Adverse Effects

by Joel Shulkin

  It took a moment to register his statement. “I’m expecting results soon.”

  “Please let me know when you get them. Since you asked, I’m also demanding drug screens from all research staff. Can’t be too cautious.” Simmons rose. “I appreciate your help in this matter. We’ll be in touch.”

  Feeling confused and unsteady, Cristina stood. That was it? No interrogation? No torture? “You don’t need anything else from me?”

  “If you could leave your files with me, I’ll review and return them by courier. I’ll contact you if I think anything requires further explanation.”

  “I see.” Cristina puzzled over why she needed to fly all the way down for a brief chat. Simmons’s passive expression suggested she wouldn’t get anywhere by asking. “Look, I’m sorry about jumping down your throat. It’s been—well, I’m not usually—”

  “I understand. You’ve been under a lot of stress.” He held out his hand. “I hope you can appreciate our position. Forgive me if I seemed too demanding.”

  “No, not at all.” She shook his hand. “I’m happy to help.”

  As Cristina turned for the door, Simmons cleared his throat. “Actually, Doctor, there’s one more thing.”

  Cristina’s shoulders tensed. “What is it?”

  Simmons leered like a starving jackal. “We still need your blood.”

  Detective Wilson hung up after spending a half hour on the phone with the Massachusetts Internal Affairs office. He scratched that number off his list, leaned back in his desk chair, and massaged his forehead. No complaints against Detective Mitchell Parker before his death. He’d never been accused of or investigated for anything out of line. If they gave out awards for following procedure by the book, Mitchell Parker would’ve won every one of them.

  So, why did he kill himself? And was he involved in the Silvas’ deaths?

  “Hey, partner.” Hawkins pulled up a chair next to Wilson. He wore an uncharacteristic troubled expression. “What’re you up to? You missed a briefing on workplace harassment. You been sitting here the whole time?”

  “Yeah. Following up a lead. Did they miss me?”

  “Nah, I covered for you.” He winked. “Said you had explosive diarrhea.”

  Wilson cringed. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” Hawkins grew serious again. “Does this lead have something to do with a certain doctor?”

  “Yes, but it’s more like a wild-goose chase. That auto mechanic said Detective Mitchell Parker was in the shop the day before the Silvas’ crash, but Cristina told me he knew nothing about Martins.” Wilson leaned back in his chair. “The same detective investigating the arson case investigates the car crash, and he doesn’t mention the connection to her?”

  “Maybe she’s lying.”

  “I don’t think so. Parker killed himself and all his records involving Cristina disappeared. This seems bigger. Like Zero Dark bigger.”

  “You think Detective Parker was involved with them?”

  “Maybe.” Wilson scratched behind his ear. “Agent Vasquez told me that suicide we investigated—Dr. Silva’s patient, Carl Franklin—was a domestic terrorist named Carlin Pickens. A lot of people in this case aren’t who they seem to be.”

  A shadow fell over Hawkins’s face. He stared at the desk and nodded.

  “What’s going on, Rick? You’re hiding something.”

  Hawkins took a deep breath before making eye contact. “Agent Forrester found the gun that killed Gomes in a dumpster a block away from where they discovered his body.”

  “How does he know it’s the murder weapon? He can’t have already run ballistics.”

  “It’s a forty caliber. Same as the slug they found in Gomes’s skull.”

  “That’s circumstantial,” Wilson said.

  “I know. Forrester said he’s sending it to the FBI lab for expedited analysis.” Hawkins’s upper lip twitched. “It’s a Glock 22—like the one that killed your city councilor.”

  “No fucking way.” Heat burned up the back of Wilson’s neck. He jumped out of his seat.

  Hawkins grabbed Wilson’s shoulder and pushed him back down into his chair. “This is why I hesitated to tell you. We can’t assume anything.”

  “Are you shitting me?” Wilson pointed at the doorway, as if Forrester stood there. “It’s the same stunt Forrester pulled in Boston. He’s covering something up. Maybe it’s his gun.”

  “Maybe you’re right, but we can’t do anything until we have more evidence.” Hawkins kept pressure on Wilson’s shoulder until he stopped fighting. “Have you asked Dr. Silva about Parker or Pickens?”

  “Not yet. I tried calling, but she’s not answering her phone.”

  “All right, well, let’s start with them. You want to take Parker or Pickens?”

  Wilson gripped the arms of his chair. “Parker. I think I know where to go next. But promise me, if we find something that incriminates Forrester, you let me read him his rights.”

  Hawkins smirked. “You can put the cuffs on him yourself.”

  After Hawkins walked off, Wilson turned to his computer and typed a search into the police database. An address and phone number appeared. He dialed.

  “Hello?” a female voice asked after the second ring.

  “Miranda Parker?”

  “Yes. Who’s this?”

  “Detective Gary Wilson, Somerville PD.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I was hoping you could answer some questions about your husband, Mitchell.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  “Okay, Dr. Silva, we’re all done.” The ReMind lab technician withdrew the needle and placed a gauze pad over Cristina’s arm. “Hold that and I’ll get a Band-Aid.”

  Cristina applied pressure while the tech tossed the needle into a sharps container. “What tests are you running?”

  “Chemistry, toxicology, metabolites.”

  “Why do you need all that for a drug screen?”

  “I just draw the blood. If you want to know what they do with it, talk to someone with more letters after their name.” The tech removed the gauze and pasted a Band-Aid on Cristina’s arm. “Good to go.”

  “Thanks.” Cristina donned her jacket and grabbed her backpack, casting sideways glances at the tube of blood on the countertop. There was a good chance her drug screen would be positive, thanks to Recognate. She’d tried to find a good excuse to avoid being tested but couldn’t find any that didn’t make her look more suspicious. Her only choice was to comply and try to find answers before they discovered her subterfuge. And she had a good idea where to start. “Since you mentioned it, can I talk to Frank?”

  “Dr. Alvarez?” With a shrug, the tech pointed toward the elevator. “He’s in R & D, Suite Eighteen. Mateo can show you the way.”

  The security chief wasn’t enthusiastic about escorting Cristina. “My orders were to show you out as soon as you finished the blood draw. Mr. Simmons said nothing about Dr. Alvarez.”

  “Mr. Simmons flew me here to help with the project that funds your paycheck.” Cristina stood on her tiptoes—still shorter than Mateo but enough to make eye contact. “I can’t do that without meeting with the head of research.”

  After a tense moment, Mateo adjusted his holster. “All right, but keep your hands to yourself.”

  As she followed him through a maze of hallways and stairwells, Cristina’s thoughts drifted to Mrs. Watterson’s lab results. If Recognate was responsible for the woman’s confabulation, Cristina needed to solve the problem before it became irreversible.

  “This is it.” Mateo stopped before a plain metal door. A sign read: Frank Alvarez, MD/PhD. The guard rapped twice.

  The door cracked open. A male head covered with dark curls and wire-framed glasses peered out.

  “Yes?” The man’s thick eyebrows met as his eyes darted side to side. “I’m very busy, Mateo. What d
o you want?”

  “Dr. Silva is here to meet you.”

  “Cristina Silva?” His eyes widened as he spotted her. “Yes, of course. Come in.”

  He swung the door open, waving her inside.

  “Call when you finish.” Mateo spun on his heel and marched down the hall.

  “Ignore him.” Frank closed the door and motioned Cristina to an empty chair. “He did two Marine tours but still couldn’t get into the police academy.”

  Cristina forced a smile and surveyed Frank’s office. Stacks of papers and charts cluttered the desk and littered the floor.

  “Excuse the mess.” Frank sat across from her and shoved aside a mound of charts. “Mr. Simmons ordered us to comb through every Recognate file. I was excited to hear you were coming but never expected to meet you in person. I don’t get to interact often with our field researchers.”

  “Well, I wanted to apologize for the trouble over Mrs. Watterson.”

  “Oh, that. I should’ve done a more thorough background check. This is bold new territory. There’s bound to be a steep learning curve.”

  Cristina’s smile grew naturally. “I was hoping you’d understand my situation.”

  “Hey, it’s not every day I get a researcher with firsthand amnesia experience.” His gaze dropped to her neckline. A curious expression crossed his face. “That’s a lovely pendant you’re wearing.”

  Cristina touched her chest in surprise. She hadn’t realized the locket had slipped out of her blouse. “Thank you. It’s . . . a family heirloom.

  “Might I see it? I’m kind of an aficionado of antique jewelry.”

  Cristina thought it an odd request but wrote it off as one of the researcher’s eccentricities. She tucked the locket back inside her blouse. “If you don’t mind, there’s something more urgent we need to discuss.” She lowered her voice and indicated the door. “Do you think he’s listening?”

  “Mateo? No, he’s finalizing security plans for our grand unveiling.”

  Cristina imagined a potentially deadly medication being released to the public and shuddered. “That’s what I’m worried about. Are you aware one of my patients jumped out of a window, while another became homicidal?”

  Frank nodded. “C-252 and W-238.”

  “What did you call them?”

  “Each subject is assigned a random identification number.” Turning to his computer, Frank typed and then swiveled the monitor to face Cristina. “We record dosage, response, adverse effects, and complications.”

  The alphanumeric characters tumbling down the screen had a dizzying effect. “So . . . they’re just numbers.”

  “It’s the best way to ensure researchers detect trends without interpretation bias.” Frank shrugged. “It’s standard practice in clinical trials.”

  “I see.” Cristina scanned the list. Somewhere in there was Catherine Silvers, her fake identity. How many others were at risk? “I understand there have been several other . . . complications.”

  “You think Recognate is the cause?”

  “It crossed my mind.”

  “Mine, too, but don’t tell Mr. Simmons,” Frank said. “Recognate is going to help a lot of people, but we need to make sure it’s one hundred percent safe.”

  Santos had to be wrong, Cristina thought. No way could ReMind be part of Zero Dark. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  “That’s why I insisted we screen for confounders. I understand you ordered tests on your patients?”

  “Yes, but I’m still awaiting the results.”

  “Can I ask what you ordered?”

  Again, Santos’s voice echoed in her mind: Volunteer nothing. Was this the information they wanted? Did Cristina have the answer and not realize it?

  “Electrolytes, metabolic tests,” she said carefully. “Anything that could cause delirium.”

  “Makes sense. Anything else?”

  Cristina swallowed before answering. “Norepinephrine levels.”

  “That’s different. Why’d you order that?”

  “To see if a Recognate overdose could cause psychosis or homicidal behavior.”

  “None of our Phase Three subjects showed psychotic or homicidal tendencies.”

  “Maybe not, but the beta-endorphin studies were discontinued because the rats became aggressive, and endocannabinoids work on a similar pathway so—”

  “Hold on.” Frank waved his hands. “You’re citing Kobayashi’s theory? Please. Even Jose abandoned that crap before he joined our team.”

  Now it was Cristina’s turn to be surprised. “Kobayashi worked with ReMind?”

  “I thought you knew.”

  “No.”

  “He oversaw our Phase Three trials. Persistent total amnesia is uncommon enough that we couldn’t reach statistical power in the US alone, so we branched out our study internationally.” Frank stood. “Here, let me show you.”

  Confused, Cristina followed him down the hallway to a display case. A sign on top read Phase Three—Global Success!

  “See, we got approval from four different countries. India and Venezuela were easy to persuade. Russia took a little longer and yielded the fewest viable subjects.”

  Frank pointed one by one at a series of black-and-white photos. As Cristina surveyed each group, her heart pounded.

  “Jose convinced the Brazilian government our research would benefit their people. If it weren’t for him, we wouldn’t have gotten permission to work in the favelas.”

  Cristina couldn’t hear a word he said over her internal screams as she stared at the photo of the Brazilian research team—the same photo from the O Globo article.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Francisco Martins peered from behind a dumpster until the police cruiser disappeared around the corner. He crawled out and brushed frozen food scraps off his pants. A sharp pain bit into his foot. He staggered against the dumpster and hiked up his pant leg. A swollen, red mass surrounded his ankle. Years ago, he could’ve leaped from a moving bus without injury. He was getting too old for stunts like that.

  Grimacing, he scooped a handful of snow and packed it inside his shoe. Using the nearest wall for support, he limped to the end of the alley and looked both ways along the sidewalk. Had his message to Cristina been clear enough? It killed him to inflict pain on her, but he had to make it look like he was no more than a crazed stalker. If the FBI knew she was working with him, they would detain her, and Martins’s last hopes of getting through to his daughter would be dashed.

  He pulled out his cell phone and typed a message: How is she?

  After hitting Send, Martins rubbed his forehead with one hand. The alcohol was wearing off and he was feeling the effects. He needed his daily dose.

  The cell phone beeped. A new message appeared: No news.

  With a pained grunt, Martins shuffled down the street in search of food and drink. For now, all he could do was keep to the shadows and wait.

  “Cristina, are you okay?” Frank waved his hand before her face. “You’re not having a seizure, are you?”

  “What?” Slowly, Cristina managed to dispel the shock of recognition enough to process his words. She tore her gaze away from the photo of the research team. “No, I’m good.”

  “Come sit.” Frank ushered her back into his office. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine, just winded from the early flight.” Cristina tried to appear calm. “Do you know everyone in those photos?”

  “A few. I only communicated directly with the team leaders.”

  “Who was the Brazilian team leader?”

  “Kobayashi, of course.”

  “Do you two still talk?”

  “Not for two years. Not too long ago I tried emailing him, but it bounced back.”

  Clenching her fingers, Cristina searched Frank’s face to see if he knew her doub
le was on the research team. He remained unreadable. “I thought Kobayashi’s research centered on gang violence. How does that relate to Recognate?”

  “Kobayashi linked slum violence to traumatic memory suppression. He persuaded residents to participate in our trials. They were our biggest and most successful study group.”

  “Successful how?”

  “Highest response rate versus placebo, with a corresponding drop in gang violence. The effects were so dramatic the Institutional Review Board insisted on open trials.” Frank grinned. “So, you see, there’s no way Recognate could cause aggressive behavior. Whatever happened to your other patients . . . there must be another explanation.”

  “What other explanation could there be?”

  “I wish I knew. So far, our workup hasn’t revealed anything. What about yours?”

  Cristina hesitated to divulge anything. Still, Frank’s insight could be helpful. “I don’t have all the results, but one patient had elevated norepinephrine levels.”

  Frank’s brow furrowed. “How high?”

  “Astronomical.”

  “Strange. Our animal models never showed elevated norepinephrine.”

  “Apparently, he wasn’t taking his pills. He may have had a pheo.”

  “An adrenal tumor.” Relief washed over Frank’s face. “Yes, that would explain everything, wouldn’t it?”

  “It would,” Cristina said, “except we don’t have a body to autopsy.”

  “In other words, you’ve got nothing.”

  “I requested an autopsy on Carl Franklin. Maybe they’re connected.”

  “The incidence of a pheo is about two in a million.” Frank ran his finger over his lip. “The odds of two of your patients having it would be ridiculous unless—”

  A knock on the door startled them both. From outside, Mateo said, “Dr. Alvarez, Mr. Simmons needs to see you.”