“Nonsense,” Shirley said, grabbing his hand and pulling him inside. “I’m always looking for an excuse not to exercise.” She led him into the kitchen, where a mountain of reports and memoranda covered the table. Jason was reminded of what an enormous amount of work went into running an organization like GHP. As always, he was impressed by Shirley’s skills.
After she brought him a drink, Jason asked if she’d heard the news.
“I don’t know,” Shirley said, pulling off her headband and shaking out her thick hair. “News about what?”
“Helene Brennquivist,” Jason said. He let his voice trail off.
“Is this news I’m going to like?” Shirley asked, picking up her drink.
“I hardly think so,” Jason said. “She and her roommate were murdered.”
Shirley dropped her drink on the couch and then mechanically occupied herself cleaning up the mess. “What happened?” she asked after a long silence.
“It was a rape murder. At least ostensibly.” He felt ill as he recalled the scene.
“How awful,” Shirley said, clutching her hand to her chest.
“It was gruesome,” agreed Jason.
“It’s every woman’s worst nightmare. When did it happen?”
“They seem to think it happened last night.”
Shirley stared off into the middle distance. “I’d better phone Bob Walthrow. This is only going to add to our PR woes.”
Shirley heaved herself to her feet and walked shakily to the phone. Jason could hear the emotion in her voice as she explained what had happened.
“I don’t envy you your job,” he said when she hung up. He could see her eyes were bright with unshed tears.
“I feel the same about yours,” she said. “Every time I see you after a patient dies, I’m glad I didn’t go into medicine myself.”
Although neither Shirley nor Jason was particularly hungry, they made a quick spaghetti dinner. Shirley tried to talk Jason into staying the night, but though he had found comfort being with her, helping him to endure the horror of Helene’s death, he knew he couldn’t stay. He had to be home for Carol’s call. Pleading a load of unfinished work, he drove back to his apartment.
After a late jog and a shower, Jason sat down with the printouts of all patients who’d had GHP physicals in the last year. Feet on his desk, he went over the list carefully, noting that the number of physicals had been divided evenly among all the internists. Since the list had been printed in alphabetical order rather than chronologically, it took some time for Jason to realize that the poor predictive results were much more common in the last six months than in the beginning of the year. In fact, without graphing the material, it appeared that there had been a marked increase in unexpected deaths over the last few months.
Taking a pencil, Jason began writing down the unit numbers of the recent deaths. He was shocked by the number. Then he called the main operator at GHP and asked to be connected to Records. When he had one of the night secretaries on the line, he gave the list of unit numbers and asked if the outpatient charts could be pulled and put on his desk. The secretary told him there would be no problem at all.
Putting the computer printout back into his briefcase, Jason took down his Williams’ Textbook of Endocrinology and turned to the chapters on growth hormone. Like so many other subjects, the more he read, the less he knew. Growth hormone and its relation to growth and sexual maturation were enormously complicated. So complicated, in fact, that he fell asleep, the heavy textbook pressing against his abdomen.
The phone shocked him awake — so abruptly that he knocked the book to the floor. He snatched up the receiver, expecting his service. It took another moment before he realized the caller was Carol Donner. Jason looked at the time — eleven minutes to three.
“I hope you weren’t asleep,” Carol said.
“No, no!” Jason lied. His legs were stiff from being propped up on the desk. “I’ve been waiting for your call. Where are you?”
“I’m at home,” Carol said.
“Can I come get that package?”
“It’s not here,” Carol said. “To avoid problems, I gave it to a friend who works with me. Her name is Melody Andrews. She lives at 69 Revere Street on Beacon Hill.” Carol gave him Melody’s phone number. “She’s expecting a call and should just be getting home. Let me know what you think of the material, and if there’s any trouble, here’s my number”—which she recited.
“Thanks,” said Jason, writing everything down. He was surprised how disappointed he felt not to be seeing her.
“Take care,” Carol said, hanging up.
Jason remained at his desk, still trying to fully wake up. As he did so, he realized he hadn’t mentioned Helene’s death to Carol. Well, that might be a good excuse to call Carol back, he reflected as he dialed her friend’s number.
Melody Andrews answered her phone with a strong South Boston accent. She told Jason that she had the package, and he was welcome to come over and get it. She said she’d be up for another half hour or so.
Jason put on a sweater and down vest, left the house, walked down Pinckney Street, along West Cedar, and up Revere. Melody’s building was on the left. He rang her bell, and she appeared at the door in pin curls. Jason didn’t think anyone still used those things. Her face was tired and drawn.
Jason introduced himself. Melody merely nodded and handed over a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. It weighed about ten pounds. When Jason thanked her she just shrugged and said, “Sure.”
Returning home, Jason pulled off his vest and sweater. Eagerly eyeing the package, he got scissors from the kitchen and cut the string. Then he carried the package into the den and placed it on his desk. Inside he found two ledgers filled with handwritten instructions, diagrams, and experimental data. One of the books had Property of Gene, Inc. printed on the cover; the other merely the word Notebook. In addition there was a large manila envelope filled with correspondence.
The first letters Jason read were from Gene, Inc., demanding that Hayes live up to his contractual agreements and return the Somatomedin protocol and the recombinant E. coli strain of bacteria that he’d illegally removed from their laboratory. As Jason continued reading, it was apparent that Hayes had a significant difference of opinion concerning the ownership of the procedure and the strain, and that he was in the process of patenting the same. Jason also found a number of letters from an attorney by the name of Samuel Schwartz. Half of them involved the application for the patent on the Somatomedin-producing E. coli and the rest dealt with the formation of a corporation. It seemed that Alvin Hayes owned fifty-one percent of the stock, while his children shared the other forty-nine percent along with Samuel Schwartz.
So much for the correspondence, Jason thought. He returned the letters to the manila envelope. Next he took up the ledger books. The one that had “Gene, Inc.” on the cover seemed to be the protocol referred to in the correspondence. As Jason flipped through it, he realized that it detailed the creation of the recombinant strain of bacteria to produce Somatomedin. From his reading, he knew that Somatomedins were growth factors produced by the liver cells in response to the presence of growth hormone.
Putting the first book aside, Jason picked up the second. The experiments outlined were incomplete, but they concerned the production of a monoclonal antibody to a specific protein. The protein was not named, but Jason found a diagram of its amino-acid sequence. Most of the material was beyond his comprehension, but it was clear from the crossing out of large sections and the scribbling in the margins that the work was not progressing well and that at the time of the last entry, Hayes had obviously not created the antibody he’d desired.