Daniel Annechino - Hypocrisy

“That’s correct,” Mason said. “That’s how the Horizon Cancer Research Center was born. After witnessing many terminal patients outlive the prognosis given to them by American doctors—including Mrs. Crawford—Lauren concluded that Dr. Clark was on to something. But Lauren felt as though Clark hadn’t taken it far enough. As Lauren used to say, ‘Clark’s in the right church but the wrong pew.’ ”

“Earlier in our conversation,” T.J. said, “you mentioned that Dr. Crawford was a few months away from submitting an application to the FDA. If Dr. Clark was plagued with legal issues and moved her operation to Tijuana, how did Dr. Crawford get the FDA’s blessing to continue research in the USA?”

“It’s well documented that Dr. Clark was not very popular with the medical community or with anyone involved in traditional health care or research. In fact, the vast majority of medical professionals were convinced that she was not only a quack but a charlatan. They felt she preyed on people with hopeless diagnoses. But Lauren didn’t agree to work with Clark to act as judge and jury on her reputation or her motivation. In spite of the overwhelming evidence that Clark was a fraud, Lauren believed that her theories—however misdirected—were valid and worth pursuing further. Let’s not forget that Lauren had some pretty impressive credentials and some powerful backers. Billionaire, Dr. Sidney Goldman, donated a hefty sum of money to fund this research center. Not to mention the fact that he, personally, was very influential with the FDA.”

“That’s quite a story,” Dupree said, glancing at her wristwatch. “What was it about Dr. Crawford’s research that distinguished it from Dr. Clark’s?”

“Through clinical trials, Lauren discovered that combining the three homeopathic herbs with two modified chemotherapy drugs Clark was not using, she could completely stop the progression and spread of certain cancers. It wasn’t a cure—at least not yet—but an effective treatment regimen that extends the life of terminal cancer patients while maintaining their quality of life. No hair loss or digestive issues.”

“Something certainly worth pursuing,” Dupree said. “Dr. Crawford’s death is quite a blow to this research center.”

“Yes, Detective. It sets this whole project back two or three years. Maybe even scraps it.”

“That would be terrible.”

“Indeed.”

“Two more questions and we’ll let you get on with your day,” Dupree promised. “First, any idea why Dr. Crawford parked her car in the ramp garage near Yankee Stadium? There’s plenty of parking right next to the building.”

“Lauren was so absorbed with her research that she rarely got much exercise, so she purposely parked a few blocks away and walked to and from our facility.”

Dupree could understand her motivation. It made perfect sense. “Last question—and this may sound odd—but do any of your employees shave their heads?”

Mason stroked his chin in a contemplative way. “There are a couple guys on their way to baldness, but no one here is completely bald.”

“Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with us,” Dupree said. She handed him a business card. “Please contact me if you think of anything else that might help our investigation.”

“Sure thing, Detective.”

Dupree and T.J. were about to exit Mason’s office when they heard him say, “Wait a minute. Something just occurred to me.”

The two detectives did a perfectly synchronized about face as if they were performing a drill in boot camp.

“I don’t know if this has any bearing on anything, but about a month ago, Lauren fired an employee named Maggie Hansen, one of our senior research scientists. She’s a southern gal with a little attitude. But other than Lauren, nobody at Horizon understood the research project as thoroughly as Maggie did. Now I’m not suggesting that this woman killed Lauren, she certainly didn’t seem capable of something like that, but there was quite a blowout when Lauren fired her. So much so, that Lauren had to call security to escort Maggie out of the building. As Maggie was leaving, she yelled something like, ‘You haven’t seen the last of me, bitch’. I don’t know if it means anything, but I thought you should know.”

“Would you happen to have Maggie’s address?”

Mason typed something on his computer, waited a minute, then wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to Dupree. “I hope you find whoever is responsible for Lauren’s death. He not only killed her , but potentially killed millions of cancer patients worldwide.”

“So what do you think?” Dupree asked T.J., as she slipped the key into the ignition.

“Well, it seems that whoever murdered Dr. Crawford had it timed perfectly.” T.J. flipped down the visor and checked his bloodshot eyes. “If what Dr. Mason said is true—that Dr. Crawford rarely worked from home—then somebody was tipped off that she would not only be carrying her computer and external hard drive, but that they would contain every piece of research data downloaded from the secure server.”

“A little too coincidental,” Dupree said. “Someone on the inside has dirt under their fingernails.”

“Dr. Mason?”

“Well, he sure is in the thick of things. And he did mention that he has an equity position in Horizon. We need to complete a thorough background check on him. I’d like to know if there are any criminal records, malpractice lawsuits, ugly divorces, or significant debt. And I really would like to know who he hobnobs with. Maybe this Maggie Hansen can fill in a few blanks.”

“Before we track her down,” T.J. suggested, “why don’t we check out Dr. Crawford’s place first? We’re driving to Brooklyn anyway and Park Slope borders Prospect Heights.”

“Nice thought, but the search warrant hasn’t come through yet. So unless you’re into breaking and entering…”

“Hey, it’s worth a try, no? Let’s kill two birds with one stone.”

“Okay,” Dupree said. “I’ll bet you a cold brew or cocktail of your choice that we don’t get into Dr. Crawford’s apartment without a warrant.”

“I’ll take that bet.”

Dupree grabbed a folder from the backseat and leafed through the pages. She entered Dr. Crawford’s address into the police department issued GPS. As soon as the woman’s voice started barking driving instructions, she merged into traffic. The voice on the GPS directed Dupree to the Sheridan Expressway south to the Bruckner Expressway.

It was a cloudy day in New York and the humidity seemed like it was flirting with 100%. Dupree wanted to remove her suit jacket, but felt certain her silk blouse was soaked with perspiration. Sweat stained armpits weren’t exactly the image she wished to portray. And of course, there was also the ongoing desire to conceal her bountiful “gifts” from God.

When they arrived at the apartment building, a freakishly tall doorman, dressed in a navy blue uniform and an official-looking hat that made him appear to be an admiral in the Navy, hustled toward the front door and opened it for the detectives. He seemed about ten pounds away from looking like a stick person.

“Good afternoon folks.” He gave them a thorough onceover and Dupree figured he was trying to remember if they looked familiar. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Dupree flashed her badge. “We’re New York City homicide detectives and we need entry into Dr. Lauren Crawford’s residence.” She glanced at her folder. “Apartment 22C.”

His pleasant and welcoming look turned sour. “Such a terrible tragedy. Dr. Crawford was a lovely person.” His eyes glazed over with tears. “Let me put you in touch with the building superintendent.”