Richard Mabry: Lethal Remedy

"This is Dr. Heinz Gruber in Ulm, Germany. I believe you called me?"

Sara waved frantically to get Rip's attention. When he looked up, she motioned him toward the outer office and mouthed the words "Get on the phone." She waited until she heard a faint click before answering.

"Doctor, thank you for calling back. I have a question for you." There was silence on the line. "Did you hear me?" she asked. "I was waiting for the question." Fair enough. "I understand you and a colleague have been carrying out a clinical trial of the antibiotic Jandramycin. Is that correct?" The answer sounded like "Yah." Was that the German word for "yes"? She assumed it was. "The same trial is going on at our medical center here. My question is-" "So you are with Professor Ingersoll? Yes?" "Yes. And some of our patients have had problems several weeks after they received Jandramycin. These are autoimmune disorders. Do you understand autoimmune? I'm sorry, I don't know the German word." "It is the same. And I have in turn a question for you. Why are you calling me when you have there Herr Professor Ingersoll?" How much could she tell him? She decided to try to finesse the situation. "I've mentioned it to him, and he seems to think there's no such problem. But I thought that perhaps your experience might be different." Gruber cleared his throat. When he spoke, the words were wooden and without inflection, as though he was reciting a prepared statement. "I know of no such problems with the drug." "Then perhaps you can clarify for me the mechanism of action of Jandramycin.

We think it might be an immunologic stimulus of the host to make antibodies against-" "You must also ask that question of Professor Ingersoll. I have nothing to say." There was a click, followed by the electronic hum of an empty line. Sara hung up and waited until Rip reappeared and settled into the chair opposite her. "What do you think?" she asked. "I think he's been programmed to keep quiet. We're not going to get anything from him, and I doubt that we'll have any luck with his colleague, either." "Nevertheless, I'm going to try it."

Sara rummaged through the papers on her desk until she found a printed abstract of a paper. She jotted a note on a Post-It and centered it on her desk. "Maybe Dr. Rohde will be more forthcoming than his co-author, Dr. Gruber." "Want me on the other line?" "I don't think the department administrator would take too kindly to my making a transatlantic call from this phone," Sara said. "I guess I'll have to wait until I get home." "No problem," Rip said. "Let's use my cell phone. We can put it on speaker and both hear." "Won't that show up on the bill?" "This is my private phone. I pay the bills, and it's nobody's business who I call." "Even an international call?" "I set it up a while back. Never know when I might need it, and sure enough, now I do. What's that number?" "All I have is the internal medicine clinic number." She dug into her purse and pulled out a wrinkled slip of paper. "Good enough. I just dial 011, then the country code- 49-and the number." He held up a finger. "Okay, it's ringing. I'll put it on speaker and you can talk." " Klinik. Darf ich Ihnen helfen?" Sara gave a "here we go again" shrug. "Do you speak English?" " Bitte, Ich verstehe Sie nicht." Sara was about to go into her raise-your-voice-to-beunderstood act when Rip said, " Wir wollen mit Herr Dr. Rohde sprechen." " Ja, ein minuten." In the silence that followed, Sara looked at Rip in amazement. "When did you learn to speak German?" "A product of my Ivy League education. Had two years of it in college. Spent a month in Germany between college and med school. Guess I still remember it." "I wish I'd known that when I made my original call to Gruber," Sara said. " Ja, hier ist Rohde." Sara felt her pulse quicken. Maybe she could convince this doctor to open up. "Doctor, do you speak English? This is Dr. Sara Miles in the U.S."

"Yes, I speak a little. What would you like?" Sara went through the same speech that she'd given Gruber. This time the response was a full minute in coming, and she feared she'd lost the connection. She was about to hang up when Rohde said, "I have been warned not to discuss our research with anyone. And I would advise you to stop asking these questions." This time there was a discernible click, and the cell phone screen showed the words, "Call Ended." "I'm more convinced than ever that there's a cover-up in place," Sara said. "I guess we'll have to depend on Resnick. He's our last hope."

The voices captured his attention, so the man stopped in the hall and leaned closer to the closed door. The first man spoke in a voice that was guttural and low, spitting sibilants like machine gun bullets as the words tumbled out. "How many times must I tell you? Only you and I know this. And the proof has already been destroyed. No one can resurrect a pile of ashes into a document." The second voice also belonged to a man, but where the first was bold, this one was tentative, the words hesitant. "There are too many people asking questions about the matter, and I'm afraid what we did is going to come to light. Perhaps if we-" "We will do nothing. We remain silent, let the scenario play out, and reap the rewards." The words rumbled like far-off artillery fire and carried the same hint of danger. "When you burned that paper, you ended the trail that could lead back to us.

You did burn it, didn't you?" The second voice was less timid now. "Of course… but how do you know I didn't keep a copy somewhere? If I came forward with the information now, perhaps I could escape any penalties. I can't stand the thought of being disgraced, of losing everything I've worked for. I couldn't live with that." The first speaker's voice was full of menace. "Perhaps you won't have to live-with that or anything else." "Don't think about it. If something happens to me, I have made arrangements for some very interesting documents to go to the right people." The second man's tone became placating. "You need me alive." "I think you're bluffing." "There's no reason for you to find out, is there? We can work this out." A chair scraped back. "No, you've shown your true colors now. You'd throw me to the wolves to save your own worthless skin, wouldn't you?" The next words came out in a rush. "I guess there's only one thing to do to keep you muzzled." The sounds of the argument were replaced by the thumps and groans of a struggle. The man in the hall tried the door, but it was locked. He pounded on it. "What's going on in there? Open up." Glass shattered. The man's imagination supplied mental pictures as the noise intensified. A chair or perhaps even a desk was overturned. When the first man spoke this time, it was as though he were reasoning with a recalcitrant child. "I didn't mean it. Put that away." Now the second man's words were determined, as though he'd made up his mind to do something distasteful. "No. This is the best way..

. " The words trailed off. Two shots rang out-the flat cracks of a handgun. There was a long pause, then the second man's words came out in a rush. "God, forgive me." Another shot, a muffled thump, then silence as the smell of gun powder drifted under the locked door.

Mark sat behind his desk, his head in his hands. His staff had left for the day. The office was dark except for one small lamp that burned on his desk. Only the tick of an antique clock in the corner broke the tomb-like silence. He had one more call to make, one he'd dreaded since last night when the truth slapped him in the face. Come on, there's no reason to be afraid. They can't climb through the phone lines and choke you. Just say what you have to say and hang up. Easy to think it. Hard to do it. Mark knew it had stared him in the face all along, but he refused to see. He'd been lied to from the beginning. He remembered the opening line of a John Grisham book, one that struck him as funny when he read it, but took on new meaning when he entered law practice: "Everybody lies." Maybe that was one of the reasons he'd chucked a thriving law practice and started over in medical school. He was tired of being lied to-by clients, witnesses, even other lawyers. In law, there were always three sides-two attorneys and a judge-and the rules dictated an adversarial relationship between two of them. In medicine, the adversaries were disease and injuries. Mark took comfort in the knowledge that no one battled him to make sure the patient didn't recover. Everyone was on the same team. At least, that's what he'd thought. Now he knew better.