She snapped her fingers. An investigational compound. Something in development. Had to be.
But how to track it down? The properties of new compounds were kept close to the vest during the development stages. But their formulas were registered immediately for patent protection.
Gin picked up the phone.
"Hi, Barbara. Don't we have a linkup to the FDA database? " "Sure.
And NIH, and the American College of, " '"How do I access the FDA? " '"It's kinda complicated. I've got an instruction manual somewhere around here that tells, '' "I'll be right up." Gin trotted upstairs where Barbara made a relay team handoff of the manual as Gin passed her desk. A minute later she was seated before the records-room computer, logging heself into the FDA computet, and picking her way through the various menus until she got to investigational compDunds in development.
But again no listing for triptolinic diethylamide.
Double damn. This was like chasing a phantom. But she wasn't giving up yet. There had to be some other way. The label on the bottle .
.
. the GEM Pharma colophon. What if she used the company as a starting point and worked back from there?
It took a good forty minutes of running into dead ends and backtracking, but she finally located triptolinic diethyl amide in the vast cybernetic waste bin of discarded registered compounds on which further research had been canceled.
She downloaded the file and tagged it with her initials, RFP for Regina Francesca Panzella, then logged off the database. Back in the Lathram system again, she entered "TYPE RFPMORE" and began reading from the hard drive.
A small file. Triptolinic diethylamide, referred to as TPD in the file, started off its existence at GEM Pharma as an investigational compound with antidepressant properties. Early animal- trials in mice and rats were encouraging, but when testing moved up to primates, TPD was found to be toxic, inducing psychotic states. All further investigation was canceled and GEM Pharma moved on to more promising compounds.
- A sudden queasy feeling rippled through Gin's stomach.
Toxic . . . psychotic states . . . Senator Vincent's behavior before his seizure was certainly disturbed, might even fit the criteria for psychotic. And from what she'd heard, even though he hadn't had any further seizures, mentally he remained far out in left field.
And Duncan . . . Duncan had been there, right there in the hearing room when it had happened.
A few feet to her left, she heard the laser printer begin to - hum.
- And Congressman Allard . . . he'd had that nasty fall and cerebral concussion that had left him disoriented, not quite sure of who or where he was. But what if it wasn't the concussion that had scrambled his thoughts? What if his thoughts had been scrambled before the fall . . . as he was going down the steps? What if the scrambled thoughts had cagsed the fall?
Gin's own thoughts began to feel scrambled. She blinked and rubbed her eyes with an unsteady hand as the queasy feeling rippled toward nausea.
Footsteps behind her. Quickly Gin blanked the screen, then looked up to see Barbara retrieving her printout.
"You okay? " Barbara said, staring at her.
"Hmmm? Why do you ask? " "Because you don't look so hot. I mean, you looked fine when you picked up that manual, now you look like you're gonna be sick." Maybe I am.
Gin rubbed her upper abdomen. "My stomach's bothering me." That was no lie.
"You're working too hard. You're gonna give yourself an ulcer. " "Maybe I already have. ' "I've got some Mylanta, " "That's okay. ' Barbara pointed to the FDA database manual. "You finished with that?
" "Yes. Thanks."
"I'm getting ready to leave, " Barbara said as she picked up the manual.
"You want me to lock you in? " "No. I've done all I can do here. I'm on my way." As Barbara went back upstairs, Gin shut off the terminal and got to her feet. She felt weak, confused as she trudged upstairs, ninety years old at least.
She was barely aware of her surroundings. Somewhere along the way she said good-bye to Barbara, but when she reached her car, she didn't start the engine. She sat behind the wheel and stared at the back of Duncan's officer building.
Vincent . . . Allard . . . but what about Schulz? He jumped off his balcony. Was that psychotic? Maybe, maybe not. But it certainly wasn't rational. And Congressman Lane. He died in a car accident with a high blood-alcohol level. She couldn't link that to Duncan. But she couldn't rule it out, either. What if the TPD reacted with alcohol?
Or what if it kicked in while he was driving? The same disorientation that could make you fall could make you drive off the road.
I hate this, she thought. She pounded her fist against the steering wheel. Hate it!
Duncan couldn't be involved in this. Couldn't, Listen to me. Involved in wha? No evidence that there was anything for Duncan to be involved in.
Then why the TPD? What legitimate reason could Duncan have for keeping a psychosis-inducing compound locked in his desk drawer?
Okay . . . Oliver used to work for GEM Pharma, the company name on the label. That would explain how the bottle found its way to Duncan. But why have it at all? Why keep something of no therapeutic value, something that was a proven toxin?
And what about the trocar, perfect for inserting one of Oliver's large-size implants, loaded with TPD, maybe? , under someone's skin, where it could nestle in the fat until Duncan zapped it with an ultrasound beam?
Wait a minute. Ultrasound. That was where this whole insane scenario broke down. Sure, Duncan had been at the Guidelines committee hearing when Senator Vincent went off the deep end, but Gin hadn't noticed him wheeling an ultrasound machine through the room.
And yet . . with microchips and printed circuits, it was certainly possible to have an ultrasound transducer small enough to fit in one's pocket and . . .
Gin rubbed her throbbing temples. She hated what she was thinking.
She began remembering Louisiana and wishing she'd stayed there.
If only she could know!
She shook herself and started the car. One thing she did know Come Thursday morning she was going to be on duty and she was not going to let Senator Marsden out of her sight for one second.
PRESURGICAL DUNCAN POURED A SECOND CUP OF COFFEE FROM. THE carafe and settled behind his desk. He liked Wednesday mornings in the cool stony quiet of the officer, especially when, like today, he could get in early and have the place to himself. With no surgery scheduled, he could dawdle with his coffee, savoring the silence and the aroma as he watched his koi meander around their pool in the rock garden, and catch up on his dictation, tidy up any loose ends from Monday's and Tuesday's procedures, then have the rest of the day to himself. Maybe he'd call Brad and convince him to take the afternoon off from classes, he figured Brad would need about ten sc-conds of convincing. Maybe they could get in a round of golf. He hadn't played in ages.
He picked up the remote and aimed it at the TV across the room. He switched from CNN to Today to Good Morning America to This Morning and then back to CNN. Apparently nothing newsworthy had happened yesterday, and the morning shows seemed interested only in movie stars.
C-SPAN was rerunning footage of presbyopic senators droning over long speeches to an empty chamber in support of or in opposition to some inconsequential bill.
Time to catch up on dictating his surgical reports. He pulled out his key and inserted it into the lock. It wouldn't turn. He tried it again, wiggling it back and forth, sliding it in and out. He checked to make sure it was the right key, then tried again and noticed that the key wasn't going in all the way. Something was wrong with the lock. Jammed somehow.
Now how the hell had that happened? It hadn't been sticking or showing any warning signs that something was amiss. Goddamn. What a world.