L Sellers - The Suicide Effect

In five minutes, the girl came out, got in her truck, and made a cell phone call.

Sula parked in front of the plain, no-signage building where her friend Hannah was a drafter for a group of engineers. Hannah would likely be in her office and have her cell phone with her. Her friend paid for the caller ID block because she was hiding from an abusive ex husband and was paranoid about letting her phone number get out.

Sula put a quarter into the meter and trotted into the building. Bright and spacious, the interior smelled of apples because of the daycare downstairs. Sula waved and smiled at the receptionist and kept going. She’d been here a few times.

Hannah was hunched over her computer, drawing air ducts with a CAD program. She was heavy set with spiky blond hair and fifteen years older than Sula. They had played softball together the summer before and had bonded over their shared survivor mentality.

Hannah jumped up and gave her a tight squeeze. “What’s wrong?”

“That obvious?”

“Oh yeah. You look stressed.”

Sula remembered seeing herself in the mirror and thinking she had aged. Now she knew it wasn’t her imagination. “I lost my job.”

“Oh shit. What happened?” Hannah sunk back down.

“It’s a long story, and I don’t want to take up your work time. I’ll tell you over lunch, real soon, I promise. Right now I need to borrow your cell phone.”

“Sure.” Hannah pulled it from her pocket and handed it over. Her curiosity was evident, but she didn’t ask.

“I need to make an anonymous phone call.”

“Ahh.” Her friend nodded in understanding. “You will give me every juicy detail next time I see you.”

“Of course.” Sula grinned. “Can I borrow your yellow pages?”

Sula quickly found what she needed and moved toward the exit. “I’ll bring it back in a few minutes.”

“No rush.”

She took the phone out to her truck and checked the name and number she had jotted down at Paul’s house. She focused for a moment on what she would say, checked her watch-2:17-then dialed the Portland number. She hoped Hannah had free long distance.

“Riverside Medical Clinic.” The young woman who answered the phone was cheerful but in a hurry.

“This is Dr. Susan Giacomo. I need to speak with Dr. Gwartney about a patient.” Sula had picked Guiacomo from the psychiatric physicians’ section of the phone book.

“I’ll see if he’s available.”

After a two minute and thirty-five second wait, a pleasant male voice came on the line. “This is Dr. Gwartney.”

Sula took a deep breath. “Hello. This is Susan Giacomo. I have a small psychiatric practice in Eugene. I hope you’ll be able to give me some information.”

“I will if I can.”

“I have a patient, a young man in his early twenties. He’s been taking Paxil, and it keeps his mood stable but causes him insomnia. I’m considering the Nexapra trial as a next step. It’s a head-to-head study against Prozac, so I expect him to be fine either way. But I wanted to talk to someone who’s had experience with Nexapra.”

“I’m very excited about its potential,” Gwartney said. “Seventy percent of the patients in our arm of the trial responded favorably, and the side-effect profile seems quite mild. Some loss of appetite. Some orgasm delay, but much less than other SSRIs. What else do you want to know?”

“What about insomnia?” Sula didn’t want to hit the suicide question too soon.

“About the same as placebo.”

“Excellent.” A city bus roared by just as she spoke. She hoped Dr. Gwartney wouldn’t hear it and wonder where she was calling from. “What about the thirty percent who didn’t respond well?” she plunged ahead. “Any serious consequences?”

“Unfortunately, there was one suicide. A woman in her late twenties.”

Sula’s heart rate picked up, but she forced herself to sound casual. “What do you know about her? Any history of suicide attempts?”

“None that she reported or she wouldn’t have gotten into the trial.”

“Of course.” He sounded a little defensive and she had to be careful with her last question. “Were there any minorities in the trial? My patient is Hispanic and I worry that he doesn’t metabolize medicine well.”

“We don’t ask participants to identify their race, but I can tell you that we had one forty-year-old black man and,” Dr. Gwartney hesitated, “the woman who committed suicide looked Hispanic. Her last name was James, but she was married.”

Goosebumps surfaced on her arms. A suicide who looked Hispanic. A third genetic victim? Sula had to stay with the charade for another moment. “What do you think? Should I get my patient into this trial?”

“If he’s been through several therapy changes and you’re trying to get him stable, I would wait until Nexapra is on the market. As you know, there will be a delay between the end of the trial and FDA’s approval. During that time, the drug will not be available, so you’ll have to find something else for him in the mean time.” The doctor chuckled softly. “But as a clinical investigator I have to say, we need all the participants we can recruit to get this drug on the market quickly. It’s your call.”

“I’ll give it some serious thought. Thanks for the information, Dr. Gwartney.”

“You’re welcome.” He abruptly clicked off.

Sula hung up too and her mind reeled. The information carried a mixed emotional punch. She felt distressed for the young woman who had died unnecessarily, yet she felt fortified in her conviction that she was doing the right thing in trying to stop these trials.

She returned the phone and promised to meet Hannah at the Steelhead for lunch the next Wednesday, even though she knew there was a good chance she wouldn’t be able to keep the date. She was more determined than ever to track down Warner’s DNA findings. If Paul’s hacking efforts didn’t produce anything soon, she might just have to go to Puerto Rico.

Rudker had arranged to meet Jorgovitch at the Wetlands bar on Chambers. The private investigator had picked the time and the location. Rudker had never left work this early before or set foot in such a place. He’d agreed to the time and place because he was anxious to get the report and preferred to go somewhere no one would notice him.

Now he was running late and hoped the fat little man had the good sense to wait. Considering the money Rudker had paid him, he’d better. A two thousand dollar retainer had bought him the promise that this job would never be documented or discussed. On some level, Rudker knew it was paranoid to watch the girl to see what she would do, but as long as he kept it in check, suspicion often worked in his favor.

If Sula had gone so far as to steal a disk from Warner’s office, it was obvious she was out to get him and would not give up easily. Rudker intended to subvert anything she tried.

He pushed the Jeep past the speed limit, ignoring the pounding rain on his windshield and limited visibility. As long as he kept making the lights, he had no reason to slow down. West 11th traffic had started to thin from the rush hour and he made good time. He pulled into the pub’s parking lot and drove to a back space. He liked to keep his rig away from the reckless masses.

The bright neon sign announcing the name Wetlands irritated him. What the hell was wrong with the people in this town? Wetlands was synonymous with weed patch. Who the hell would name a restaurant and bar after such a landscape? It was bad enough that the city council was making Prolabs create new wetlands just so they could build on their own damn land. All because a group of kooky environmentalists thought the wetlands should be preserved. He could not wait to get out of this town.