L Sellers - The Suicide Effect

“Hola,” Roman called out cheerfully. He obviously had no intention of sitting in the car as Felisa had directed.

“Hola.” The woman glanced at Sula and raised an eyebrow.

“Are you Lucia Rios?” Roman asked.

“Si.” Now she looked skeptical.

“We’re from the Fernandez Juncos Clinica.”

Her face closed up. “Why do you come here?”

Roman turned to Sula. It was her turn. “I’m Sula Moreno. I used to work for Prolabs. I want to find out what happened to your husband Miguel.”

“He killed himself. You know that already.” Her English was quite good.

“I think the drug he was taking in the trial may have helped cause his death, but I can’t prove it without your help. Can I ask you some questions?”

Lucia hesitated for a full minute. Finally she shrugged. “Come in.” The widow went back through the heavy door and held it open for Sula. She looked back to see if Roman was coming. He waved and leaned against the hood of his car. She was on her own.

Lucia led her to the dining room table. Sula found herself staring at the walls, which were painted in varying shades of burnt orange. One wall was lined with family photos, another had a large painting of Jesus on the cross. Through an open window, she could see plantains growing on a tree in the back yard. She vowed to come back to the island some day when she had time to explore.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She was over her caffeine limit, but Sula wanted to be polite.

She watched Lucia pour from a thermos, then add some kind of syrup and maybe cream. She wasn’t fond of sweet coffee, but she would be open-minded. Lucia brought the beverages in heavy white mugs, then sat across from her.

“If you work for Prolabs, why do you want to prove the drug is bad? It’s called Nexapra, is that right?”

“Yes. That’s right.” The way Lucia said it gave the word a whole new sound. “I don’t work for the company anymore. I’m here on my own. I don’t think Nexapra is bad for everybody, just some people who share a genetic mutation.”

“Mutation?” Lucia frowned. “You’re saying something was wrong with my Miguel?”

“Oh no. I just mean he had a certain genetic characteristic that made him react badly to the drug.” Sula pulled her recorder out of her big shoulder bag. “I would like to tape parts of our interview, as documentation. Is that all right?”

Lucia shrugged. Sula took a sip of the coffee. It was surprisingly good, not too sweet, but with a peculiar flavor she didn’t recognize. She turned on the recorder and pushed it to the middle of the table. “Please state your name and your relationship to the deceased, Miguel Rios.”

Lucia leaned forward. “I am Lucia Maria Sanchez Rios. Miguel Rios was my husband of twenty-three years.”

“Before taking Nexapra, did Miguel ever talk about suicide? Or attempt to commit suicide?”

“Never.” Lucia shook her head emphatically. “He loved his family. I know he was depressed and life was hard for him sometimes, but he never wanted to die.”

“Did he receive any counseling for his depression?”

“He went to a special doctor.” She tapped her head. “What’s the word?”

“Psychiatrist.”

“Yes. For a while, when the kids were young. The doctor gave him Prozac. It made Miguel feel better, so he stopped going.”

“What year was that?”

“1990.”

“Was he still taking Prozac before he entered the Nexapra trial?”

“No. He switched drugs many times. I think he was taking Zoloft before joining the study.”

“Why did he enter the trial?”

“The Zoloft wasn’t so good any more. Dr. Hernandez said the new drug was very good.”

“Was he more depressed than usual?”

“A little, but he had been like that many times before. He always tried to get better. That’s why he entered the study. He never talked about suicide.” Lucia’s eyes started to get watery. Sula felt bad for dwelling on such a painful subject.

“Did you notice a change in his behavior after he started taking the Nexapra?”

“Right away. At first, he had more energy. He was more like his old self.” Lucia’s dark eyes caught Sula’s and held them. She was trying to say something without saying it. Was she talking about sex?

“Then what?”

“Then he got irritable like he does sometimes when he drinks too much coffee.” She lifted her cup for emphasis. “He stayed that way for weeks. I asked him what was wrong. He didn’t know. I asked him if thought it was the new drug. He didn’t know.” She paused and took a long slug of coffee.

“Then one Sunday, I came home from the market and he was dead on the floor of our bedroom. Part of his head was blown off.” Tears filled her eyes. “It tore my heart in a way that will never heal.”

Sula knew. “I’m very sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry to put you through this. I won’t take up much more of your time.” She took another sip of coffee to be polite. “Do you have something that has Miguel’s DNA?”

“What do you mean?”

“A lock of his hair, or a toothbrush. Something like that?”

Lucia gave her an odd look. “This will help you find out if the drug made him kill himself?”

“Yes.”

Lucia shrugged again. “Okay.”

Sula clicked off the recorder as Lucia padded down the hallway. In a minute she came back with a small wooden box inlaid with colored glass. Lucia set the box on the table and opened it. Against red velour padding lay a thick lock of dark curly hair.

“I only need part of it. Do you have a Ziplock baggie?”

Miguel’s widow rummaged through a kitchen drawer and came back with a good-sized freezer bag with a sealing mechanism. “This is okay?”

“It’s fine. How about some masking tape and a pen?”

Another longer trip to the kitchen produced both.

“Please write your husband’s name on a piece of tape and stick it on the bag, then transfer some of the hair to the bag and seal it. I’ll turn on the recorder, and I want you to say what you’re doing as you do it.”

Lucia did as she’d been asked and tried not to smile at the silliness of it. Sula shut off the recorder and put the hair package into her shoulder bag. She hoped she didn’t get searched on her flights home.

“Would you like me to contact you later and let you know what I found out?”

“Please. It would be nice to know.”

Lucia wrote down her phone number and address on Sula’s yellow tablet.

“Thank you. Do you know Luis’ wife?”

“Si. Are you going to see her?”

“We’re going there next. Do you think she’ll talk to me?”

“I don’t know. She’s moody. Marta’s at work now and doesn’t get off until three. I’ll call her and let her know you’re coming, so she’ll go straight home.” Lucia made a face. “Sometimes she stops at the taberna.”

Sula wandered into the living room while Lucia made her call. The conversation was in Spanish, and although she didn’t understand the words, she could tell it became intense at one point. She stared at the patterns in a wall tapestry and worried that Luis’ widow didn’t want to cooperate. One set of DNA wouldn’t do any good. The FDA needed a pattern to show the link between the mutation and the behavior. She hoped the agency’s researchers would get samples from the young woman in the Portland trial who killed herself, the one named James who looked Hispanic.

Lucia hung up and joined her near the door. “Marta will meet you at her home at 3:15. Do you have the address? It’s in San Juan.”

“Is she still at 55 Cristo St.?”

“Si.”

“Thanks again. I’ll be in touch.”

The sun’s brightness almost blinded her after the dark interior, and the day was starting to heat up. Sula checked her watch: 12:13. Roman chatted with the young boy in the shade of a tree. She thought he must be a grandchild or neighbor. She smiled and waved at the two and climbed in the car. In a moment, her driver joined her. Roman had smoked a cigarette and worked up a light sweat while waiting, but the combination of smells was strangely masculine and pleasant. Almost sexy.