L Sellers - The Suicide Effect

“Buenos dias,” Felisa greeted her from the reception desk.

“Buenos dias.” Sula smiled. “Actually, I don’t speak Spanish.”

The director smiled back. “That’s fine. I like to practice my English with people who don’t speak with an accent.” She stood held out her hand. “Felisa Quinton.”

“Sula Moreno. From Eugene, Oregon.”

“You’re a long way from home. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to speak to Dr. David Hernandez.”

Felisa’s face closed up. “He no longer works here.” Anger flickered in her eyes. “I have no idea where he is or how to contact him. I’m sorry you came so far for nothing.”

A silence engulfed them, the director lost in an unpleasant memory while Sula reeled with disappointment and paranoia. Had Rudker paid off Hernandez? Or was it merely coincidence that the two people most familiar with the Nexapra suicides-Warner and Hernandez-were unavailable?

A chill ran up her spine. Did Rudker know she was here? What if he had followed her? For the first time, she realized she might be in over her head. Rudker obviously wasn’t taking any chances in letting the suicide data get out, and he undoubtedly considered her a risk.

“Did you know David? You look like you’ve just seen a paricion.”

Sula shook her head. “It was very important that I speak to him, but perhaps you can help me instead.”

Felisa shrugged. “If I can.” She touched Sula’s elbow. “Let’s go into the conference room.”

Sula followed her through an archway into a short hallway, then into the first room on the left. It seemed more like a cozy kitchen with a small dark-wood table and padded straight-back chairs. Sula glanced at the sink and refrigerator in the corner.

“Would you like something to drink?” Felisa moved toward the fridge.

“Please.”

The director came back with two bottles of cold frappuccino. Sula noticed Felisa’s eyes were light blue, contrasting with her dark skin. She’d read that Puerto Ricans were a racial melting pot of native Taino, Spanish, African, French, German, and Chinese. Her personal observation was that most of the islanders were attractive.

They sat at the table and opened their drinks. Sula took a long slug before speaking. “I’m a freelance writer, and I’m researching the Nexapra clinical trials. I understand that there were two suicides here.”

Felisa gave her an odd look. Sula couldn’t read the reaction.

“Where did you get that information? The trial was discontinued and the data was not released to the public.” Her impeccable English had picked up an accent.

“Were you involved in that study?”

“I assisted Dr. Hernandez with intake. What do you want to know?”

“Are the men’s files still here? I mean, is there a record of their participation and suicides?”

“Of course, but I can’t release any information to you. It’s very confidential.”

“Were you surprised when both Luis and Miguel Rios killed themselves within a month of taking Nexapra?”

Felisa stopped mid-air with her Frappaccino and set it down. She looked at Sula with a mix of surprise, respect, and fear. Sula decided to tell her everything. She had nothing to lose.

“I used to work for Prolabs. One day I heard Diane Warner and Karl Rudker arguing about Nexapra. Do you know who they are?”

“Of course. Dr. Warner discovered the drug when she worked for the Oregon Health and Science University. Rudker runs Prolabs.”

That was more than Sula had known. “Warner told Rudker she’d found evidence that the men who committed suicide shared a genetic mutation that influenced the way they responded to the drug. She asked him to halt the trials and give her two years to develop a screening test. Rudker said no. He also threatened to fire her if she didn’t drop the idea.”

“You heard all of this first hand?” Felisa let go of her drink and squeezed her hands together.

“Yes. I was waiting to talk with them about a press release I was writing.”

“Go on.”

“The next day, Dr. Warner didn’t show up for work. She didn’t call either. Two days later, we found out she was dead. Murdered while jogging along a riverside path.”

Felisa’s eyes flashed with speculation. Sula took a sip of the sweet caffeine and thought, wait until you hear the rest of the story.

“I became concerned that Dr. Warner’s theory and evidence would die with her and that a lot of people might kill themselves in the large Phase III studies.”

Felisa made a funny noise in her throat, then signaled Sula to keep going.

“I went into Warner’s office and found a disk tapped to the bottom of a desk drawer. I took it home. The files were labeled Miguel and Luis Rios.”

A young man burst into the room. “Hey, there you are. Sorry I’m late.” His dimpled cheeks and curly hair gave him a look of innocence.”

“Roman, I’m very busy right now. Please go watch the front desk and do not disturb me again.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry.” He sheepishly backed out of the room.

Felisa shook her head. “Please continue. I’m intrigued by your story.”

Sula hesitated, ashamed of her night in jail. “Rudker had me arrested. While I was in jail, he broke into my home and took Warner’s disk.”

The director leaned forward, disbelief evident in her expression. “The CEO of a pharmaceutical company broke into your house and stole a disk that you believe contained clinical trial data for Nexapra?”

“Actually, it had their intake information and some kind of DNA files. I have no proof that it was Rudker, but the CD disappeared, and he is the only one who would have a reason to think I had it. Who else would break into my house and take only a disk with DNA information?”

“Nothing else was stolen?”

“No.”

The director pushed her hair back with both hands. “This is ajeno.”

Sula didn’t need a dictionary. “I know. Now I find out Dr. Hernandez is no longer with the clinic.”

“That was a personal issue. I don’t think it’s related.”

There was a long silence, both of them mulling over the question: What now?

Sula spoke up. “There was also a suicide in the Portland arm of the trial. The clinician said he thought the girl was Hispanic. A lot of lives could be at stake. Hispanic lives.”

Felisa jumped up. “David must have talked with Dr. Warner. If she analyzed the Rios men’s DNA, she got the samples from here.” Her gorgeous face was deeply troubled. She held out her hand. “Please excuse me. I have to check something.”

The director strode out of the room, dark hair swinging. Sula stood and stretched her legs, checking her watch out of habit: 10:07. Would Felisa bring her a copy of Miguel and Luis’ files? It seemed too good to be true. Yet, even if she did, having the clinical trial records would not be enough. She needed a sample of their DNA, so that someone-maybe at FDA or even a university-could replicate Warner’s work.

Sula paced the room, glancing at the art on the walls. The outdoor market scenes were colorful, but not particularly skillful or intriguing. She sat at the table and picked up her pen. She hadn’t taken a single note during their conversation. It had gone too quickly and had been too intense. Sula jotted down a few questions she still wanted answers to: 1) Was there any history of suicidal thoughts mentioned during either of the Rios’ intakes? 2) Why was the trial discontinued?

Felisa was gone for eleven and a half minutes and came back with only a single piece of paper in her hands. Sula tried not to look disappointed.

The director’s voice had the quiet tone of a conspirator. “Both Miguel and Luis Rios’ paper files are gone. Their blood samples are gone. I think David must have sent the samples to Warner. I have no idea what happened to the paperwork.”