Faye Kellerman - Prayers for the Dead

Marge sipped coffee. “Is my watch fast or is it already seven?”

“Your watch isn’t fast.”

“Where does the time go?”

“I don’t know.” Decker rubbed his neck. “Tomorrow night is the Sabbath. I can’t wait.”

Marge said, “Are we still on for Sunday?”

“Absolutely.”

“I know Rina’s strict with her kitchen, so I don’t want to bring any food. How about if I bring flowers?”

“Great. Thanks.”

Decker drank from a thermos, regarded the action on the other side of the looking glass. Berger had chosen Justin Dorman as his counsel, a man in his late thirties with styled wheat-colored hair and deep-set brown eyes. His regular features bore a nondescript expression. In his herringbone suit, he looked about as menacing as a model in GQ. But he had cut Berger a good plea. Decker had been impressed.

The doctor, on the other hand, was anything but Perma-Prest. His clothes were wrinkled and he needed a shave. More than anything, Berger was tired. Yes, he’d withstood fourteen-hour surgeries, but no endurance test could have prepared him for this.

Decker said, “You didn’t want a piece of the action?”

“Nah.” Marge threw away her plastic cup. “The deal’s been cut. Nothing to do but listen. Might as well do it here where I can make wisecracks.” She observed the scene on the other side, the door opening…“And on with the show.”

Oliver came in the interview room. With him was Mitch Saugust, the deputy DA. Also young-in his thirties-but not as well coiffed nor as well dressed. Saugust was tall but not muscular. His shoulders sloped, his gut spilled over his belt. He shook hands with Dorman, then sat down. Oliver took the chair to his left.

Saugust looked at Oliver. Scott said, “We’re ready whenever you are, Doctor.”

Berger was draped in fatigue. “Oh my.” He hung his head. “Where to begin.”

The room was quiet.

“I’ve been with Azor Sparks for nearly twenty-five years. A few of our colleagues considered us a team. But most didn’t. More important, I didn’t. I had always looked to Azor as a boss, even though we were in the same graduating class at Harvard Medical School.”

He took a deep breath.

“About ten-plus years ago, Azor went back and got a Ph.D. in biochemistry. I always felt he was a bit…intimidated by my own master’s in chemistry. Because when we used to talk about drug structure-specifically Cyclosporin-A analogs-he often would be forced to cede to my knowledge, sometimes graciously, sometimes begrudgingly. Not that I was smarter, but I had been more educated in this one particular area.”

Marge said, “I’ve found the perfect superhero for Berger.”

“What’s that?”

“MIGHTY EGO.”

Decker smiled. “Yeah, egos are something else. They make us able to live with ourselves.”

Marge laughed. “Otherwise, we’d all curl up and die from embarrassment.”

Berger kept talking. “Finally, Azor did go back to UCLA and he did receive a Ph.D. Which again gave him the formal educational advantage-at least on paper. Being involved in biochemistry years before Azor, I felt I still had the practical edge. I would have liked to further my interest in chemistry, but when Azor went back, I had to pick up the slack around the hospital. Which meant I worked long, long hours-”

Dorman tapped Berger’s shoulder, whispered in his ear. Berger sighed and nodded. He went on.

“Admittedly so, Curedon was Azor’s brainchild-a highly modified cyclophillin binder which seemed to be a very potent T-cell inhibitor. In theory.”

Berger stopped, regarded his lawyer, Oliver, and the deputy DA. They were staring at him. He cleared his throat and continued.

“The point is Azor had developed a potentially wonderful drug in his lab, but he lacked the practical experience to refine it.”

“And that was where you came in,” Oliver stated.

Berger eyed him with suspicion. “Yes, as a matter of fact, that was where I came in. He developed a very raw analog, I refined it into something more workable, albeit not perfect. Later on, Dr. Decameron and Dr. Fulton were brought into our club. Reggie fine-tuned the drug. Then Elizabeth set up the protocol for Curedon’s animal experimentation.”

The doctor smacked his lips.

“Azor had the reputation…and Azor got the funding.”

“From the hospital?” Oliver asked.

“From the hospital, from NIH grants, from private donations…from everywhere.” Berger clasped his hands together. “I worked over eight years on Curedon. There was extra pay for me through the grants, but the money hardly made up for the excessive time I had put into the drug. And I should remind you that I was doing this while maintaining a full-time cardiosurgical practice.”

Marge said, “He needs to remind us, Pete.”

Decker said, “He’s pissed.”

“Doesn’t justify what he did.” She paused. “But it explains his motivation. MIGHTY EGO strikes again. Must be hard to be number two, standing in the shadows of the top dog.” She smiled. “I should know about that.”

Decker jerked his head. “Beg your pardon?”

“Oh, nothing…” Marge returned her attention to the interview. “Nothing at all.”

Berger said, “The finalized drug sold to Fisher/Tyne bore little resemblance to Azor Sparks’s original Curedon. The Fisher/Tyne Curedon was developed after years of trial and error by four scientists working as a unit. Yet, Azor got all the credit.”

Oliver said, “Doctor, Sparks was the…how do you say it…” He flipped through his notes. “The primary investigator…the acknowledged chief, Dr. Berger. Because it was his drug you were refining. You knew you weren’t going to get the glory at the outset, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but…I mean…another-”

“You certainly must have known you weren’t going to get the money,” Oliver pressed.

Berger glared at him.

Oliver said, “True or false?”

Dorman said, “Detective, can we keep it friendly here? My client has been completely cooperative-”

“Think so? Then next time you try to arrest him.”

“Detective-”

“Do you know how much money Fisher/Tyne paid Dr. Sparks for the rights to acquire Curedon?”

Anger flickered from Berger’s eyes. “Something in the seven-figure range.”

“Do you know if any other fees were owed to him?” Oliver asked.

Berger said, “I was aware of something in the contract that promised him additional monies should the sales of Curedon reach a critical limit.”

Marge said, “Why are some people so mealy-mouthed? ‘Additional monies should sales reach a critical limit.’”

“Just the way academics talk.”

“You think guys like him and Sparks ever drop their masks?”

“Azor rode motorcycles.”

Marge nodded. It was a good point.

Oliver asked, “Is that clause in the contract-the one that promises him money if Curedon has big sales-still in effect after Dr. Sparks’s death?”

“I don’t know.”

Saugust said, “Detective, why don’t we let Dr. Berger continue…do you think you might take out a little of the history, sir, and bring it back to contemporary times?”

“I’m just trying to give you the appropriate background,” Berger snapped.

“Of course,” Saugust said.

Berger said, “Well, to make a long story short, even with all the hoopla of Curedon’s arrival, there were still problems. But nothing the team couldn’t hammer out.

“Since I was so instrumental in Curedon’s development, Azor assigned me the role of liaison from our labs to Fisher/Tyne. Sparks also gave me a bonus when Curedon was bought. Nothing compared to what Azor had made. But it was a nice gesture.”