An Eye For Murder: A Medical Thriller

by Martin Sherwood

  For a long moment nobody spoke. Frisch’s patience faded as his frustration grew. He felt the Americans did not appreciate the gravity of the matter. “I doubt if it’s wise for Dr. Berger to oversee our most precious research project, Herr Schmidt. From the reports, I understand that Professor Efron is a demanding character.”

  “Who else works in her lab?”

  “Only a lab assistant, a first-year medical student. Why? Do you anticipate problems?”

  “With Dr. Berger you never know.”

  In Chicago someone entered the room, whispered something in Sinsky’s ear, and left. The lawyer stood up, her chair creaking. “Sorry, but I’m needed next door. Listen, I suggest we let her finish the assignment in Louisville. It’s just too late. The research is in its final phase. Afterward I’ll personally dismiss her.”

  “What about Bernie?”

  Vera Sinsky just scrunched her nose and was gone.

  In the shower Dr. Johanna Berger surrendered to the hot stream.

  The glass door was covered with steam. Angelic voices emanated from the TV in the living room of her parents’ apartment overlooking the Danube—a live broadcast from the Musikverein, with the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra performing an all-Brahms evening.

  Although she had landed only few hours ago, her body showed no signs of fatigue. She felt the adrenaline at the tip of her fingers. Her skin was smooth and crimson. The water tickled the cleavage between her breasts.

  When she heard the front door of the apartment open and close, Johanna smiled and rubbed her nipples. Her fingers slid into her navel, and from there further down into her pubic triangle. Her fingertips kneaded the hot labia, climbing toward her clitoris.

  Naked and wrapped in steam, she felt his fingers trailing over her shoulders, parting her hair. His lips flickered on her neck.

  “Sorry for the delay. We had an emergency meeting.”

  She turned around to face him. He stepped back, loosened his bow tie, removed his belt, and let his trousers fall to the heated floor. Then he wrapped his arms around her waist and carried her, naked and wet, to the bed.

  He shed his shirt and underpants without removing his eyes from hers, as she squirmed on the mattress and groaned like a horny cat.

  “What was the meeting about?”

  “Later,” said Rolf Schneider. “Later I’ll tell you everything.”

  Before dawn she was on her way to Schwechat airport, to catch the early flight back to JFK, with a connection to Louisville.

  After their third climax, Rolf had told her about the meeting—and he had tried to downplay the news. As she listened, she knew two things for sure: first, that she had to leave immediately—Schnell! Sofort!—and second, that she would never return to Vienna.

  She felt no sorrow, even though she had spent most of her life in the Austrian capital. Since her father’s death, she had no ties left, nothing to keep her there. Rolf meant nothing to her—he could be used and thrown away like so many other men she’d met. No one else was waiting for her; at this point in her life, she had no plans to get romantically involved with anyone. She had to finish what she’d started in Louisville.

  And as for the student?

  For him she was preparing a major role.

  4

  Chicago, Illinois

  The walls shook every time a train went by.

  Ashraf had no idea where he was but, tied to a chair in a dark and stinking room, he didn’t particularly care. As far as he knew, it could have been anywhere under the ground—a wine cellar in a village chateau, or an abandoned warehouse full of stolen goods. Before the lights went out, Ashraf had seen shelves packed from floor to ceiling with medicine bottles wrapped in plastic sheets; endless cartons ready for shipment.

  He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. Vague images raced through his head: A car pulls up next to a sidewalk on Jackson Avenue. Someone opens the door, puts one foot outside, then grabs him with a firm hand and pulls him in.

  Dr. Ashraf Nouri had been on his way to—where? He couldn’t remember; probably to a slide show, his first meeting with the R&D department of Oculoris Biopharma, his new employer.

  Last September, he had decided he could no longer work for Medionetyx and its charismatic president, Peter Lister, the man who had snatched him away from the academy and placed him right at the pinnacle of the pharmaceutical industry. He had a first-class lab at his disposal and a spine-tingling salary; until three months ago, the course of his life had been the fulfillment every young scientist’s dream. The wheel of fortune had spun, and the youngest son of Pakistani immigrants had won the prize.

  As early as elementary school, his science teacher had realized that the stick-thin little boy standing in front of him was a genius. Then came the scholarships, parallel studies in high school and Northwestern University, and a doctorate at the age of twenty-one—summa cum laude, with highest honors. Five years later he headed an esteemed university laboratory, published extensively, and had gained every possible academic accolade.

  And with them had come Virginia, the most important trophy of all.

  The night he had proposed to Virginia, a message had been waiting for him on the answering machine when they returned from dinner at the restaurant.

  It was from Peter Lister.

  Peter Julian Lister. The American Dream personified.

  The dynamic young president of Medionetyx was a man of average height, his shoulders always sunk deep in his massive black armchair. The clean-shaven man, with his Marine haircut and receding hairline that accentuated the snaky vascular pattern at his temples, preferred to remain in the dark side of his office—not because of his acne-pitted cheeks, but because of his additional pupil. His iris had been punctured during failed retinal surgery, leaving him easily dazzled by sunlight.

  Lister compensated for his average stature and unimpressive appearance with an excessive dose of ambition. Long before disturbing rumors had started to leak, his name had radiated in conference halls and academic circles. Only a decade ago he had founded the Medionetyx pharmaceutical company with his childhood friend Bernie Cooperstein—now it was traded on Wall Street as one of the twenty most sought-after pharmaceutical stocks. The company’s offices spread across an entire block on Lake Shore Drive, the most lucrative piece of real estate in Chicago. The entire top floor was reserved for Peter Lister. It was a reflective glass suite, with a private elevator and a breathtaking view of Lake Michigan. In the morning mist the top floors seemed to float above a carpet of clouds, and the peaked roof winked to the airplanes as they descended for landing.

  Peter and Bernie: Anyone who had known them as children would have predicted they would never part. The Irishman and the Jew had grown up in Beachwood, Ohio and had attended the neighborhood school together. Because of the overwhelming Jewish majority in the school district, the Catholic Lister had enjoyed vacations during Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and Passover. Both boys ate and slept in each other’s homes. After high school, they moved together to Chicago, dated the same girls and attended the same courses at the Loyola University business school, and graduated together.

  For five years they worked together in the attic of an old office building. It wasn’t long before Medionetyx took off. Lister was able to introduce “something new in the pharmaceutical world”—a small family-run enterprise that coped successfully with the giants: Merck, Bausch & Lomb, Alcon, and Pfizer.

  Bernie left the PR side of things to Peter and concentrated on discovering small pharmaceutical companies that needed capital to complete various phases of drug development. In the same week that Lister recruited fifty new top-notch technicians, Bernie had purchased a company that made insulin pumps.

  “And maybe insulin eyedrops,” Lister had said. He’d blinked with his right eye, leaned back in his chair, and squirted a drop into it. “That’s it! From now on we concentrate solely
on eyedrops.” His lips curled into his closest approximation of a smile. “Maybe Freud would have something to say about that.”

  Investors liked Medionetyx, and its stock rocketed. The company expanded, took over failing companies in Mexico and India, and restructured them into efficient production lines. Most of the gains were from ‘safe bets.’ The modus operandi was simple: Identify successful drugs on the market and start production of their generics immediately upon expiration of the patent.

  But Peter Lister realized that Medionetyx couldn’t gain the prestige it deserved unless it self-developed its own drug, from start to finish. To that end, he brought a brilliant mind into the company—Dr. Ashraf Nouri from Northwestern, with his promising invention of vascular ‘corrosion casting.’ A red substance was injected directly into a vein, spread through the body via the blood vessels and, in a matter of seconds, hardened like a cast. Thus Nouri was able to demonstrate microscopic defects and leakages in the vascular bed of the eye. At proper dosage, it could be used to seal leaks in the ocular vascular walls, which occurred as complications of diabetes and macular degeneration. Lister had recognized the great potential of the discovery and didn’t give up until Nouri had agreed to join Medionetyx.

  Nouri knew he would never forget his first meeting with Lister and Cooperstein, which had included lunch on the terrace, talking with a team of research and development staffers—all respected scientists in their own right—and a tour of the facilities. The lab wing alone made his three rooms at the university look like a soup kitchen. Here was the newest scanner which, for the last two years, he had been begging to purchase with research funds. Everywhere he was welcomed with respect and admiration—what a difference from Professor Wendell, the director of the department of pharmacology, and his reproachful secretary! His salary at Medionetyx was mentioned only incidentally: “This afternoon you’ll see Melvin from human resources. Satisfaction guaranteed.”

  His first year at Medionetyx was a fairytale. When he married Virginia, the company covered all the expenses of their luxurious honeymoon at the Ritz on Amelia Island. The following two years were equally wonderful. Ashraf was on top of the world, elated by the sudden fortune bestowed upon him. Virginia went back to work at her prestigious law firm, and Nouri oversaw no fewer than a dozen clinical trial centers around the world, including Boston, Los Angeles, Rome, Cologne, Bucharest, and Hong Kong, as well as Sao Paolo.

  Life was good. Too good.

  Dr. Nouri was so absorbed in the empire Lister had created for him—the entire third-floor lab and the animal care facility in Gary, Indiana—that he neglected to notice the evil spirits blowing down the hallway from twenty stories above. Had he not skipped meals at the cafeteria, he would have heard about the failure of the company’s new glaucoma medication in Singapore, which had caused the company’s shares to plummet—for the first time in its history—by over twenty percent. That week two senior employees left the company—Dan Hollis, VP for research and development, and Roger Watson, the company’s FDA liaison. Both had worked for the company since its inception.

  And then Nouri had received a phone call from Elsie, the president’s secretary. The boss had asked him to come upstairs. When he arrived, Lister himself was waiting for him by the elevator.

  “Come on,” Lister said, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re being relocated to the office with the best view. Well… the second best, anyway.”

  Nouri followed him into a huge space with mahogany-paneled walls. Blue curtains fluttered over enormous windows and wind whistled in from the lake. Nouri immediately noticed the absence of any pictures on the walls or desk. Only a menorah stood on the windowsill, conspicuous in its solitude.

  “This was Bernie’s room,” said Lister. He noticed Ashraf’s shock and added casually, “Mr. Cooperstein has left us.”

  “Left? When? You told me you’ve been together since childhood.”

  “We had a major falling out.” Lister shrugged a shoulder. “Rabbi Bernie went to Israel.” He approached the windowsill and picked up the menorah by its neck. “The bastard left it behind. Come over here, see the view.”

  They went out to the balcony.

  Lister’s fingers played with the gold artwork at the base of the menorah; a fingertip drew a clean line in the dust that covered it. A wavy tremor rocked his clenched fist, subtle at first, then strengthening.

  Lister raised his hand and threw the menorah into the lake, twenty-five stories below.

  He immediately turned to a small covered cart that stood near the balcony door. Lister removed the cover with a “Ta-da!” and unveiled a bottle of champagne. He popped the cork and poured it into a pair of goblets. “Let us drink to your promotion!”

  ***

  That year, Chicago suffered one of the harshest winters in its history.

  The temperature in nearby Gary dipped to minus thirty. The lake froze over. The streets drowned in piles of snow. Power lines were often down; ten elderly people died from fires caused by kerosene heaters, several homeless people were buried under the ice, and hospitals reached their bursting points with patient overload.

  It was harsh in other ways as well. The economy took a nosedive, and the sun did not shine that spring for blue-collar workers. One in six was laid off. Several health insurance companies collapsed and investors for new drugs were hard to find. A major pharmaceutical company was accused of falsifying the results of its anti-sinusitis candidate in clinical trials, and Capitol Hill was visited by rumors of conspiracy.

  In the midst of that murky wave, Medionetyx began to experience financial difficulties. Dr. Ashraf could not remember a single full night’s sleep. Tensions were high after several lab technicians suddenly stopped coming to work. The rooms down the hallway remained locked, and Lister frequently ensconced himself in his office with the blinds drawn shut.

  Nouri was hastily called inside one night and told that between the FDA and the investors, Medionetyx was under extreme pressure. “We need results, and fast. You are my last hope. Your research is currently in the most advanced stage.”

  “But we’re not ready yet.”

  “Ashraf, you must wake up and seize the moment. You said you’ve already finished the toxicity studies.”

  “Overdose can be lethal,” said Nouri. “You know that no autopsies were performed in those two cases in Romania.”

  “So there’s no proof that it was because of us.”

  “Ten additional people were injected from the same batch last month and there are reports of paralysis. I suspect the vial was contaminated. I asked Leonard to bring you the CD.”

  Lister’s right eye blinked. “Besides you and Lenny, who else knows about this?”

  “No one.”

  “Excellent. And I want it to stay that way.”

  Then Lister suggested conducting a further experiment on humans. Ashraf insisted it was premature, but his boss refused to relent. An opportunity had arisen to continue the clinical trial on death-row inmates at a facility in Angola. “I’m just returning from a meeting with our investors. In the last year they’ve pumped in another round of ten million, and now they’re circling like sharks. If the examiners disqualify us again, God knows how long it’ll take for Medionetyx to recruit new investors. Ashraf, the company’s fate lies in your hands.”

  He needed Virginia.

  They had planned to meet for lunch at their favorite restaurant, Shalimar. But Virginia had to cancel—an urgent case in court—and Ashraf was surprised to find himself calling Bernie Cooperstein.

  They met near the Water Tower and walked along the river, nibbling kosher hot dogs.

  “Congrats. I heard you got my room.” Bernie smiled. “No, don’t be surprised. Around here, rumors travel fast.”

  “They all say you were like brothers. What went wrong?”

  Bernie’s hotdog dripped ketchup onto his napkin. “Is that the rea
son you wanted to see me? It shouldn’t concern you.” Bernie swallowed his last mouthful and searched for a trash can. “True. We were like brothers, which only doubles the pain. You really don’t know anything? Stuck down there on the third floor with your rats.” He threw the brown bag into a bin near the train station. “At first I couldn’t believe Dan and Roger. But after they left, I rechecked the results of the clinical trials and it was like they said. Then he asked me to do a ‘facelift’ on the Arizona experiment. The glaucoma eyedrops? He replaced two slides before the Ophthalmology Congress in Amsterdam. He keeps copies in Jessica’s safe.”

  Bernie Cooperstein—the son of a religious Jewish policeman and grandson of a shoychet, a butcher who never touched alcohol that wasn’t Kiddush wine—had packed up his office, stored the cartons of belongings away, and gone to Israel for a year to study at a yeshiva in old Jerusalem. When he returned to Chicago, he founded Oculoris Biopharma, and made an oath on his father’s grave that his new company would never cross the lines of universal ethics.

  For a while Cooperstein had thought he’d never make it on his own. Without my half-brother? Impossible.

  But now, less than a year later, Bernie’s company was already a major player in the pharmaceutical field, and he was meeting Lister’s most brilliant mind by the Water Tower, at Nouri’s urgent request.

  As Nouri threw his half-finished hot dog into the trash can, he felt Bernie’s arm on his shoulder.

  “Come to Oculoris, Ashraf. It’s your real home. Leave the bastard.”

  Dr. Ashraf Nouri returned from their meeting and spent a sleepless night in his office.

  He copied the experimental results from the main computer to his PC. There were nearly two thousand pages, plus graphs, simulations, slides, and x-ray films. Before copying the last twenty-one pages, he took a long swig of Jack Daniels. Pages 1975-1996 were classified—they included a complete listing of all the serious side effects of an experiment conducted by the company in Romania. He would keep the material safe in Virginia’s office. If he needed to present it in the future, he’d be able to—along with his reservations.