She came toward him. “Bram, I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but what they’re saying is absurd. You’re no more capable of murder than I am.”
“You don’t know anything.”
“I know you’re not…that way.”
“That way? You mean gay?”
“Why are you torturing me?”
He spun around, rage in his eyes. “Because you don’t know a damn thing about me. And you never did. Because if you had had even the tiniest clue, you would have never told me to go to Rome.”
Rina’s mouth dropped open; she was stunned and stung. “So suddenly I’ve become responsible for your regrets?”
“I would have moved mountains for you.” His eyes moistened. “All I wanted was some kind of…sign—”
“So why didn’t you ask for one?”
“Oh believe me, I asked in a thousand ways! You just never bothered to listen!”
His voice was seething with bitter fury. It was hard not to respond in kind. But Rina bit back her tongue. Because a harsh word delivered couldn’t ever be taken back.
There were so many different ways she could have answered his accusations. But what was the point? He was in trouble, he was hurting, and he was lashing out at her. Had she been a little less scared, a little less agitated, Rina knew she would have taken his anger for what it was—a backhanded compliment. He felt safe with her, secure enough to express himself. But she was too blinded by emotion.
Wiping wetness from her eyes, she said, “I did what I thought was right in the past. And I’m doing what I think is right in the present. If I am wrong now…like apparently I was wrong back then…then, I’ll kindly butt out!”
Softly, Bram said, “I think that’s a very good idea.”
They both stood in silence.
Rina said, “I need the keys to my car.”
“Oh.” Bram rummaged through his pockets, pulled out her keys. He was about to toss them to her. Instead, he walked over to the Volvo and opened the driver’s door. She sighed, dragged herself over, and scooted behind the wheel. She held out her hand and he dropped the keys into her open palm.
He whispered, “Next time you pray, ask Yitzy to forgive me for endangering your life.”
She glanced at his face, blinking back moisture from her eyes. “Did you have feelings for him, Abram?”
Bram stared at her, not believing his ears. “What?”
“I know you didn’t do anything.” She forced herself to look at him. “But did you have feelings for him?”
Bram’s face turned stony, his voice permeated with anger. “You can think whatever you want about me. I don’t care. But don’t you dare call yourself a religious woman. Yitzchak was my best friend. And a truly religious woman knows what real friendship is all about. For you to ask me such a question is reprehensible. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
He slammed the door and stomped off, leaving her alone with her thoughts, her fears, and her tears.
26
Oliver knocked on the open door, then walked inside Berger’s office. Marge followed.
The place was half-empty or half-full, depending on one’s perspective. The diplomas and certificates had been taken off the walls, but the books were still shelved. On the floor rested a dozen half-packed boxes. Berger was on a step stool, depleting the top shelf of its contents.
In Oliver’s mind, it appeared as if Berger was planning to bolt. Which gave all the more credence to his Fisher/Tyne conspiracy theory. But Berger offered a different explanation.
“Three of my associates have been murdered, Detective. I don’t plan to stick around to make it an even number.”
Marge said, “So you’re running out on the hospital—”
“Not at all.” Berger stood on his tiptoes and extracted the larger medical tomes from the highest shelf. “I’m not running out on anyone.” His voice was remarkably steady. “I’ve applied for a much deserved sabbatical. And I’m taking it whether or not it’s approved.”
“Leaving the hospital in the lurch,” Marge said. “New Chris has already lost Sparks and Decameron. Without you, it’s going to fold.”
“Better that than the hospital providing me a hero’s burial.” He stepped down, holding an armful of books. “You two don’t have a smidgen of empathy regarding my plight, do you?”
“I have a smidgen,” Oliver said.
The doctor shook his head, kneeled down, and placed the texts in a box. “Figures. The police are noted for their lack of human compassion.”
Oliver said, “Why were you and Shockley fudging the Curedon data?”
Berger jerked his head up. “Come again?”
“You and Shockley had hacked into Fisher/Tyne’s data banks and were doing funny business with Kenneth Leonard’s Curedon numbers. I want to know why.”
“You’re crazy. You’ve got no warrant. Get out of here.”
Marge said, “We’ve traced a cuckoo’s egg to your computer, Dr. Berger. Ordinarily, computer hacking’s a federal crime. Meaning you’d plea your case to the FBI. But since we’ve got the rather major matter of a couple of murders—”
“I had nothing to do with them!” Berger snapped. “Look, people! Open your eyes! I’m terrified! What the hell do you two want from me.”
“How about some answers to some questions.”
“But I don’t know anything!”
“I think you do,” Oliver said. “I think you knew that Kenneth Leonard was on to you and Shockley.”
“I haven’t the slightest idea to what you’re referring. You’re talking gobbledygook.”
“Look, sir,” Marge said patiently, “why don’t you just start at the beginning. Because, at the very least, you’re going to get hit with charges of scientific fraud.”
Berger’s eyes darted from side to side. “Get out of here! Both of you! And take your disgusting accusations with you.”
Oliver held up a dozen sheets of computer paper. “Know what these are?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t care.”
Marge said, “They’re the latest Curedon data trials, Dr. Berger. Does that pique your interest?”
Berger stopped packing, ran his tongue across his teeth.
Oliver said, “The latest report given to the FDA by Decameron himself. After he ran the data. Decameron ran it. Not Fisher/Tyne. Know what? These numbers looked very promising. Which is particularly puzzling. Because the numbers Fisher/Tyne had been giving the FDA hadn’t been all that hot. And Gordon Shockley had told us that his numbers hadn’t been too good, either.”
Marge said, “Which means there was a discrepancy between Decameron’s statistics and what Fisher/Tyne was reporting to the FDA.”
Berger got up, wiped his hands on a handkerchief. “You two burst into my office, making all sorts of ridiculous claims, holding up generic data charts—”
“They’re not generic. Come take a look for yourself.” Oliver proffered Berger the results.
Berger hesitated, then snatched the papers and skimmed them. He held them aloft. “Where’d you get hold of these?”
Though he hated to admit it—even to himself—the sentiment was there: God bless Farrell. Oliver said, “None of your business.”
“This is confidential information,” Berger said. “There is no way you could have gotten this unless you did something illegal. I could have your badges for this.”
Oliver grinned. “I don’t think so.”
Again, Berger looked at the papers. “For all I know, you could have made up some numbers—”
“We got the numbers directly from the FDA,” Oliver interrupted. “That can be verified.”
“So…Reggie doctored the data. I’m not surprised. He’s a worm. And to tell you the truth, I’m not sorry he’s dead.”
“And why would he doctor data?”
“I guess we’ll never know. Now get out of here with your horrid slander. Because we all know that both of you two aren’t capable of understanding any results, let alon
e interpreting them properly.”
“No, they can’t interpret the data, Myron. But I can.”
Berger whipped his head around. Elizabeth Fulton was at his door, arms folded across her chest. “I accessed your files this morning, Myron—”
“That’s illegal—”
“It’s peanuts compared to what you did. Snowing all of us…me, Reggie, Azor. Hacking into the Fisher/Tyne data network and changing the numbers. You made them look worse to get the Curedon trials stopped.”
“You’re finished, Liz!” Myron cried out. “I’m bringing you up on charges with the medical ethics board—”
“I saw your hidden research, Myron,” Elizabeth said venomously. “You and Shockley were working on your own chemically related T-cell inhibitor. You were trying to undercut Azor, undercut the entire Curedon project!”
“I’m a goddamn scientist in my own right. And I’ve got a right to work on whatever I damn well please without someone spying on me.”
“But you have no right to falsify our data to further your own research!” She walked up to him, spit in his face. “How could you do such a low—”
“Fuck you, lady!” Berger shouted. “Who do you think brought Curedon to fruition in the early years? Who do you think actually took the drug from something theoretical and developed it into something that’s marketable? You think Azor developed the drug? Lady, let me tell you something. The bastard stole my research—”
“What are you talking about, Myron. All your research came from Azor’s lab. I was there.”
“Lady, you came in after I handed him the drug on a silver platter. Because no one was interested in what Myron Berger had to say about T-cell inhibitors. Only what the great Azor Sparks had to say. Meanwhile, Azor didn’t give a flying fuck about Curedon. All Azor was interested in was Jesus and harvesting hearts. Him and that stupid CB radio, trying to outrun the ambulances to the fatal car accidents, hoping to walk away with some poor brain-dead bastard’s heart—”
“You’re an asshole!”
“And you’re a stupid bitch. A washed-up one at that. Because I’m filing charges on you for scientific espionage—”
“Doc, I don’t think you understand the severity of the charges against you,” Marge said. “Because you’re under arrest for murder—”
“How dare you imply—”
“She’s not implying, she’s doing,” Oliver stated. “Now put your hands behind your back.”
“Get out of here!”
Marge said, “Doctor, don’t make this hard on us.”
Berger screamed, flailing his arms about. “Get out of here!” He threw a book at Oliver. “Out!”
Oliver flung him against the wall, kicked his feet apart, and attempted to hold him still while Marge swung Berger’s arm around his back. But the doctor continued to resist, trying to break free of Oliver’s grip.
Marge clamped on the right cuff, but was having trouble securing it to his left arm. “Sir, please stop moving!”
“Get out—”
Oliver pressed his body into Berger’s, trying to immobilize him. He broke into a sweat, struggling to keep Berger steady. Motherfucker was surprisingly strong. “Got it, Marge?”
Berger screamed.
“I think you’re hurting him,” Elizabeth said meekly.
Oliver was dripping rivers from his face. “Got it?”
“Just…about…damn!” Water rolled off Marge’s forehead. She jerked up Berger’s left hand. “I swear I’m gonna break—”
“Easy, Detective.”
Berger let out another shriek.
Again, Elizabeth said, “I think you’re really hurting him.”
Oliver jammed Berger against the wall. “Got it?”
“I…” Marge heard the double lock click into place. “Got it.”
“Oh God!” Berger moaned out. “I swear I didn’t kill anyone. I swear, I swear, I—”
“I’m gonna read you your rights,” Oliver said.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God! Liz, I swear I never killed anyone—”
“Will you kindly shut up?” Oliver said.
“Don’t talk, Myron,” Elizabeth said. “Don’t say anything until you’ve talked to a lawyer.”
“You believe me?”
“Of course. Scientific pilfering is one thing. But murder?”
“Will you both shut up so I can Mirandize him?” Oliver yelled.
“I want my lawyer,” Berger blurted out.
“If you don’t let me get this out, you ain’t gonna have anything, Doc.”
Finally, Berger fell quiet. Oliver took a deep breath, then read the doctor his rights. At the conclusion, Berger again requested a lawyer.
“No problemo, Doc,” Oliver said. “You can have your lawyer. Let’s go.”
But Berger resisted walking. “Elizabeth, please help me!”
“Let’s go,” Oliver said, pushing him forward.
“Myron, who should I call?” Elizabeth asked.
“Gold and Brown,” he shouted out.
“You can tell them we’re going to book their client at the Devonshire Substation,” Marge said.
Oliver shoved him forward. “He’ll probably be transferred to Van Nuys jail for arraignment—”
“Oh God!” Berger moaned. “Stop. I’ll tell you everything. Just please don’t book me for murder.”
Oliver stopped walking. “You’ll tell us everything?”
“Yes, yes.” Berger nodded rapidly. “I’ll tell you everything.”
“So suddenly you know what I’m talking about,” Oliver said.
“Yes. Yes, I do know. And I’ll tell you. Just please don’t book me.”
“He asked for a lawyer,” Elizabeth pointed out. “You can’t talk to him now.”
Oliver glared at her. “One minute you’re spitting in the guy’s face, the next you’re his advocate?”
“He’s my colleague!” Elizabeth said. “We have our own ways of censuring. I’m not about to let him drown in your hands.”
“Oh please!” Marge said wearily. “C’mon! Let’s go.”
“Wait!” Berger yelled out. “Yes, I’ll talk to my lawyer. But I guarantee you, if you wait, you won’t be sorry. You’ll like what I have to tell you. Just…please…hold off…with the…murder charges. Because bottom line, I swear I didn’t do it.”
Oliver and Marge exchanged glances. “Are you willing to take a polygraph?”
“Yes, of course. Right away. Just don’t book me.”
Oliver shrugged. “What exactly do you have in mind, Doc?”
“Let me talk to my lawyer. I know what you want, Detective Oliver. I know you’re after the big guys. Please. Be patient. I promise you won’t be sorry.”
Oliver looked at Marge. “What do you think?”
“We should ask the Loo.”
“So we’ll ask the Loo.” Oliver paused. “Should we hold off on booking him?”
Berger looked at Marge with hopeful eyes. She shrugged. “He gave us a rough time with the arrest—”
“I’m very sorry about that,” Berger said. “Very sorry. Please. Let me talk to my lawyer. Then I’ll talk to you.”
Again, Marge shrugged. “Okay. You bought yourself some time. You’d better come through.”
Berger smiled. “I will. I swear I’ll make you happy.”
Oliver said, “Last time someone said those words to me, I wound up with crabs. C’mon. Let’s go.”
27
Great to be on the other side of the one-way mirror. Decker leaned against the wall, watching Myron Berger and his lawyer confer. Not that there was much to talk about. The deal had been cut hours ago. The doctor had been guaranteed immunity from prosecution by the FBI on charges of computer tampering, theft, and fraud in exchange for becoming a material witness. And though Berger hadn’t been formally booked, the police had retained the right if future information and/or evidence warranted an arrest.
Marge sipped coffee. “Is my watch fast or is it already seven?”
/>
“Your watch isn’t fast.”
“Where does the time go?”
“I don’t know.” Decker rubbed his neck. “Tomorrow night is the Sabbath. I can’t wait.”
Marge said, “Are we still on for Sunday?”
“Absolutely.”
“I know Rina’s strict with her kitchen, so I don’t want to bring any food. How about if I bring flowers?”
“Great. Thanks.”
Decker drank from a thermos, regarded the action on the other side of the looking glass. Berger had chosen Justin Dorman as his counsel, a man in his late thirties with styled wheat-colored hair and deep-set brown eyes. His regular features bore a nondescript expression. In his herringbone suit, he looked about as menacing as a model in GQ. But he had cut Berger a good plea. Decker had been impressed.
The doctor, on the other hand, was anything but Perma-Prest. His clothes were wrinkled and he needed a shave. More than anything, Berger was tired. Yes, he’d withstood fourteen-hour surgeries, but no endurance test could have prepared him for this.
Decker said, “You didn’t want a piece of the action?”
“Nah.” Marge threw away her plastic cup. “The deal’s been cut. Nothing to do but listen. Might as well do it here where I can make wisecracks.” She observed the scene on the other side, the door opening…“And on with the show.”
Oliver came in the interview room. With him was Mitch Saugust, the deputy DA. Also young—in his thirties—but not as well coiffed nor as well dressed. Saugust was tall but not muscular. His shoulders sloped, his gut spilled over his belt. He shook hands with Dorman, then sat down. Oliver took the chair to his left.
Saugust looked at Oliver. Scott said, “We’re ready whenever you are, Doctor.”
Berger was draped in fatigue. “Oh my.” He hung his head. “Where to begin.”
The room was quiet.
“I’ve been with Azor Sparks for nearly twenty-five years. A few of our colleagues considered us a team. But most didn’t. More important, I didn’t. I had always looked to Azor as a boss, even though we were in the same graduating class at Harvard Medical School.”
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