.
"Where's Martino's roommate?" v
"Kiel Davis? I had him moved to another room. He's being sedated."
'1 want to speak with him."
"Later," Harvey replied. He shook his head.
"My God, I can't believe this." "What's to believe?" Max asked, flipping through his notepad.
"There was no visible trauma, no blood, no stab or gunshot wounds, no signs of a struggle. The victim was a patient at an AIDS clinic so we can assume he was in poor health. All signs point to death by natural causes, right?"
Harvey did not reply right away.
"Ricky Martino was no angel," he said at last.
"He was an intravenous drug abuser. He used to push drugs at a local high school."
"Irrelevant. How sick was he?"
"Actually," Harvey replied, "Martino was cured."
"He didn't have AIDS?"
"Not any more. His last test showed he was HIV negative.
He was still undergoing more treatment, of course, but he was on his way to a full recovery."
"Interesting," Max said.
"To be frank," Harvey continued, "I wasn't crazy about treating Martino."
"Why not?"
"Because he was a lousy candidate. For one thing, he was a heroin addict." "Then why did you?" Sara asked.
"With so many good candidates willing to give anything a try, why would you choose Martino?"
"Because we wanted a cross section of patients not just gay men. So Bruce brought Martino in. Brace liked Martino. He believed in him." "And you didn't?" Sara continued.
Harvey shrugged.
"Intravenous drug abusers, by and large, are a rather sordid group. I confess I'm no big fan of treating IVDAs not for any moral reason but simply because they are unreliable data. Addicts cannot be trusted. On top of that, most of them are already unhealthy from a lifetime of abusing their bodies, which makes their chances of fighting the disease that much slimmer."
"Then what do you think killed him, Doctor?" Max asked.
"I don't know." He paused to gather his thoughts.
"I just don't understand it. I was in this room less than an hour ago."
"Before you got hit on the head?"
"Right before."
"And Martino appeared fine?"
"He was breathing, if that's what you mean. Look, Martino was not the healthiest man alive, but he had nothing that would have lead to an acute death like this. And with the prowler in here tonight and all... it just seems like a hell of a coincidence."
Max folded his arms across his chest, his face twisted in heavy thought.
"If Martino was murdered, it puts this whole thing in a new light."
"What do you mean?" Harvey asked.
"New M. O." for one," he answered.
"No stabbing," Sara agreed.
"But what about Brace?" Harvey said.
"He wasn't stabbed either."
Bernstein nodded slowly and began to pace.
"Let's slow down a minute. Five people are dead, four patients, one doctor. Three Trian, Whitherson, and Jenkins were stabbed to death under similar, though not identical, circumstances." "We know all this," Harvey said impatiently.
"Just bear with me, okay? What do the three patients have in common?"
"They were gay," Sara began, "and they were all being treated at the same AIDS clinic."
"Now add Martino to the list, assuming he too was murdered."
"Then we can rule out a gay basher," Harvey noted.
"Martino was heterosexual." His beeper went off.
"Damn, I have to go."
"I'll need to speak to you later," Max said.
"I also want to see your files on the murder victims."
Harvey nodded and left. Bernstein stopped pacing and looked toward Sara gently.
"You must be exhausted. Why don't you get some sleep?"
"I feel fine."
"Sara..."
"Don't start this shit with me, Max. Crying and moping around is not going to help. I need something to distract me."
Max nodded, understanding.
"Okay, where were we?"
"Riccardo Martino."
"Right. Add him into the equation and what makes them all similar?"
"Two things," Sara answered.
"AIDS and the clinic. Like Harvey said, we can eliminate the gay connection since Martino was heterosexual."
"Okay, now let's move on to Dr. Bruce Grey. Add him to Whitherson, Trian, Jenkins, and Martino. Now what is the common denominator?"
"Only one thing," Sara answered.
"The clinic. Someone is targeting people associated with the Sidney Pavilion."
Max did not respond right away. He just looked off, his head slowly shaking, his teeth locating another corner of fingernail on which he could gnaw.
"We're missing something here," he said finally, "something big."
"Like?"
"Hell if I know."
"Do you think someone is trying to sabotage the clinic?"
"Could be."
She glanced at the clock above the door.
"I have to get back to Michael now. He'll be waking up in a little while."
"I'm going to check through Dr. Riker's patient files."
"Okay. I'll see you later."
"Sara? One other thing?"
"Yesr
"I'm saying this as a friend, not a police officer."
"Go ahead."
"You're blocking on Michael. It's going to hit you soon."
She moved to the door.
"I know, Max. Thanks."
He could hear the running water.
"No, no please..."
"Shut up, you whining punk."
Seven- year-old Michael looked up, his eyes tainted with fear. His stepfather was leaning over the tub. His blue work shirt, the name Marty sewed on the breast pocket in red script, was unbuttoned, revealing a ripped white T-shirt underneath. Marty's face contorted into a look of pure, dumb anger and hate. His breath reeked of liquor and tobacco.
"Get over here, Michael!"
"Please..."
"If I have to chase you, boy..." He never finished the sentence, allowing Michael's imagination to do it instead.
Michael tried to run, but his feet felt glued to the floor. He could not move. Marty reached his hand out and took Michael by the hair.
He tugged him forward and then down, forcing Michael's head under the water.
"You gonna mess around in my room again?" Marty shouted.
Michael could not answer. He could not breathe. He flailed his head back and forth, searching for air. But there was none. Water went down his throat and he began to choke.
Marty's grip tightened. His hand held firm.
"I didn't hear you, boy. You gonna mess around in my room again?"
Pressure built up in Michael's head. His lungs felt like they were about to burst. He could hear the water splash around him... Michael shot up out of bed. Sweat coated his skin.
Just a dream.
He looked around, almost expecting to see Marty's face in the corner of the darkened room. But his stepfather was not there.
Michael was alone in the clinic. The AIDS clinic. He had AIDS.
From the hallway he could hear water running. Someone washing up.
Someone cleaning out something. No reason to be scared.
He swung his legs out of the bed and stood. His body still trembled from the power of the dream, but at least he didn't feel any of the SRI side effects yet. He wrapped his arms around his chest and moved toward the window. He looked out. Not much of a view. Just a dirty alley. Garbage strewn everywhere. Two homeless men playing cards.
Overturned tin cans. Cats chewing on a chicken bone. The only thing that hinted at the sanitary conditions within the building was a startlingly clean white truck with the inscription
"Recovery Corporation of America Medical Waste Disposal" painted across its side.
Michael continued to stare.
Random thoughts and emotions ricocheted through his mind.
They moved so quickly that he could not make complete sense of them, like trying to read a license plate as a car speeds by you.
He tried to slow them down, but it was impossible. He caught just glimpses. In the end, one word became clear, blocking out all others:
Sara.
Funny, but Michael was not afraid of dying. Leaving Sara frightened him more. Alone. With the baby. The future meant something to him now. He had a stake in it, responsibilities. He wanted to stay with Sara, with the baby. So why did this happen now? Why show him what could be only to take it away?
Enough self-pity, Michael. You're making me sick.
He thought about the press conference he would have to give tonight on Newsflash and wondered what he was going to say.
He could just imagine the questions the reporters were going to hurl at him gleefully:
"Have you always been gay?..."
"Did your wife know?..."
"How about your teammates?..."
"How many boyfriends have you had?..."
And oh God, Sara, what am I doing to you? he asked himself.
All I ever wanted to do was protect you. Now, I'm throwing you in the middle of this. I wish I didn't have to. I wish I could just ignore it, blind myself from the truth. But I can't. Why should you have to suffer anymore? Part of me wants to push you away, to shield you from going through this whole AIDS shit with me.
But Michael knew he could never. Sara would never allow it. And he knew that if the roles had been reversed, there would be no way Sara could have persuaded him to let her go. None.
She would want to be there, and selfish as it might be, he wanted her there. He knew he would never make it without her.
He just wished he wasn't so goddamn scared.
"Michael?"
He turned. Sara stood in the doorway. She was so beautiful, so goddamn achingly beautiful... He felt tears come to his eyes, but he forced them back down again.
"I love you," he said.
She limped to the window and hugged him tightly.
He closed his eyes and held on.
"We're going to beat this thing, aren't we?"
She pulled back and looked up at him. A smile flirted with her lips.
"We're going to whip its ass," she said staunchly.
She embraced him again, trying so very hard to believe her own words.
The next morning Lieutenant Bernstein found Dr. Harvey Riker in the lab, checking through his private files.
"Anything missing?" the lieutenant asked.
Harvey shook his head.
"But someone went through them.
A couple of them are out of order."
"Michael's?"
"Yes. Have you heard from the coroner yet?"
Bernstein nodded. The fingers of his right hand busily twisted a paper clip into shapes it was never intended to achieve.
"There were traces of cyanide. Someone injected it into his right arm."
"So it was murder."
"Looks like."
Harvey let go a long breath.
"Did you speak with Kiel Davis yetr
"Yes. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. He knows nothing."
As Harvey was about to respond, Winston O'Connor stepped through the doorway.
"Good morning, Harvey."
"Hi, Winston. Win, I want you to meet Lieutenant Bernstein."
Winston O'Connor stuck out his hand.
"Pleasure, sir. Ain't you kinda young to be a lieutenant?"
Bernstein ignored the common question and busied himself studying the man. Fortyish, thick Southern accent, blond-turning to-grey hair, average height, open smile.
"You're the chief lab technician?"
"That's right," Winston twanged.
"What brings you all around these parts, Lieutenant?"
"Someone broke into this lab last night," Bernstein said, purposely not saying anything about Martino yet.
"You're kidding! A break-in here? What did they taker
"Nothing," Max replied.
"Dr. Riker walked in on them."
"You all right, Harv?"
"Fine."
"Where were you last night at around three in the morning?" Max asked.
Winston's face registered surprise.
"Am I a suspect?"
"No one is a suspect. I'm just trying to figure out what happened."
"I was home all night."
"You live alone?"
"Yes."
"Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts?"
"Why the hell would I need anyone to vouch for me?"
"Please just answer the question."
"No. I don't make a point of having witnesses watch me when I'm in my own home."
"What time did you leave here last night?"
"Around midnight."
"Were you the last one to leave the lab?" "No," Winston said, his voice an octave higher.
"Eric Blake was still here."
"Alone?"
"Yes. I just locked up some of the experiments, same as I do every night, and left him in here." Winston glared at the police detective, but Bernstein diverted his gaze, never allowing the man to look him in the eye.
"Can I go down the hall now to get a cup of coffee, Lieutenant, or do you need my mama's maiden name first?"
"Go."
Winston spun and left.
"Kind of touchy," Bernstein remarked.
"But a good man," Harvey added, "hard worker."
"How long have you known him?"
"Fifteen years."
"How long has he lived in New York?"
"I don't know. Almost twenty years."
Max stroked his chin.
"Interesting."
"What?"
"Nothing. I have a few more questions for you, if you don't mind."
"Ask away."
Bernstein's pacing commenced. He never looked in Harvey's direction as he spoke.
"How many confidential patients do you treat?"
"They are all confidential, Lieutenant."
"Okay, but how many are 'very' confidential, kept away from the rest of the patients behind that door down the hall with no window on it?"
"Right now, just Michael. I came up with the idea of the secluded room when we first started treating Bradley Jenkins."
"How did you meet Jenkins?"
Harvey went back to sorting his files.
"Through his father."
"And how did you meet his father?"
"He came to see me one day. Said he wanted to know more about what we were doing. I was wary, of course. Senator Stephen Jenkins is hardly one who normally sides with our cause.
After a while he said he had heard rumors that we could cure AIDS. I denied it, telling him our success had been miniscule at best. But he was adamant. That's when he told me about his son." "He admitted to you that Bradley had AIDS?"
"Yes, He was desperate, Lieutenant. He may be a bit of a fanatic, but his boy was sick and dying. He promised me he'd help the clinic discreetly if I took Bradley in."
"So you did."
He nodded and then realized that the lieutenant was not facing him.
"I didn't really believe he'd help. I was more hoping he wouldn't hurt."
"Jenkins took a hell of a risk trusting you."
"What choice did he have? He wanted to save his son's life.
We worked out extra security measures like we used with Michael hidden entrances from the basement and all that."
"Besides yourself, who knows the names of the patients in here?"
"That's the weird part. Practically nobody. Bruce knew. Eric knows many of the names, not all. And..." He stopped.
"Who else?" Max asked again.
"Dr. Raymond Markey."
"Who's he?"
"An Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services. We report to him directly."
"Do you trust him?"
"Not much. He's always been more of a politician than a doctor."
"But he knew Bradley Jenkins was in here?"
"No. We hid it from him."
"How did you manage that?"
"I lied."
"How?"
Harvey shrugged.
"I just left Bradley's name off the patient list I sent Markey."
"And this Markey guy never questioned it?"
"No."
"Does he know you've found a cure?"
"Yes and no. We tell him just enough so he can't pull back the money."
"And he just accepts your word?"
Harvey half-chuckled.
"Hardly. We always back up our claims with irrefutable evidence. A good researcher always guards against a charge of tampering with results. Just the accusation of falsifying data could bring down an entire clinic like ours. That's why I set up a system where at least two doctors work on each case always at separate times. It prevents any hint of wrongdoing."
"I'm not sure I follow."
"Take the blood work."
"The blood work?"
"The taking and handling of blood. If I did the original examination on a patient, Bruce or Eric would do the testing during the latter stages of the treatment and vice-versa. Let me give you an example. I diagnosed Teddy Krutzer as having the AIDS virus three years ago. As a result, Bruce was the one who handled the blood work when we tested to see if Krutzer had actually become HIV negative. Another example.
Scott Trian, the first murder victim, was first diagnosed with AIDS by Bruce Grey four years ago so "
"So you or Eric ran the blood test to see if he had been cured or not."
"Exactly. This way, we are able to head off anyone who might want to slow us down by throwing out false accusations of tampering."
Max shook his head.
"This case just keeps getting weirder and weirder."
"Not so weird," Harvey said.
"Oh?"
"I think it's pretty simple."
"Then why don't you let me in on it?"
Harvey stopped playing with the files and looked up.
"Someone is trying to destroy this clinic. Someone has found out what we have discovered here and wants to prevent us from showing the world.
It's what I've suspected all along. It's why I set up all these internal safeguards."
"But " "Look, Lieutenant, it's like I told Sara in the beginning. If I wanted to prove to you that I could cure AIDS, what would be the most convincing thing I could show you? Cured patients, right? Eliminate the cured patients and all I have is charts and graphs and tests and files that don't add up to a thing. I'd have to start all over again.
A vaccine could be delayed years." "Makes sense, I guess," Bernstein said without breaking stride.
"But let me ask you this. How many good test cases are still alive?"
"Three."
"Three cured patients left," Max repeated.
"Well then, all three need protection. They should be moved to a safehouse where no one will know where they are." "I agree," Harvey said.
"Then I have a suggestion for you, Doctor, that you might not like. I want to put them in a real safehouse."
"I don't understand."
"If this conspiracy is as big as you suspect, then anyone could be involved in this plot. They've already gone to extreme lengths and they probably won't stop now. I think it safest if no one, not even you, knows where they are. The less everyone knows, the less that can slip out. Or be forced out."
"Do you really think "
"Five men nave been murdered already," Bernstein interrupted.
"But these patients have to be watched by a qualified doctor."
"I have a doctor who has made a living keeping his mouth shut. You tell him what to do and he'll do it. If you need to see them yourself, I'll take you to the safehouse. Blindfolded."
Harvey nodded.
"Okay, sounds reasonable. But I want your word that the patients won't be touched without specific permission. If your doctor were to give them the wrong medication or take unnecessary tests "
"He won't, you have my word. I'd also like to go through the medical records of the four victims."
"Of course, Lieutenant, but let me ask you something."
"Go ahead."
"If this conspiracy is so powerful, how do I know you're not a part of it?"
Bernstein stopped pacing, looked up, and twirled his hair around his middle finger.
"Interesting question," he replied. And then he walked out the door.
Jennifer Riker woke up on the couch. The contents of the packet were scattered around her.
"I'll look through it later, she thought. She showered, dressed, and poured herself a bowl of Triple-Bran, the latest in a series of fad cereals that were supposed to cure everything from cancer to lockjaw.
It tasted like tree bark.
Her sister Susan bought all those crazy health foods, coming home from the supermarket exclaiming, "I just bought (fill in the blank), and my friend (fill in the blank) swears that this will make you feel one hundred percent more (fill in the blank)."
She sighed, carried the bowl back into the den, and sat on the couch.
She glanced at the file she had read yesterday.
Unbelievable. Harvey and Bruce had done it. Cured AIDS.
Turned an HIV positive into an HIV negative. Historic.
Jennifer picked up Scott Trian's file and fingered through the pages until she arrived at the spot where she had left off. She scanned down the page. There. The spot where Trian became HIV negative. She read on. Trian's condition progressed nicely now, though not without some setbacks. Bruce noted:
There are times when Scott is made so weak from the injections of SRI that I fear for him. Harvey and I talked about it last night. We both agree that we have to do something to lessen the side effects. Still, the alternative death from AIDS is far worse than what we are seeing in Trian.
The file held no more surprising revelations, just a few scattered notes about Trian's reaction to SRI. Bruce's last note read:
DNA? A vs. B
What did that mean? She shrugged, put down the file, and picked up another. Whitherson, William. His file was very much like Trian's.
Whitherson had also been transformed to HIV negative, but he had other problems:
Bill's family is so damn un supportive His father won't speak to him, and his mother feels trapped between her husband and her son, afraid to talk to Bill because her husband would see it as some sort of betrayal.
p" Horse's asses, both of them. The funny thing is Bill still loves them like mad. He calls them all the time. I hear him pleading over the phone in a hushed, defeated voice.
"But don't you understand? I'm dying." Still nothing.
And the same last note:
DNA? A vs. B. She read about Krutzer, Theodore, next. His pattern was very similar to the others with only a few noticeable differences:
Unlike Whitherson's family, Teddy's seems positively unbelievable. His father and mother have not only accepted their son's homosexuality, they seem to encourage it. His father invites Teddy's boyfriend to the house on weekends. They go fishing together.
And then further:
Another cured patient. It's too good to be true. Krutzer's illness had never been acute, nothing worse than a bout with hepatitis and a few skin rashes. And now he's cured. Harvey made a suggestion today which I think is valid. The conversation between Harvey, Eric, and me went something like this.
Harvey: You do all the testing on Krutzer, Bruce. Don't let anyone else but yourself touch this case. You do the tests in the lab yourself.
Eric: Why?
Harvey: Independent research. If different people handle different cases, then one man cannot be accused of tampering with the results. I suggest you try to bring in Markey on this one.
Me: Okay, I'll give him a call. I doubt he'll be interested.
Harvey: At least we can say we offered him the opportunity.
Eric: I'm not sure why we have to do this. We don't have time to play lab technicians.
Harvey: It's too important, Eric. We can't let there be any holes in our research for our enemies to exploit.
The rest of the files read similarly, each with its own unique twists and turns. Nothing odd about that. What was odd, however, was that they all ended with the same strange note:
DNA? A vs. B. Jennifer was about to reach for the last file when she remembered the small styrofoam containers. She glanced at them, stacked on the edge of the couch. Each one had a patient's name taped to the outside. She pried open the one that read
"Trian, Scott."
Inside were two small test tubes labeled A and B. What the...?
She pulled the small test tubes more like vials really out of the snug holders. Blood. They were blood samples. She examined the other styrofoam containers. All were the same. A patient's name taped to the styrofoam outside, two test tubes labeled A and B both filled with blood on the inside.
What for?
Then she noticed the small white envelope.
It had fallen under the couch and only a corner of it was visible.
Jennifer reached down and picked up the envelope. Plain white. No return address, no markings. The kind of envelope you'd buy at a five and ten. Bruce had written "Susan" across the front in his familiar scrawl. Jennifer turned the envelope over.
When she read what Bruce had written across the back seal, she felt her stomach drop into her feet. In small, plain block letters, it said:
TO BE OPENED UPON MY DEATH.
"Need some help?"
Max Bernstein looked up at Sara.
"Yeah, come on in. Where's Michael?"
"Being treated," Sara replied.
"Are those the patient files?"
Max nodded, a fresh pencil in his mouth.
"This sucker just gets weirder and weirder."
Sara sat down, unsnapped her brace and rubbed her leg.
"I'm listening."
"Okay," Max began.
"Here are the medical files for all the victims. Let's start with Trian. He was one of the first patients, admitted almost three years ago. Whitherson came in about the same time. Same with Martino, the intravenous drug abuser."
"And Bradley?"
"That's just it. Bradley is the oddball out. He was in here less than a year. He was in the middle of treatment. He was doing well, but he had not yet turned HIV negative. It doesn't fit. Did Harvey fill you in on our talk?"
"Did he tell you about his theory about someone trying to destroy the clinic?"
Sara nodded.
"It made sense to Michael and me."
"Made sense to me too, but there are so many holes. Take Bradley Jenkins, for example. Let's assume that these conspiracy guys are out to get rid of the cured AIDS patients the proof, to use Harvey's word.
Then why kill Bradley Jenkins? He was a new patient at the clinic. And why move his body behind a gay bar? And another thing. If you're out to do serious damage to a place and you don't care about killing a few people in the process, why pussy-foot around? Why not go all out? Why not burn down the Pavilion? Why not just kill Harvey and Eric and destroy their records?"
"I see your point."
"I don't know, Sara, something just doesn't fit. Why did the killer make the murders so obvious?"
"He's a psycho."
"A psycho who has penetrated the inner sanctum of this hospital? I don't think so."
"Maybe he wanted to distract everyone by making them think he was just targeting the gay community," Sara said.
"How so?"
"His first two victims were blatant homosexuals killed in a gruesome manner," Sara explained.
"The press was bound to pick it up. The killer knew that. He also knew that the world would immediately assume the murders were the work of a psychotic homophobe. No one looked deeper than that pat explanation at first. The world searched for the Gay Slasher, a man who murders homosexuals randomly, not a calculating killer intent on exterminating patients at a confidential clinic."
"But the press didn't go after the story that much until..."
"Until they killed the son of a famous senator," Sara finished.
"Which explains why he killed Bradley. It attracted media attention.
Everyone finally focused in on the Gay Slasher."
Max scratched his face, thinking.
"I see what you're saying, but it still doesn't jibe. Why did the killer move Bradley's body behind the gay bar?"
"So the world would know he was gay," Sara tried.
"The killer wanted everyone to think he was the Gay Slasher, a man who terrorized the gay community. Trian and Whitherson were known homosexuals. Bradley's sexual preference, on the other hand, was a well-kept secret. What better way to reveal the truth than to dump Bradley's body behind a gay bar in the Village?" "Okay," he said, "that's theory one. I'm not sure I buy it, but let's move on."
"I don't completely buy it either," Sara said, "but let me throw something else out at you. Could the killer just have been after Bradley?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, could the killer have murdered Trian and Whitherson to make it look like a serial killer when the real target was Bradley all along?
Could someone have been out to destroy Senator Jenkins by "
"Forget it.
I thought about that already. It makes no sense.
Why kill Ricky Martino after the fact? Why break into the lab?
And what about the clinic connection? Are you just going to write that off as a coincidence? And what about Grey's supposed suicide "
"Enough already," she interrupted.
"I get the point. Forget I mentioned it."
"Sony" He stacked the files and pushed them away.
"Nervous about tonight's press conference?"
"Terrified. But I'm a lot more afraid of this disease."
Max nodded.
"Michael's strong, Sara. Harvey will cure him."
Harvey Riker picked up his private line.
"Hello?" "Hello, handsome," Cassandra said.
"I'd like to rip your clothes off."
"I'm sorry. You must have the wrong number."
"All the better," she replied.
"How did your meeting go with Northeastern Air?"
"It's not over yet. How's your day been?"
He considered telling Cassandra about Michael's condition but quickly dismissed the thought. It was not his place to say anything.
"Not good. We lost a patient last night. Murdered, we think."
"Another one?"
"Yes."
Cassandra hesitated.
"Do you really think that Reverend Sanders is connected to this?"
"I wouldn't put it past him."
"And my father?"
Harvey weighed his words carefully.
"It seems strange to me that the same day your father denied knowing Sanders personally, you hear them arguing in his study. Why did he lie to us? What was he trying to hide?"
Harvey's intercom buzzed before she could answer.
"Hold on a second, Cassandra." He pressed the intercom button.
"Hello?"
"Doctor Riker?"
"Yes," Harvey replied.
"There's a call for you on line seven."
"I'm in the middle of something here. Is it important?"
There was a small pause.
"Its Dr. Raymond Markey."
Harvey felt afraid. The Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services never called unless it was bad news.
"Hold on a second." He pressed a button.
"I'll call you back, Cassandra."
He pushed another button.
"Dr. Markey?"
"Hello, Dr. Riker. How are you this morning?"
"Not very well."
"Oh?"
"Another one of our patients died last night. He may have been murdered."
"Murdered?" Markey repeated.
"My God, Riker, how many does that make?"
Harvey caught himself just before saying the number four.
"Uh, three."
"What was the latest victim's name?"
"Martino."
"Martino, Martino... ah here it is. Riccardo Martino? Intravenous drug abuser?"
"That's him."
"So let's see. The other two were Trian and Whitherson. Both gay.
Multiple stab wounds. The same with Martino?"
"No."
"Then what killed him?"
"An injection of cyanide."
"My God, how awful. Terrible thing."
"Yes, it is. I'm really beginning to worry about the safety of my other patients."
"Yes, well, I wouldn't worry about that too much. I'm sure this is all nothing more than a terrible coincidence."
A terrible coincidence?
"With all due respect, sir, three patients all from the same clinic have been killed."
"Yes, but you're forgetting one important factor: Bradley Jenkins, the senator's son, was also found stabbed to death.
According to the police, he was murdered by the same man who killed Trian and Whitherson this so-called Gay Slasher. And Jenkins was not a patient at the clinic. I have your patient list right in front of me and his name is not on it."
Harvey froze, trapped. For some reason he was sure that Raymond Markey was smiling on the other end of the phone.
"Well, yes, but-"
"So there is nothing to worry about. Now if Jenkins had been a patient at the clinic, well, then we'd have quite a problem on our hands. Your reports would be inaccurate. And if that were the case, then everything in the reports could be questioned. We'd have to assume other discrepancies exist. All your studies would have to be re-examined and all your findings would be considered tainted. You could lose your grant."
Harvey felt something in his gut tighten. The show tonight.
The report on the clinic, on the murders... on Bradley Jenkins.
Lieutenant Bernstein's voice came back to him.
"What exactly is Parker going to cover?" Max had asked Sara.
"The AIDS cure? The Gay Slasher connection? Senator Jenkins' kid being treated at the clinic?"
And Sara's answer.
"All of it."
Raymond Markey did not speak for a few moments, allowing his words to float about, settle, and then burrow into the surroundings.
The son of a bitch already knows about Jenkins, Harvey thought.
But how? And why didn't I think of this before? What the hell is going on here?
At last Raymond Markey broke the silence.
"But of course," he said, "we both know that Bradley Jenkins was not a patient at the clinic so you have nothing to worry about. The deaths are nothing but an awful coincidence. Goodbye, Dr. Riker."
Raymond Markey put down the phone. In front of his desk Reverend Sanders sat smiling. Such an eerie smile, Raymond thought. So genuinely jolly, friendly, gentle. Not sinister at all.
What a mask it was. Incredible really as incredible as the man himself. Markey knew Sanders' history. Poor boy from the south.
Father was a farmer who ran moonshine across state lines. Mother was a drunk. Sanders had conned, clawed, and blackmailed his way out of poverty, stampeding over anything that got in his way.
He was shrewd. He knew how to manipulate people and consolidate a power base. His influence had started with the poor and uneducated and now stretched into some of Washington's most powerful circles.
Including mine, Markey thought.
"Done," Markey said, standing. He adjusted his red tie in the reflection of a picture frame. Raymond Markey always wore red ties.
They had become something of a trademark over the years.
Red ties and thick glasses.
"Good," Sanders said.
"Has your source come up with anything new?"
"Nothing. Just what we already know. A camera crew has been hanging out at the clinic, but everything is being kept hush hush
The reverend shook his head seriously.
"Not a good sign.
They might go public with Michael Silverman's illness."
"You don't think my call will stop them?" Markey asked.
Sanders thought a moment.
"I don't think Riker would dare publicize Jenkins' connection to the murders," he said.
"But if they've decided to go public with Michael Silverman, I don't see how your conversation with Riker is going to dissuade them."
"Maybe we should forget this whole thing," Raymond said tentatively.
"It may have gone too far already."
Sanders looked at him with burning eyes.
"Are you trying to back out, Raymond?"
"No, it's just-"
"Do I have to remind you why you agreed to help me in my holy mission? You were the one who never trusted Riker, disliked him personally and professionally. And I have that videotape right-" "No!" Markey shouted. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, his breathing shallow. His voice grew calmer.
"I'm still behind you one hundred percent, but you have to admit the conspiracy is cracking."
Sanders' smile returned.
"Conspiracy is such an ugly word," he said.
"I see it as more of a holy mission. The Lord is behind us in our crusade to do His work." Straight from his TV show, Markey thought in disgust.
Sanders' "holy mission" was to tell the world that Armageddon was upon them. And what better proof of the oncoming apocalypse than the AIDS epidemic.
After all, Reverend Sanders would shout into the microphone, AIDS is the modern equivalent of the plagues of Egypt. It strikes down the immoral without mercy. Yes, my friends, God is preparing for the final battle. For Armageddon. God has sent down a clear sign that we cannot ignore. God has sent down this incurable plague to rid the planet of the perverted, hedonistic scum. And soon the final battle between good and evil will be upon us, amen, praise the Lord. Who will be ready?
Who will bask in the light of God, and who will join the AIDS carriers in the fires of hell? We must arm ourselves for this battle, my friends, and we need your help to do it. Now is the time for those with untainted souls to give and give generously.
Then Sanders would show a few slides of how God's plague could ravage and pillage a human body into scraps of useless tissue and marrow. His mesmerized, horrified followers would stare at the screen in terror while the contribution baskets were passed among them. From the pulpit Sanders would watch the baskets fill and then overflow with green.
Ah, but if AIDS were somehow cured, if the Lord's plague were somehow lifted... well, that could throw a real socket wrench into Reverend Sanders' interpretation of the gospel.
Strange thing was, Raymond was convinced that Sanders really believed most of it. Oh, he knew how to fake a miracle and he sure liked siphoning off a lot of money, but he honestly felt that he was doing God's work here. When Sanders compared AIDS with biblical plagues, he saw a direct correlation. Why, he once asked Raymond, was it so hard to believe that God could function in the twentieth century just as well as he had in Biblical times? Did people think God had lost his power over the centuries?
"The point remains," Markey said.
"We're losing the base of our support."
"You're wrong, Raymond. They are still with us."
"How can you say that? Senator Jenkins "
"Stephen is grieving right now," Sanders interrupted.
"It must have been a terrible blow to find his son was an immoral pervert.
He will rejoin us when he comes to his senses."
Raymond looked at him incredulously.
"You can't be serious.
You know what he did. He sold us out."
"Yes, I know. And I don't like it. But he is still a powerful senator and we need him. I want you to call him, Raymond. Tell him I expect to see him at our next meeting."
"And when is that going to be?"
Ernest Sanders shrugged.
"Depends," he said.
"If Michael Silverman goes public with his illness, then I want you to call an emergency meeting right away. All of us."
"All of us? But Silverman is John Lowell's son-in-law."
Sanders chuckled lightly.
"Don't worry about Dr. Lowell. I'll take care of him." He stood, put on his coat, and walked to the door.
"After all," he reminded Markey, "John Lowell is one of us."
Harvey stormed into Michael's room, his eyes wide with panic.
"Sara, thank God I found you."
She was sitting on the side of Michael's bed. Sara and Michael had been going over his press statement. They had decided to make it as brief as possible.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Where is Donald Parker?" Harvey asked.
"He should be here in a few moments. What's going on?"
Harvey's words rushed out.
"You have to speak with him.
He can't mention Bradley Jenkins' connection to the clinic."
"Why not?"
"Because it could jeopardize everything." Harvey quickly recounted his conversation with Assistant Secretary Markey, his sentences stumbling against one another.
"If Markey finds out I left Bradley's name off the progress reports, I could lose the clinic. All our findings would be labeled invalid." "Could they do that?" Michael asked.
"Markey will certainly give it his best shot. He's itching for an excuse to reallocate our funds. This would be just what he needs. We can't let him find out Bradley was treated here."
Sara nodded.
"I'll speak to Donald as soon as he gets here."
Cassandra woke up in a familiar state of disorientation and pain. The disorientation came from not knowing where she was, the pain from a massive hangover. The disorientation usually lasted only a few moments, just until her mind could scrape together enough outside stimuli to reconstruct the previous evening. The pain customarily clung to her a little longer.
"Harvey?" she called out.
No answer.
She groaned. She clasped her head between both hands, but the internal jack-hammer continued to rip through her temples.
By exerting herself, she was able to pry open both eyelids. She squinted in the harsh light, though the shades were pulled and all the lights were out. In fact, the room was fairly dark.
She groaned again.
It was a hotel room, not Harvey's apartment. A fancy hotel room. A travel brochure would call it 'lush" and "well-appointed."
In the distance a car honked its horn, but to Cassandra it might as well have been a blown amplifier from a rock concert taking place somewhere in her cerebrum.
"Shhh," she said out loud.
Her hands held her head in place, waiting until time glued her skull back together. She tried to remember what had happened. The meeting with Northeastern Air. Had they gotten the account? Not yet.
Northeastern's marketing director, a runaway egomaniac, had held off making a decision. Then they had gone drinking at the... at the Plaza, that's where she was.
What had they talked about? She couldn't remember. The marketing director, while good-looking, was obnoxious, overbearing, and conceited. A big-time phony. When he opened his mouth, shit came out.
She tried to recall what he had said, but the only thing she could remember him saying was "me, I, me, I, me, I."
Then what?
Pretty simple. The marketing director had taken her upstairs, fucked her, and left. It started coming back to her now. The sex was bad. He was a "poser," someone more interested in his appearance than in what he was doing, the kind of guy who would rather look in a mirror than at his partner. Might as well have been making love to himself.
Cassandra sat up and glanced about the room. Yep, he was gone, thank God. He had left a note on the night table. She reached for it and read:
Congratulations. You got the account.
He had not signed the note, just left his business card.
Christ.
She swung her legs off the bed and managed to stand. The room was like so many others she had been in spacious, beautiful, immaculate, expensive furnishings, clean sheets, thick towels. Only the best for Cassandra Lowell. Never a sleazy motel.
If you wanted to fuck Cassandra Lowell, you had to surround her with beautiful things. You had to take her to a classy place.
She was, after all, no cheap whore.
She was a classy whore.
She headed toward the bathroom. Standing outside the shower, she turned on the hot water and waited till the water steamed before stepping under the spray. She stood there for a very long time, letting the near-scorching water pound down on her. She lathered her body and rinsed off repeatedly. Forty-five minutes later, she dried herself off. Then she sat on the kingsized bed, cried for a brief moment, got dressed, and went home.
When she arrived at the Lowell mansion a few hours later, she grabbed a bowl of cereal and sat down at the kitchen table.
"Good morning, honey," John Lowell said.
Cassandra looked up. Her father was wearing a charcoal turtleneck, his hair neatly groomed, his cheeks flushed. Her father was still a good-looking man, she thought, but he had not had a serious relationship with a woman since her mother's death almost ten years ago. A shame and yet Cassandra wondered how she would feel if another woman were to light up her father's eyes the way her mother had.
Spiteful, probably. That would be typical of her.
"Good morning," she replied.
"Have you heard from Sara?"
"No. Should I have?"
Her father shrugged.
"I called the hospital. They told me Michael checked out this morning.
I called their house, but all I got was the answering machine."
"Did you try Dr. Riker?" she asked.
Dr. Lowell nodded.
"He hasn't returned my call. I don't think he will."
"Why not?"
"Let's just say that Harvey Riker and I are not exactly buddies."
Cassandra lowered her eyes. She felt something peculiar, something, she guessed, akin to shame.
"Still," Dr. Lowell continued, "it's quite strange."
"What is?"
"Michael has hepatitis B, which means he'll have to be hospitalized for at least three weeks. Why would he check out?"
"Maybe they moved him to another hospital." "Maybe," Dr. Lowell said doubtfully.
Cassandra remembered how quickly Harvey had hustled out of the apartment after Eric's call yesterday morning. She had not picked up much of the conversation, but Harvey's tone had been grave, nervous.
She had also heard him mention Michael's name before hanging up and rushing out the door without so much as a goodbye.
Is something seriously wrong with Michael?
"I have to go," her father said.
"If your sister calls, tell her she can reach me on the car phone." He kissed Cassandra on the cheek and walked toward the door. He had not asked where she had been the past five nights or with whom. When it came to sexual matters, her father liked to pretend nothing was amiss easier on the of' morals than the truth.
Cassandra thought about Harvey. She wondered why she had ended up in bed with that Neanderthal marketing director (what the hell was his name?) when things had been going so well... too well?... with Harvey.
Well, c'est la vie. It could be that she and Harvey were never meant to last. Or it could be that she had too much to drink.
Or it could be... or it could be that you're a worthless whore, Cassandra.
She closed her eyes. When she heard her father drive away, Cassandra stood and crept down the corridor toward his study.
It was time to put last night behind her. There were other matters, more important matters, to consider.
She knew that what she was about to do was wrong. She knew that her father's study was off limits, that she had no right to pry into his private affairs. But Harvey's words and maybe the need to make up for last night propelled her forward: "It seems strange to me that the same day your father denied knowing
Sanders personally, you hear them arguing in his study. Why did he lie to us? What was he trying to hide?" Indeed, she thought. What was or is he trying to hide?
Could he really be connected with Reverend Sanders? Could her father really have something to do with the trouble at the clinic?
She reached the door to his study, turned the knob, and entered. Her father's office was her favorite room in the house.
So spacious, with high ceiling, dark oak everywhere, thousands of books like Henry Higgins' study in My Fair Lady. She crept behind the large antique desk and pulled the side drawer. It would not open. She tried it again. Locked. She sat back in the plush leather swivel chair. Now where did he hide that damn key? Her hand felt around the underside of the middle drawer. A few moments later she felt something cool, metallic.
Bingo.
Her fingers closed around the small key and ripped away the ipe. She unlocked the desk and began to rifle through its on tents In the bottom right-hand drawer, she found his file of personal letters. She skimmed through them until she found one that piqued her interest. It was from Dr. Leonard Bronkowitz, the chief trustee at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital:
Dear John, I know this is going to upset you immensely, but the board has decided to go ahead with Sidney Pavilion.
Despite your rather persuasive arguments, a slim majority of the board members seems to feel that AIDS is an illness which has been ignored for far too long.
While many members agreed with your point that the pendulum has swung too far in the other direction now that the world has recognized the severity of the illness, the board also believes that Dr. Riker and Dr. Grey could make some serious headway into developing a vaccine for the virus. Aside from the benefits for mankind, such a vaccine could bring the hospital additional prestige, and in turn, finances.
I realize that this will hinder your own programs at the Cancer Center, but I hope you will support us in this new and exciting endeavor.
Sincerely, Leonard Bronkowitz, M.D.
And there was a letter from Washington dealing with the same subject:
Dear Dr. Lowell, The medical disbursements for this fiscal year have been allocated and I regret to say that there will be no funds for the new wing at the Cancer Center. We realize and respect the importance of your work, but the fact remains that New York City and, more specifically, Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center have already received more than a lion's share of funds, most of which have gone to the center's new AIDS clinic, operated by Dr. Harvey Riker and Dr. Bruce Grey.
Personally, I believe your work is crucial and am disappointed in this decision, but since you are a former surgeon general, I am sure you can appreciate how these things sometimes work. The AIDS virus seems to me to be the public's
"Disease of the Week" or
"Flavor of the Month." It's the new "in" cause for everyone to rally around. I am confident that the public's interest will wane and tire soon and then they will have the ability to view this disease more rationally.
Take heart and know that there are others who feel as we do. I would be honored if during your next visit to Washington you would call me so that we can discuss the world of medicine. I very much value your opinion on a broad range of subjects.
Yours, Raymond Markey, M.D.
Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services
Cassandra felt ill. There was really nothing shocking in the letters.
She knew her father had been against the clinic from its inception, that he had complained bitterly about the "waste" of funds. What she had not known was the direct effect the Sidney Pavilion had had on his own cancer research. It was an either/or situation either the AIDS clinic or the new wing at the Cancer Center. Cassandra knew how much the Center meant to her father, but how far would he go to get funding?
Surely, he would never... The sound of a car pulling up the driveway made her jump.
A loud diesel engine. Her father's Mercedes. He was back already.
Shit! I thought he was going to be out all day!
Cassandra put the two letters back into the folder, put the folder back into the bottom drawer, and closed the drawer. In the background she heard the purr of the electric garage door opener.
What did I do with that damn key?
Her eyes scanned the desktop for the key. Nothing. She looked on the floor. Still nothing. The Mercedes was pulling into the six-car garage now. She had to get out of the office before he saw her. Damn it, where was that key? When she saw it a second later in the desk's keyhole, she wanted to slap herself for not looking there earlier. She wrenched it out as she heard her father turn off the engine and slam the car door shut.
She ripped a piece of scotch tape out of the dispenser on the desk and taped the key back under the middle drawer. She moved quickly now, getting up from behind the desk, slipping quickly to the door, opening it, turning right, and heading down the hall.
If she had turned left instead, she would have seen her father standing at the end of the hallway, watching her with a stunned look on his face.
Donald Parker stood with stiff back, perfect posture, and a dark blue suit at the end of the hall. Forty years in the news business had taken him across all seven continents. Parker had covered the inauguration of every president from Harry Truman to George Bush. He had witnessed the first moon launch, the Tet Offensive, the Beijing massacre, the opening of the Berlin Wall, Operation Desert Storm. He had interviewed Gandhi, Malcolm X, Pol Pot, Khomemi, Amin, Gorbachev, Hussein. There was little he had not accomplished.
As Sara limped toward him, Donald Parker caught her eye and smiled gently. His eyes were bright blue, piercing and probing. The eyes of the perfect interviewer.
"Hello, Sara."
"Hello, Donald. Did you get my notes?"
He nodded.
"This is quite a story, Sara. The story of the year maybe. Why are you giving it up?" "I'm too close to it," she said.
"Personal involvement?"
She nodded.
"Does this have something to do with the statement your husband is making before the show?"
"I'd rather not say just yet." "Fair enough," he said.
"Any new developments?"
"Another patient, a Riccardo Martino, was murdered last night on the hospital grounds."
"What?"
"I have all the details here."
He took the piece of paper and read it.
"Good work, Sara."
"There's one other thing."
"Oh?"
"You can't mention Senator Jenkins' son on the air."
"I don't understand." She explained. He listened intently, nodding.
"Okay," he said when she finished, "I'll leave that part out."
"Thanks, Donald. I really appreciate it."
"And let me get something else straight. This Dr. Riker does not want to be on television?"
"Right. Dr. Riker wants to keep his anonymity. His assistant Dr. Eric Blake will handle the interviews."
"Okay then, I better get this thing wrapped up. Thanks for laying all the groundwork, Sara. You've left me with the easy parts."
"No problem," she said, walking away.
"And thanks for understanding about Bradley Jenkins."
Donald Parker watched her hobble away, leaning heavily on her cane.
Sara was a mesmerizing girl, an awesome beauty masking an awesome intellect. She was good at her job and Donald found his respect for her growing every day.
Unfortunately, he knew, her respect for him was about to be tested.
After tonight's show she would be more than disappointed with him. She would be furious. But Donald Parker had been in this business a long time, and he had developed a certain code of ethics over the years. He did not believe in ignoring important aspects of a story for the convenience of others no matter what the possible consequences.
And he was not going to leave Bradley Jenkins out of his report.
Little of it made sense. First, there were the files.
Being a doctor's wife, Jennifer had seen plenty of patient files before but these were considerably more vague than most. Specifics were not jotted down more like Bruce's overall opinions and thoughts on the patient. A journal almost. She read the neatly typed name on the label of the first file: Trian, Scott.
She jumped back to the beginning of the file and saw a whole slew of numbers:
1/9 897a83 1/16 084c33 1/23 995d42 1/30 774c09 2/06 786m60 They continued in a similar pattern for two full pages. Jennifer went to the kitchen and grabbed a calendar. She guessed that 1/9 must stand for January 9,1/16 for January 16, and so on. She checked the calendar. January 9 was a Monday, as was every other day that followed. For some reason Bruce had jotted down a five digit number with a letter between the third and fourth numeral on every Monday.
Why?
She shrugged and continued to read. Very little of it made sense to her a lot of medical jargon but early on she read something that she understood all too clearly:
HIV positive. T cell count very low. Signs of Kaposi's sarcoma.
The word wasn't there, but Jennifer knew what Bruce was trying to say: AIDS. In fact she could not find the term anywhere in any of the reports, as though the very acronym should be avoided, whispered, never written in anything but easy-to-erase pencil.
AIDS.
She continued to read. A few pages later another paragraph gave her reason to pause. Bruce's handwriting was bright now, soaring, reflecting the mood he had obviously felt at this moment.
She had seen what the job of medical research could do to a man, the highs and the lows, how every setback brought on depression and every breakthrough a major high. Emotions swayed on a daily, sometimes hourly, basis:
Good news. Trian appears to be getting better. His progress is remarkably similar to the animal tests which proved so successful. It is hard not to get your hopes up when you chart it. The SRI has taken its toll on him, but for the first time he appears genuinely healthy.
Is it simply remission or something much more?
And ten months later:
We are finally ready. Harvey and I will know tomorrow.
I can't believe it. Both of us are so anxious that we keep snapping at one another and anyone who happens to be around us. Poor Eric. Harvey almost bit his head off for nothing.
He felt bad about it afterwards, like Harv always does when he loses his temper. Then he tried to make it up to him by repeatedly complimenting Eric on his work.
I can't blame Harvey for being a little edgy. This is it.
This is what we've been waiting for.
What was Bruce talking about? What were they waiting for?
Jennifer noted the date. Nine months ago. So much had happened to her in the last nine months leaving Harvey, moving to California but when Jennifer read what happened the next day, she realized how insignificant the changes in her life had been.
Bruce's words put her own private world back in perspective, and for the first time in many months she felt the hollow pang of inadequacy ripple anew from the distant recesses of her mind.
"My God," she uttered out loud.
"It can't be."
She swallowed and re-read the page, sure that she had misunderstood the words:
I am not ashamed to say that tears keep running down my face as I write this. Powerful emotions keep crashing over me. It's more than I can take. It's more than I ever expected to hear. But I'm getting ahead of myself so let me go back a moment.
"I'll try to be as precise as possible for the sake of posterity.
Harvey and I wanted to see the Trian results for ourselves. After all, this is hardly the kind of thing you wait for the lab boys to send you a report on. So we walked toward the lab with the controlled rush of school children heading for recess under a teacher's watchful eye.
Winston seemed surprised to see us. He asked what we were doing in the lab. I told him we wanted the results for 443t90. Why the rush?
Winston asked.
Harvey became a little impatient, which was certainly understandable under the circumstances, and told him to hand over the file. Winston did.
We were too nervous to open it in the lab so we did our "trying not to run" bit back down to my office.
Janice stopped us on the way to ask a question, but we just blew right by her. She looked at us like we had lost our minds. We hustled into my office and closed the door. Harvey handed me the file. I can't look, he said.
I opened it. Trian was HIV negative. His T cell count was almost normal. My heart leapt into my throat while Harvey stood without moving. I think he was in shock.
We called in Eric and told him the news. He and I began to shout and jump around like Super Bowl champs, but not Harv. He just stood to the side and looked off at nothing. What's the matter? I asked him. We've done it.
Harv shook his head. Not so fast, he said. We have a lot still to be done.
But look at the results, I insisted. He's HIV negative.
Harvey: Yes, but for how long? It's encouraging but what do we know for sure? We have to test him again.
Me: But this is just what we need to get the place going again. We needed this boost, this kick in the ass. The PHS will give us more money now. Our grant will have to be extended.
Harvey: Timing is everything.
Me: What does that mean?
Harvey: It means that we have to keep this quiet. Can you imagine the uproar if such news got out? The press, the scrutiny? We'll lose our anonymity.
Eric said nothing.
Harvey: No, my friends, for right now, we should tell no one. We will reveal little bits enough to maintain interest and finances but not enough for anyone to know for sure. In the meantime let's make sure everything is well documented. Send the sample to Bangkok on Friday.
Jennifer could not believe what she was reading. HIV negative? They had turned someone who had been HIV positive back into HIV negative.
The disclosure hit her like a heavyweight.
They've cured AIDS.
That was probably optimistic thinking, but the evidence was right in front of her. They had done it. Somehow they had found a cure for the AIDS virus. And Harvey had never mentioned it to her.
It was all so unbelievable. The startling revelation wearied her.
She put the file down and closed her eyes. She wanted just to rest them for a few minutes before continuing to read, but exhaustion got the better of her. She slid into the cusp between consciousness and slumber and her head tilted back. One question kept gnawing at the base of her brain as she glided down into a deep, sound sleep:
Why had Bruce committed suicide right after mailing out this packet?
Ralph Edmund, the county coroner, rolled the stretcher past Max. Ralph looked like a coroner to be more precise, a mortician.
Sallow skin, tall, thin body, thin black hair, long fingers. On the other hand he never dressed like a mortician. He wore loud colors, polyester prints, and ostentatious gold jewelry. He also did not act like a mortician. Ralph was emotional, loud, uncouth as all hell. Even better, he had the charming habit of chewing tobacco and spitting the black-yellow juice wherever and whenever he saw fit.
"I want the autopsy done right away," Max whispered to the coroner.
"Is that why you called me down here personally?" Ralph asked.
Max nodded.
"Check everything."
"Okay," Ralph replied, a thick ball of tobacco bulging in his cheek.
"I'll get to it later this afternoon."
"Now. Right now. And get all the blood samples you can out of him. I want you to run a full battery of tests on him."
"Like what?"
"Well go over it later."
"Hey, Twitch, why you whispering? He's not going to wake up. Ha!"
"Hilarious. Just find out what killed him." Max turned and moved toward Harvey. The doctor looked pale and exhausted.
"Where's Martino's roommate?" v
"Kiel Davis? I had him moved to another room. He's being sedated."
'1 want to speak with him."
"Later," Harvey replied. He shook his head.
"My God, I can't believe this." "What's to believe?" Max asked, flipping through his notepad.
"There was no visible trauma, no blood, no stab or gunshot wounds, no signs of a struggle. The victim was a patient at an AIDS clinic so we can assume he was in poor health. All signs point to death by natural causes, right?"
Harvey did not reply right away.
"Ricky Martino was no angel," he said at last.
"He was an intravenous drug abuser. He used to push drugs at a local high school."
"Irrelevant. How sick was he?"
"Actually," Harvey replied, "Martino was cured."
"He didn't have AIDS?"
"Not any more. His last test showed he was HIV negative.
He was still undergoing more treatment, of course, but he was on his way to a full recovery."
"Interesting," Max said.
"To be frank," Harvey continued, "I wasn't crazy about treating Martino."
"Why not?"
"Because he was a lousy candidate. For one thing, he was a heroin addict." "Then why did you?" Sara asked.
"With so many good candidates willing to give anything a try, why would you choose Martino?"
"Because we wanted a cross section of patients not just gay men. So Bruce brought Martino in. Brace liked Martino. He believed in him." "And you didn't?" Sara continued.
Harvey shrugged.
"Intravenous drug abusers, by and large, are a rather sordid group. I confess I'm no big fan of treating IVDAs not for any moral reason but simply because they are unreliable data. Addicts cannot be trusted. On top of that, most of them are already unhealthy from a lifetime of abusing their bodies, which makes their chances of fighting the disease that much slimmer."
"Then what do you think killed him, Doctor?" Max asked.
"I don't know." He paused to gather his thoughts.
"I just don't understand it. I was in this room less than an hour ago."
"Before you got hit on the head?"
"Right before."
"And Martino appeared fine?"
"He was breathing, if that's what you mean. Look, Martino was not the healthiest man alive, but he had nothing that would have lead to an acute death like this. And with the prowler in here tonight and all... it just seems like a hell of a coincidence."
Max folded his arms across his chest, his face twisted in heavy thought.
"If Martino was murdered, it puts this whole thing in a new light."
"What do you mean?" Harvey asked.
"New M. O." for one," he answered.
"No stabbing," Sara agreed.
"But what about Brace?" Harvey said.
"He wasn't stabbed either."
Bernstein nodded slowly and began to pace.
"Let's slow down a minute. Five people are dead, four patients, one doctor. Three Trian, Whitherson, and Jenkins were stabbed to death under similar, though not identical, circumstances." "We know all this," Harvey said impatiently.
"Just bear with me, okay? What do the three patients have in common?"
"They were gay," Sara began, "and they were all being treated at the same AIDS clinic."
"Now add Martino to the list, assuming he too was murdered."
"Then we can rule out a gay basher," Harvey noted.
"Martino was heterosexual." His beeper went off.
"Damn, I have to go."
"I'll need to speak to you later," Max said.
"I also want to see your files on the murder victims."
Harvey nodded and left. Bernstein stopped pacing and looked toward Sara gently.
"You must be exhausted. Why don't you get some sleep?"
"I feel fine."
"Sara..."
"Don't start this shit with me, Max. Crying and moping around is not going to help. I need something to distract me."
Max nodded, understanding.
"Okay, where were we?"
"Riccardo Martino."
"Right. Add him into the equation and what makes them all similar?"
"Two things," Sara answered.
"AIDS and the clinic. Like Harvey said, we can eliminate the gay connection since Martino was heterosexual."
"Okay, now let's move on to Dr. Bruce Grey. Add him to Whitherson, Trian, Jenkins, and Martino. Now what is the common denominator?"
"Only one thing," Sara answered.
"The clinic. Someone is targeting people associated with the Sidney Pavilion."
Max did not respond right away. He just looked off, his head slowly shaking, his teeth locating another corner of fingernail on which he could gnaw.
"We're missing something here," he said finally, "something big."
"Like?"
"Hell if I know."
"Do you think someone is trying to sabotage the clinic?"
"Could be."
She glanced at the clock above the door.
"I have to get back to Michael now. He'll be waking up in a little while."
"I'm going to check through Dr. Riker's patient files."
"Okay. I'll see you later."
"Sara? One other thing?"
"Yesr
"I'm saying this as a friend, not a police officer."
"Go ahead."
"You're blocking on Michael. It's going to hit you soon."
She moved to the door.
"I know, Max. Thanks."
He could hear the running water.
"No, no please..."
"Shut up, you whining punk."
Seven- year-old Michael looked up, his eyes tainted with fear. His stepfather was leaning over the tub. His blue work shirt, the name Marty sewed on the breast pocket in red script, was unbuttoned, revealing a ripped white T-shirt underneath. Marty's face contorted into a look of pure, dumb anger and hate. His breath reeked of liquor and tobacco.
"Get over here, Michael!"
"Please..."
"If I have to chase you, boy..." He never finished the sentence, allowing Michael's imagination to do it instead.
Michael tried to run, but his feet felt glued to the floor. He could not move. Marty reached his hand out and took Michael by the hair.
He tugged him forward and then down, forcing Michael's head under the water.
"You gonna mess around in my room again?" Marty shouted.
Michael could not answer. He could not breathe. He flailed his head back and forth, searching for air. But there was none. Water went down his throat and he began to choke.
Marty's grip tightened. His hand held firm.
"I didn't hear you, boy. You gonna mess around in my room again?"
Pressure built up in Michael's head. His lungs felt like they were about to burst. He could hear the water splash around him... Michael shot up out of bed. Sweat coated his skin.
Just a dream.
He looked around, almost expecting to see Marty's face in the corner of the darkened room. But his stepfather was not there.
Michael was alone in the clinic. The AIDS clinic. He had AIDS.
From the hallway he could hear water running. Someone washing up.
Someone cleaning out something. No reason to be scared.
He swung his legs out of the bed and stood. His body still trembled from the power of the dream, but at least he didn't feel any of the SRI side effects yet. He wrapped his arms around his chest and moved toward the window. He looked out. Not much of a view. Just a dirty alley. Garbage strewn everywhere. Two homeless men playing cards.
Overturned tin cans. Cats chewing on a chicken bone. The only thing that hinted at the sanitary conditions within the building was a startlingly clean white truck with the inscription
"Recovery Corporation of America Medical Waste Disposal" painted across its side.
Michael continued to stare.
Random thoughts and emotions ricocheted through his mind.
They moved so quickly that he could not make complete sense of them, like trying to read a license plate as a car speeds by you.
He tried to slow them down, but it was impossible. He caught just glimpses. In the end, one word became clear, blocking out all others:
Sara.
Funny, but Michael was not afraid of dying. Leaving Sara frightened him more. Alone. With the baby. The future meant something to him now. He had a stake in it, responsibilities. He wanted to stay with Sara, with the baby. So why did this happen now? Why show him what could be only to take it away?
Enough self-pity, Michael. You're making me sick.
He thought about the press conference he would have to give tonight on Newsflash and wondered what he was going to say.
He could just imagine the questions the reporters were going to hurl at him gleefully:
"Have you always been gay?..."
"Did your wife know?..."
"How about your teammates?..."
"How many boyfriends have you had?..."
And oh God, Sara, what am I doing to you? he asked himself.
All I ever wanted to do was protect you. Now, I'm throwing you in the middle of this. I wish I didn't have to. I wish I could just ignore it, blind myself from the truth. But I can't. Why should you have to suffer anymore? Part of me wants to push you away, to shield you from going through this whole AIDS shit with me.
But Michael knew he could never. Sara would never allow it. And he knew that if the roles had been reversed, there would be no way Sara could have persuaded him to let her go. None.
She would want to be there, and selfish as it might be, he wanted her there. He knew he would never make it without her.
He just wished he wasn't so goddamn scared.
"Michael?"
He turned. Sara stood in the doorway. She was so beautiful, so goddamn achingly beautiful... He felt tears come to his eyes, but he forced them back down again.
"I love you," he said.
She limped to the window and hugged him tightly.
He closed his eyes and held on.
"We're going to beat this thing, aren't we?"
She pulled back and looked up at him. A smile flirted with her lips.
"We're going to whip its ass," she said staunchly.
She embraced him again, trying so very hard to believe her own words.
The next morning Lieutenant Bernstein found Dr. Harvey Riker in the lab, checking through his private files.
"Anything missing?" the lieutenant asked.
Harvey shook his head.
"But someone went through them.
A couple of them are out of order."
"Michael's?"
"Yes. Have you heard from the coroner yet?"
Bernstein nodded. The fingers of his right hand busily twisted a paper clip into shapes it was never intended to achieve.
"There were traces of cyanide. Someone injected it into his right arm."
"So it was murder."
"Looks like."
Harvey let go a long breath.
"Did you speak with Kiel Davis yetr
"Yes. He saw nothing. He heard nothing. He knows nothing."
As Harvey was about to respond, Winston O'Connor stepped through the doorway.
"Good morning, Harvey."
"Hi, Winston. Win, I want you to meet Lieutenant Bernstein."
Winston O'Connor stuck out his hand.
"Pleasure, sir. Ain't you kinda young to be a lieutenant?"
Bernstein ignored the common question and busied himself studying the man. Fortyish, thick Southern accent, blond-turning to-grey hair, average height, open smile.
"You're the chief lab technician?"
"That's right," Winston twanged.
"What brings you all around these parts, Lieutenant?"
"Someone broke into this lab last night," Bernstein said, purposely not saying anything about Martino yet.
"You're kidding! A break-in here? What did they taker
"Nothing," Max replied.
"Dr. Riker walked in on them."
"You all right, Harv?"
"Fine."
"Where were you last night at around three in the morning?" Max asked.
Winston's face registered surprise.
"Am I a suspect?"
"No one is a suspect. I'm just trying to figure out what happened."
"I was home all night."
"You live alone?"
"Yes."
"Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts?"
"Why the hell would I need anyone to vouch for me?"
"Please just answer the question."
"No. I don't make a point of having witnesses watch me when I'm in my own home."
"What time did you leave here last night?"
"Around midnight."
"Were you the last one to leave the lab?" "No," Winston said, his voice an octave higher.
"Eric Blake was still here."
"Alone?"
"Yes. I just locked up some of the experiments, same as I do every night, and left him in here." Winston glared at the police detective, but Bernstein diverted his gaze, never allowing the man to look him in the eye.
"Can I go down the hall now to get a cup of coffee, Lieutenant, or do you need my mama's maiden name first?"
"Go."
Winston spun and left.
"Kind of touchy," Bernstein remarked.
"But a good man," Harvey added, "hard worker."
"How long have you known him?"
"Fifteen years."
"How long has he lived in New York?"
"I don't know. Almost twenty years."
Max stroked his chin.
"Interesting."
"What?"
"Nothing. I have a few more questions for you, if you don't mind."
"Ask away."
Bernstein's pacing commenced. He never looked in Harvey's direction as he spoke.
"How many confidential patients do you treat?"
"They are all confidential, Lieutenant."
"Okay, but how many are 'very' confidential, kept away from the rest of the patients behind that door down the hall with no window on it?"
"Right now, just Michael. I came up with the idea of the secluded room when we first started treating Bradley Jenkins."
"How did you meet Jenkins?"
Harvey went back to sorting his files.
"Through his father."
"And how did you meet his father?"
"He came to see me one day. Said he wanted to know more about what we were doing. I was wary, of course. Senator Stephen Jenkins is hardly one who normally sides with our cause.
After a while he said he had heard rumors that we could cure AIDS. I denied it, telling him our success had been miniscule at best. But he was adamant. That's when he told me about his son." "He admitted to you that Bradley had AIDS?"
"Yes, He was desperate, Lieutenant. He may be a bit of a fanatic, but his boy was sick and dying. He promised me he'd help the clinic discreetly if I took Bradley in."
"So you did."
He nodded and then realized that the lieutenant was not facing him.
"I didn't really believe he'd help. I was more hoping he wouldn't hurt."
"Jenkins took a hell of a risk trusting you."
"What choice did he have? He wanted to save his son's life.
We worked out extra security measures like we used with Michael hidden entrances from the basement and all that."
"Besides yourself, who knows the names of the patients in here?"
"That's the weird part. Practically nobody. Bruce knew. Eric knows many of the names, not all. And..." He stopped.
"Who else?" Max asked again.
"Dr. Raymond Markey."
"Who's he?"
"An Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services. We report to him directly."
"Do you trust him?"
"Not much. He's always been more of a politician than a doctor."
"But he knew Bradley Jenkins was in here?"
"No. We hid it from him."
"How did you manage that?"
"I lied."
"How?"
Harvey shrugged.
"I just left Bradley's name off the patient list I sent Markey."
"And this Markey guy never questioned it?"
"No."
"Does he know you've found a cure?"
"Yes and no. We tell him just enough so he can't pull back the money."
"And he just accepts your word?"
Harvey half-chuckled.
"Hardly. We always back up our claims with irrefutable evidence. A good researcher always guards against a charge of tampering with results. Just the accusation of falsifying data could bring down an entire clinic like ours. That's why I set up a system where at least two doctors work on each case always at separate times. It prevents any hint of wrongdoing."
"I'm not sure I follow."
"Take the blood work."
"The blood work?"
"The taking and handling of blood. If I did the original examination on a patient, Bruce or Eric would do the testing during the latter stages of the treatment and vice-versa. Let me give you an example. I diagnosed Teddy Krutzer as having the AIDS virus three years ago. As a result, Bruce was the one who handled the blood work when we tested to see if Krutzer had actually become HIV negative. Another example.
Scott Trian, the first murder victim, was first diagnosed with AIDS by Bruce Grey four years ago so "
"So you or Eric ran the blood test to see if he had been cured or not."
"Exactly. This way, we are able to head off anyone who might want to slow us down by throwing out false accusations of tampering."
Max shook his head.
"This case just keeps getting weirder and weirder."
"Not so weird," Harvey said.
"Oh?"
"I think it's pretty simple."
"Then why don't you let me in on it?"
Harvey stopped playing with the files and looked up.
"Someone is trying to destroy this clinic. Someone has found out what we have discovered here and wants to prevent us from showing the world.
It's what I've suspected all along. It's why I set up all these internal safeguards."
"But " "Look, Lieutenant, it's like I told Sara in the beginning. If I wanted to prove to you that I could cure AIDS, what would be the most convincing thing I could show you? Cured patients, right? Eliminate the cured patients and all I have is charts and graphs and tests and files that don't add up to a thing. I'd have to start all over again.
A vaccine could be delayed years." "Makes sense, I guess," Bernstein said without breaking stride.
"But let me ask you this. How many good test cases are still alive?"
"Three."
"Three cured patients left," Max repeated.
"Well then, all three need protection. They should be moved to a safehouse where no one will know where they are." "I agree," Harvey said.
"Then I have a suggestion for you, Doctor, that you might not like. I want to put them in a real safehouse."
"I don't understand."
"If this conspiracy is as big as you suspect, then anyone could be involved in this plot. They've already gone to extreme lengths and they probably won't stop now. I think it safest if no one, not even you, knows where they are. The less everyone knows, the less that can slip out. Or be forced out."
"Do you really think "
"Five men nave been murdered already," Bernstein interrupted.
"But these patients have to be watched by a qualified doctor."
"I have a doctor who has made a living keeping his mouth shut. You tell him what to do and he'll do it. If you need to see them yourself, I'll take you to the safehouse. Blindfolded."
Harvey nodded.
"Okay, sounds reasonable. But I want your word that the patients won't be touched without specific permission. If your doctor were to give them the wrong medication or take unnecessary tests "
"He won't, you have my word. I'd also like to go through the medical records of the four victims."
"Of course, Lieutenant, but let me ask you something."
"Go ahead."
"If this conspiracy is so powerful, how do I know you're not a part of it?"
Bernstein stopped pacing, looked up, and twirled his hair around his middle finger.
"Interesting question," he replied. And then he walked out the door.
Jennifer Riker woke up on the couch. The contents of the packet were scattered around her.
"I'll look through it later, she thought. She showered, dressed, and poured herself a bowl of Triple-Bran, the latest in a series of fad cereals that were supposed to cure everything from cancer to lockjaw.
It tasted like tree bark.
Her sister Susan bought all those crazy health foods, coming home from the supermarket exclaiming, "I just bought (fill in the blank), and my friend (fill in the blank) swears that this will make you feel one hundred percent more (fill in the blank)."
She sighed, carried the bowl back into the den, and sat on the couch.
She glanced at the file she had read yesterday.
Unbelievable. Harvey and Bruce had done it. Cured AIDS.
Turned an HIV positive into an HIV negative. Historic.
Jennifer picked up Scott Trian's file and fingered through the pages until she arrived at the spot where she had left off. She scanned down the page. There. The spot where Trian became HIV negative. She read on. Trian's condition progressed nicely now, though not without some setbacks. Bruce noted:
There are times when Scott is made so weak from the injections of SRI that I fear for him. Harvey and I talked about it last night. We both agree that we have to do something to lessen the side effects. Still, the alternative death from AIDS is far worse than what we are seeing in Trian.
The file held no more surprising revelations, just a few scattered notes about Trian's reaction to SRI. Bruce's last note read:
DNA? A vs. B
What did that mean? She shrugged, put down the file, and picked up another. Whitherson, William. His file was very much like Trian's.
Whitherson had also been transformed to HIV negative, but he had other problems:
Bill's family is so damn un supportive His father won't speak to him, and his mother feels trapped between her husband and her son, afraid to talk to Bill because her husband would see it as some sort of betrayal.
p" Horse's asses, both of them. The funny thing is Bill still loves them like mad. He calls them all the time. I hear him pleading over the phone in a hushed, defeated voice.
"But don't you understand? I'm dying." Still nothing.
And the same last note:
DNA? A vs. B. She read about Krutzer, Theodore, next. His pattern was very similar to the others with only a few noticeable differences:
Unlike Whitherson's family, Teddy's seems positively unbelievable. His father and mother have not only accepted their son's homosexuality, they seem to encourage it. His father invites Teddy's boyfriend to the house on weekends. They go fishing together.
And then further:
Another cured patient. It's too good to be true. Krutzer's illness had never been acute, nothing worse than a bout with hepatitis and a few skin rashes. And now he's cured. Harvey made a suggestion today which I think is valid. The conversation between Harvey, Eric, and me went something like this.
Harvey: You do all the testing on Krutzer, Bruce. Don't let anyone else but yourself touch this case. You do the tests in the lab yourself.
Eric: Why?
Harvey: Independent research. If different people handle different cases, then one man cannot be accused of tampering with the results. I suggest you try to bring in Markey on this one.
Me: Okay, I'll give him a call. I doubt he'll be interested.
Harvey: At least we can say we offered him the opportunity.
Eric: I'm not sure why we have to do this. We don't have time to play lab technicians.
Harvey: It's too important, Eric. We can't let there be any holes in our research for our enemies to exploit.
The rest of the files read similarly, each with its own unique twists and turns. Nothing odd about that. What was odd, however, was that they all ended with the same strange note:
DNA? A vs. B. Jennifer was about to reach for the last file when she remembered the small styrofoam containers. She glanced at them, stacked on the edge of the couch. Each one had a patient's name taped to the outside. She pried open the one that read
"Trian, Scott."
Inside were two small test tubes labeled A and B. What the...?
She pulled the small test tubes more like vials really out of the snug holders. Blood. They were blood samples. She examined the other styrofoam containers. All were the same. A patient's name taped to the styrofoam outside, two test tubes labeled A and B both filled with blood on the inside.
What for?
Then she noticed the small white envelope.
It had fallen under the couch and only a corner of it was visible.
Jennifer reached down and picked up the envelope. Plain white. No return address, no markings. The kind of envelope you'd buy at a five and ten. Bruce had written "Susan" across the front in his familiar scrawl. Jennifer turned the envelope over.
When she read what Bruce had written across the back seal, she felt her stomach drop into her feet. In small, plain block letters, it said:
TO BE OPENED UPON MY DEATH.
"Need some help?"
Max Bernstein looked up at Sara.
"Yeah, come on in. Where's Michael?"
"Being treated," Sara replied.
"Are those the patient files?"
Max nodded, a fresh pencil in his mouth.
"This sucker just gets weirder and weirder."
Sara sat down, unsnapped her brace and rubbed her leg.
"I'm listening."
"Okay," Max began.
"Here are the medical files for all the victims. Let's start with Trian. He was one of the first patients, admitted almost three years ago. Whitherson came in about the same time. Same with Martino, the intravenous drug abuser."
"And Bradley?"
"That's just it. Bradley is the oddball out. He was in here less than a year. He was in the middle of treatment. He was doing well, but he had not yet turned HIV negative. It doesn't fit. Did Harvey fill you in on our talk?"
"Did he tell you about his theory about someone trying to destroy the clinic?"
Sara nodded.
"It made sense to Michael and me."
"Made sense to me too, but there are so many holes. Take Bradley Jenkins, for example. Let's assume that these conspiracy guys are out to get rid of the cured AIDS patients the proof, to use Harvey's word.
Then why kill Bradley Jenkins? He was a new patient at the clinic. And why move his body behind a gay bar? And another thing. If you're out to do serious damage to a place and you don't care about killing a few people in the process, why pussy-foot around? Why not go all out? Why not burn down the Pavilion? Why not just kill Harvey and Eric and destroy their records?"
"I see your point."
"I don't know, Sara, something just doesn't fit. Why did the killer make the murders so obvious?"
"He's a psycho."
"A psycho who has penetrated the inner sanctum of this hospital? I don't think so."
"Maybe he wanted to distract everyone by making them think he was just targeting the gay community," Sara said.
"How so?"
"His first two victims were blatant homosexuals killed in a gruesome manner," Sara explained.
"The press was bound to pick it up. The killer knew that. He also knew that the world would immediately assume the murders were the work of a psychotic homophobe. No one looked deeper than that pat explanation at first. The world searched for the Gay Slasher, a man who murders homosexuals randomly, not a calculating killer intent on exterminating patients at a confidential clinic."
"But the press didn't go after the story that much until..."
"Until they killed the son of a famous senator," Sara finished.
"Which explains why he killed Bradley. It attracted media attention.
Everyone finally focused in on the Gay Slasher."
Max scratched his face, thinking.
"I see what you're saying, but it still doesn't jibe. Why did the killer move Bradley's body behind the gay bar?"
"So the world would know he was gay," Sara tried.
"The killer wanted everyone to think he was the Gay Slasher, a man who terrorized the gay community. Trian and Whitherson were known homosexuals. Bradley's sexual preference, on the other hand, was a well-kept secret. What better way to reveal the truth than to dump Bradley's body behind a gay bar in the Village?" "Okay," he said, "that's theory one. I'm not sure I buy it, but let's move on."
"I don't completely buy it either," Sara said, "but let me throw something else out at you. Could the killer just have been after Bradley?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, could the killer have murdered Trian and Whitherson to make it look like a serial killer when the real target was Bradley all along?
Could someone have been out to destroy Senator Jenkins by "
"Forget it.
I thought about that already. It makes no sense.
Why kill Ricky Martino after the fact? Why break into the lab?
And what about the clinic connection? Are you just going to write that off as a coincidence? And what about Grey's supposed suicide "
"Enough already," she interrupted.
"I get the point. Forget I mentioned it."
"Sony" He stacked the files and pushed them away.
"Nervous about tonight's press conference?"
"Terrified. But I'm a lot more afraid of this disease."
Max nodded.
"Michael's strong, Sara. Harvey will cure him."
Harvey Riker picked up his private line.
"Hello?" "Hello, handsome," Cassandra said.
"I'd like to rip your clothes off."
"I'm sorry. You must have the wrong number."
"All the better," she replied.
"How did your meeting go with Northeastern Air?"
"It's not over yet. How's your day been?"
He considered telling Cassandra about Michael's condition but quickly dismissed the thought. It was not his place to say anything.
"Not good. We lost a patient last night. Murdered, we think."
"Another one?"
"Yes."
Cassandra hesitated.
"Do you really think that Reverend Sanders is connected to this?"
"I wouldn't put it past him."
"And my father?"
Harvey weighed his words carefully.
"It seems strange to me that the same day your father denied knowing Sanders personally, you hear them arguing in his study. Why did he lie to us? What was he trying to hide?"
Harvey's intercom buzzed before she could answer.
"Hold on a second, Cassandra." He pressed the intercom button.
"Hello?"
"Doctor Riker?"
"Yes," Harvey replied.
"There's a call for you on line seven."
"I'm in the middle of something here. Is it important?"
There was a small pause.
"Its Dr. Raymond Markey."
Harvey felt afraid. The Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services never called unless it was bad news.
"Hold on a second." He pressed a button.
"I'll call you back, Cassandra."
He pushed another button.
"Dr. Markey?"
"Hello, Dr. Riker. How are you this morning?"
"Not very well."
"Oh?"
"Another one of our patients died last night. He may have been murdered."
"Murdered?" Markey repeated.
"My God, Riker, how many does that make?"
Harvey caught himself just before saying the number four.
"Uh, three."
"What was the latest victim's name?"
"Martino."
"Martino, Martino... ah here it is. Riccardo Martino? Intravenous drug abuser?"
"That's him."
"So let's see. The other two were Trian and Whitherson. Both gay.
Multiple stab wounds. The same with Martino?"
"No."
"Then what killed him?"
"An injection of cyanide."
"My God, how awful. Terrible thing."
"Yes, it is. I'm really beginning to worry about the safety of my other patients."
"Yes, well, I wouldn't worry about that too much. I'm sure this is all nothing more than a terrible coincidence."
A terrible coincidence?
"With all due respect, sir, three patients all from the same clinic have been killed."
"Yes, but you're forgetting one important factor: Bradley Jenkins, the senator's son, was also found stabbed to death.
According to the police, he was murdered by the same man who killed Trian and Whitherson this so-called Gay Slasher. And Jenkins was not a patient at the clinic. I have your patient list right in front of me and his name is not on it."
Harvey froze, trapped. For some reason he was sure that Raymond Markey was smiling on the other end of the phone.
"Well, yes, but-"
"So there is nothing to worry about. Now if Jenkins had been a patient at the clinic, well, then we'd have quite a problem on our hands. Your reports would be inaccurate. And if that were the case, then everything in the reports could be questioned. We'd have to assume other discrepancies exist. All your studies would have to be re-examined and all your findings would be considered tainted. You could lose your grant."
Harvey felt something in his gut tighten. The show tonight.
The report on the clinic, on the murders... on Bradley Jenkins.
Lieutenant Bernstein's voice came back to him.
"What exactly is Parker going to cover?" Max had asked Sara.
"The AIDS cure? The Gay Slasher connection? Senator Jenkins' kid being treated at the clinic?"
And Sara's answer.
"All of it."
Raymond Markey did not speak for a few moments, allowing his words to float about, settle, and then burrow into the surroundings.
The son of a bitch already knows about Jenkins, Harvey thought.
But how? And why didn't I think of this before? What the hell is going on here?
At last Raymond Markey broke the silence.
"But of course," he said, "we both know that Bradley Jenkins was not a patient at the clinic so you have nothing to worry about. The deaths are nothing but an awful coincidence. Goodbye, Dr. Riker."
Raymond Markey put down the phone. In front of his desk Reverend Sanders sat smiling. Such an eerie smile, Raymond thought. So genuinely jolly, friendly, gentle. Not sinister at all.
What a mask it was. Incredible really as incredible as the man himself. Markey knew Sanders' history. Poor boy from the south.
Father was a farmer who ran moonshine across state lines. Mother was a drunk. Sanders had conned, clawed, and blackmailed his way out of poverty, stampeding over anything that got in his way.
He was shrewd. He knew how to manipulate people and consolidate a power base. His influence had started with the poor and uneducated and now stretched into some of Washington's most powerful circles.
Including mine, Markey thought.
"Done," Markey said, standing. He adjusted his red tie in the reflection of a picture frame. Raymond Markey always wore red ties.
They had become something of a trademark over the years.
Red ties and thick glasses.
"Good," Sanders said.
"Has your source come up with anything new?"
"Nothing. Just what we already know. A camera crew has been hanging out at the clinic, but everything is being kept hush hush
The reverend shook his head seriously.
"Not a good sign.
They might go public with Michael Silverman's illness."
"You don't think my call will stop them?" Markey asked.
Sanders thought a moment.
"I don't think Riker would dare publicize Jenkins' connection to the murders," he said.
"But if they've decided to go public with Michael Silverman, I don't see how your conversation with Riker is going to dissuade them."
"Maybe we should forget this whole thing," Raymond said tentatively.
"It may have gone too far already."
Sanders looked at him with burning eyes.
"Are you trying to back out, Raymond?"
"No, it's just-"
"Do I have to remind you why you agreed to help me in my holy mission? You were the one who never trusted Riker, disliked him personally and professionally. And I have that videotape right-" "No!" Markey shouted. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, his breathing shallow. His voice grew calmer.
"I'm still behind you one hundred percent, but you have to admit the conspiracy is cracking."
Sanders' smile returned.
"Conspiracy is such an ugly word," he said.
"I see it as more of a holy mission. The Lord is behind us in our crusade to do His work." Straight from his TV show, Markey thought in disgust.
Sanders' "holy mission" was to tell the world that Armageddon was upon them. And what better proof of the oncoming apocalypse than the AIDS epidemic.
After all, Reverend Sanders would shout into the microphone, AIDS is the modern equivalent of the plagues of Egypt. It strikes down the immoral without mercy. Yes, my friends, God is preparing for the final battle. For Armageddon. God has sent down a clear sign that we cannot ignore. God has sent down this incurable plague to rid the planet of the perverted, hedonistic scum. And soon the final battle between good and evil will be upon us, amen, praise the Lord. Who will be ready?
Who will bask in the light of God, and who will join the AIDS carriers in the fires of hell? We must arm ourselves for this battle, my friends, and we need your help to do it. Now is the time for those with untainted souls to give and give generously.
Then Sanders would show a few slides of how God's plague could ravage and pillage a human body into scraps of useless tissue and marrow. His mesmerized, horrified followers would stare at the screen in terror while the contribution baskets were passed among them. From the pulpit Sanders would watch the baskets fill and then overflow with green.
Ah, but if AIDS were somehow cured, if the Lord's plague were somehow lifted... well, that could throw a real socket wrench into Reverend Sanders' interpretation of the gospel.
Strange thing was, Raymond was convinced that Sanders really believed most of it. Oh, he knew how to fake a miracle and he sure liked siphoning off a lot of money, but he honestly felt that he was doing God's work here. When Sanders compared AIDS with biblical plagues, he saw a direct correlation. Why, he once asked Raymond, was it so hard to believe that God could function in the twentieth century just as well as he had in Biblical times? Did people think God had lost his power over the centuries?
"The point remains," Markey said.
"We're losing the base of our support."
"You're wrong, Raymond. They are still with us."
"How can you say that? Senator Jenkins "
"Stephen is grieving right now," Sanders interrupted.
"It must have been a terrible blow to find his son was an immoral pervert.
He will rejoin us when he comes to his senses."
Raymond looked at him incredulously.
"You can't be serious.
You know what he did. He sold us out."
"Yes, I know. And I don't like it. But he is still a powerful senator and we need him. I want you to call him, Raymond. Tell him I expect to see him at our next meeting."
"And when is that going to be?"
Ernest Sanders shrugged.
"Depends," he said.
"If Michael Silverman goes public with his illness, then I want you to call an emergency meeting right away. All of us."
"All of us? But Silverman is John Lowell's son-in-law."
Sanders chuckled lightly.
"Don't worry about Dr. Lowell. I'll take care of him." He stood, put on his coat, and walked to the door.
"After all," he reminded Markey, "John Lowell is one of us."
Harvey stormed into Michael's room, his eyes wide with panic.
"Sara, thank God I found you."
She was sitting on the side of Michael's bed. Sara and Michael had been going over his press statement. They had decided to make it as brief as possible.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
"Where is Donald Parker?" Harvey asked.
"He should be here in a few moments. What's going on?"
Harvey's words rushed out.
"You have to speak with him.
He can't mention Bradley Jenkins' connection to the clinic."
"Why not?"
"Because it could jeopardize everything." Harvey quickly recounted his conversation with Assistant Secretary Markey, his sentences stumbling against one another.
"If Markey finds out I left Bradley's name off the progress reports, I could lose the clinic. All our findings would be labeled invalid." "Could they do that?" Michael asked.
"Markey will certainly give it his best shot. He's itching for an excuse to reallocate our funds. This would be just what he needs. We can't let him find out Bradley was treated here."
Sara nodded.
"I'll speak to Donald as soon as he gets here."
Cassandra woke up in a familiar state of disorientation and pain. The disorientation came from not knowing where she was, the pain from a massive hangover. The disorientation usually lasted only a few moments, just until her mind could scrape together enough outside stimuli to reconstruct the previous evening. The pain customarily clung to her a little longer.
"Harvey?" she called out.
No answer.
She groaned. She clasped her head between both hands, but the internal jack-hammer continued to rip through her temples.
By exerting herself, she was able to pry open both eyelids. She squinted in the harsh light, though the shades were pulled and all the lights were out. In fact, the room was fairly dark.
She groaned again.
It was a hotel room, not Harvey's apartment. A fancy hotel room. A travel brochure would call it 'lush" and "well-appointed."
In the distance a car honked its horn, but to Cassandra it might as well have been a blown amplifier from a rock concert taking place somewhere in her cerebrum.
"Shhh," she said out loud.
Her hands held her head in place, waiting until time glued her skull back together. She tried to remember what had happened. The meeting with Northeastern Air. Had they gotten the account? Not yet.
Northeastern's marketing director, a runaway egomaniac, had held off making a decision. Then they had gone drinking at the... at the Plaza, that's where she was.
What had they talked about? She couldn't remember. The marketing director, while good-looking, was obnoxious, overbearing, and conceited. A big-time phony. When he opened his mouth, shit came out.
She tried to recall what he had said, but the only thing she could remember him saying was "me, I, me, I, me, I."
Then what?
Pretty simple. The marketing director had taken her upstairs, fucked her, and left. It started coming back to her now. The sex was bad. He was a "poser," someone more interested in his appearance than in what he was doing, the kind of guy who would rather look in a mirror than at his partner. Might as well have been making love to himself.
Cassandra sat up and glanced about the room. Yep, he was gone, thank God. He had left a note on the night table. She reached for it and read:
Congratulations. You got the account.
He had not signed the note, just left his business card.
Christ.
She swung her legs off the bed and managed to stand. The room was like so many others she had been in spacious, beautiful, immaculate, expensive furnishings, clean sheets, thick towels. Only the best for Cassandra Lowell. Never a sleazy motel.
If you wanted to fuck Cassandra Lowell, you had to surround her with beautiful things. You had to take her to a classy place.
She was, after all, no cheap whore.
She was a classy whore.
She headed toward the bathroom. Standing outside the shower, she turned on the hot water and waited till the water steamed before stepping under the spray. She stood there for a very long time, letting the near-scorching water pound down on her. She lathered her body and rinsed off repeatedly. Forty-five minutes later, she dried herself off. Then she sat on the kingsized bed, cried for a brief moment, got dressed, and went home.
When she arrived at the Lowell mansion a few hours later, she grabbed a bowl of cereal and sat down at the kitchen table.
"Good morning, honey," John Lowell said.
Cassandra looked up. Her father was wearing a charcoal turtleneck, his hair neatly groomed, his cheeks flushed. Her father was still a good-looking man, she thought, but he had not had a serious relationship with a woman since her mother's death almost ten years ago. A shame and yet Cassandra wondered how she would feel if another woman were to light up her father's eyes the way her mother had.
Spiteful, probably. That would be typical of her.
"Good morning," she replied.
"Have you heard from Sara?"
"No. Should I have?"
Her father shrugged.
"I called the hospital. They told me Michael checked out this morning.
I called their house, but all I got was the answering machine."
"Did you try Dr. Riker?" she asked.
Dr. Lowell nodded.
"He hasn't returned my call. I don't think he will."
"Why not?"
"Let's just say that Harvey Riker and I are not exactly buddies."
Cassandra lowered her eyes. She felt something peculiar, something, she guessed, akin to shame.
"Still," Dr. Lowell continued, "it's quite strange."
"What is?"
"Michael has hepatitis B, which means he'll have to be hospitalized for at least three weeks. Why would he check out?"
"Maybe they moved him to another hospital." "Maybe," Dr. Lowell said doubtfully.
Cassandra remembered how quickly Harvey had hustled out of the apartment after Eric's call yesterday morning. She had not picked up much of the conversation, but Harvey's tone had been grave, nervous.
She had also heard him mention Michael's name before hanging up and rushing out the door without so much as a goodbye.
Is something seriously wrong with Michael?
"I have to go," her father said.
"If your sister calls, tell her she can reach me on the car phone." He kissed Cassandra on the cheek and walked toward the door. He had not asked where she had been the past five nights or with whom. When it came to sexual matters, her father liked to pretend nothing was amiss easier on the of' morals than the truth.
Cassandra thought about Harvey. She wondered why she had ended up in bed with that Neanderthal marketing director (what the hell was his name?) when things had been going so well... too well?... with Harvey.
Well, c'est la vie. It could be that she and Harvey were never meant to last. Or it could be that she had too much to drink.
Or it could be... or it could be that you're a worthless whore, Cassandra.
She closed her eyes. When she heard her father drive away, Cassandra stood and crept down the corridor toward his study.
It was time to put last night behind her. There were other matters, more important matters, to consider.
She knew that what she was about to do was wrong. She knew that her father's study was off limits, that she had no right to pry into his private affairs. But Harvey's words and maybe the need to make up for last night propelled her forward: "It seems strange to me that the same day your father denied knowing
Sanders personally, you hear them arguing in his study. Why did he lie to us? What was he trying to hide?" Indeed, she thought. What was or is he trying to hide?
Could he really be connected with Reverend Sanders? Could her father really have something to do with the trouble at the clinic?
She reached the door to his study, turned the knob, and entered. Her father's office was her favorite room in the house.
So spacious, with high ceiling, dark oak everywhere, thousands of books like Henry Higgins' study in My Fair Lady. She crept behind the large antique desk and pulled the side drawer. It would not open. She tried it again. Locked. She sat back in the plush leather swivel chair. Now where did he hide that damn key? Her hand felt around the underside of the middle drawer. A few moments later she felt something cool, metallic.
Bingo.
Her fingers closed around the small key and ripped away the ipe. She unlocked the desk and began to rifle through its on tents In the bottom right-hand drawer, she found his file of personal letters. She skimmed through them until she found one that piqued her interest. It was from Dr. Leonard Bronkowitz, the chief trustee at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital:
Dear John, I know this is going to upset you immensely, but the board has decided to go ahead with Sidney Pavilion.
Despite your rather persuasive arguments, a slim majority of the board members seems to feel that AIDS is an illness which has been ignored for far too long.
While many members agreed with your point that the pendulum has swung too far in the other direction now that the world has recognized the severity of the illness, the board also believes that Dr. Riker and Dr. Grey could make some serious headway into developing a vaccine for the virus. Aside from the benefits for mankind, such a vaccine could bring the hospital additional prestige, and in turn, finances.
I realize that this will hinder your own programs at the Cancer Center, but I hope you will support us in this new and exciting endeavor.
Sincerely, Leonard Bronkowitz, M.D.
And there was a letter from Washington dealing with the same subject:
Dear Dr. Lowell, The medical disbursements for this fiscal year have been allocated and I regret to say that there will be no funds for the new wing at the Cancer Center. We realize and respect the importance of your work, but the fact remains that New York City and, more specifically, Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center have already received more than a lion's share of funds, most of which have gone to the center's new AIDS clinic, operated by Dr. Harvey Riker and Dr. Bruce Grey.
Personally, I believe your work is crucial and am disappointed in this decision, but since you are a former surgeon general, I am sure you can appreciate how these things sometimes work. The AIDS virus seems to me to be the public's
"Disease of the Week" or
"Flavor of the Month." It's the new "in" cause for everyone to rally around. I am confident that the public's interest will wane and tire soon and then they will have the ability to view this disease more rationally.
Take heart and know that there are others who feel as we do. I would be honored if during your next visit to Washington you would call me so that we can discuss the world of medicine. I very much value your opinion on a broad range of subjects.
Yours, Raymond Markey, M.D.
Assistant Secretary of Health and Human Services
Cassandra felt ill. There was really nothing shocking in the letters.
She knew her father had been against the clinic from its inception, that he had complained bitterly about the "waste" of funds. What she had not known was the direct effect the Sidney Pavilion had had on his own cancer research. It was an either/or situation either the AIDS clinic or the new wing at the Cancer Center. Cassandra knew how much the Center meant to her father, but how far would he go to get funding?
Surely, he would never... The sound of a car pulling up the driveway made her jump.
A loud diesel engine. Her father's Mercedes. He was back already.
Shit! I thought he was going to be out all day!
Cassandra put the two letters back into the folder, put the folder back into the bottom drawer, and closed the drawer. In the background she heard the purr of the electric garage door opener.
What did I do with that damn key?
Her eyes scanned the desktop for the key. Nothing. She looked on the floor. Still nothing. The Mercedes was pulling into the six-car garage now. She had to get out of the office before he saw her. Damn it, where was that key? When she saw it a second later in the desk's keyhole, she wanted to slap herself for not looking there earlier. She wrenched it out as she heard her father turn off the engine and slam the car door shut.
She ripped a piece of scotch tape out of the dispenser on the desk and taped the key back under the middle drawer. She moved quickly now, getting up from behind the desk, slipping quickly to the door, opening it, turning right, and heading down the hall.
If she had turned left instead, she would have seen her father standing at the end of the hallway, watching her with a stunned look on his face.
Donald Parker stood with stiff back, perfect posture, and a dark blue suit at the end of the hall. Forty years in the news business had taken him across all seven continents. Parker had covered the inauguration of every president from Harry Truman to George Bush. He had witnessed the first moon launch, the Tet Offensive, the Beijing massacre, the opening of the Berlin Wall, Operation Desert Storm. He had interviewed Gandhi, Malcolm X, Pol Pot, Khomemi, Amin, Gorbachev, Hussein. There was little he had not accomplished.
As Sara limped toward him, Donald Parker caught her eye and smiled gently. His eyes were bright blue, piercing and probing. The eyes of the perfect interviewer.
"Hello, Sara."
"Hello, Donald. Did you get my notes?"
He nodded.
"This is quite a story, Sara. The story of the year maybe. Why are you giving it up?" "I'm too close to it," she said.
"Personal involvement?"
She nodded.
"Does this have something to do with the statement your husband is making before the show?"
"I'd rather not say just yet." "Fair enough," he said.
"Any new developments?"
"Another patient, a Riccardo Martino, was murdered last night on the hospital grounds."
"What?"
"I have all the details here."
He took the piece of paper and read it.
"Good work, Sara."
"There's one other thing."
"Oh?"
"You can't mention Senator Jenkins' son on the air."
"I don't understand." She explained. He listened intently, nodding.
"Okay," he said when she finished, "I'll leave that part out."
"Thanks, Donald. I really appreciate it."
"And let me get something else straight. This Dr. Riker does not want to be on television?"
"Right. Dr. Riker wants to keep his anonymity. His assistant Dr. Eric Blake will handle the interviews."
"Okay then, I better get this thing wrapped up. Thanks for laying all the groundwork, Sara. You've left me with the easy parts."
"No problem," she said, walking away.
"And thanks for understanding about Bradley Jenkins."
Donald Parker watched her hobble away, leaning heavily on her cane.
Sara was a mesmerizing girl, an awesome beauty masking an awesome intellect. She was good at her job and Donald found his respect for her growing every day.
Unfortunately, he knew, her respect for him was about to be tested.
After tonight's show she would be more than disappointed with him. She would be furious. But Donald Parker had been in this business a long time, and he had developed a certain code of ethics over the years. He did not believe in ignoring important aspects of a story for the convenience of others no matter what the possible consequences.
And he was not going to leave Bradley Jenkins out of his report.
