Gerrie Nelson - Lab Notes

Earlier in the evening, wresting herself (albeit briefly) from Charlotte’s ambush, Diane had stirred among BRI staffers. Some of the lab and office assistants, mellowed by champagne, had whispered various rumors about the tall man with continental dash who gave new meaning to the wearing of a tuxedo.

Some heard he was a Harvard graduate and either a past president of Colombia or a diplomat who had murdered his wife and brother. Others suggested he was a spy for Cuba and a wealthy industrialist who had murdered his own mother.

Conjecture aside, there was something Diane was certain of: From the looks on their faces as Gabriel danced her by, each and every female on board that yacht would have killed to be in his arms that night.

Diane found Gabriel to be a gentleman. He held her away and guided her around the dance floor in a courtly fashion. They danced, and they talked—sometimes in English, sometimes in Spanish or French.

As it turned out, Gabriel was the head of Colombia’s Economic Development Council. He was in town to meet with the Houston Organization of Florists to promote the cut-flower industry in Colombia. It was obvious that this man was passionate about changing the image of his country.

“We are promoting industries and resources that benefit mankind. We do not need to deal in cocaine and heroin to survive as a country. We are trying to recapture our dignity,” Gabriel stated, gray eyes ablaze.

Gabriel’s passion about his country reminded Diane of Olimpia. She had received an email from her offering her regrets that they were unable to connect when she was in the States. But she had made no reference to Diane’s email regarding BRI. She apparently hadn’t received it.

Realizing it was a long-shot, Diane asked Gabriel if he had heard of Professor Olimpia Garza from Bogota. And she was quite pleased when he said knew of her work.

They continued dancing through a medley of three old standards. Then Carlos Carrera cut in. Gabriel gave Diane a polite bow and backed away.

Months later, Diane would look back and wonder if the outcome could have been different had she declined the Carreras’ invitations to dance that night.

A small bronze placard identified the fortress simply as “10 Cove Road.” Raymond Bellfort lifted his hand in a semi wave toward a guard booth, and two massive wrought iron gates swung open.

Diane sat in the backseat of Bellfort’s Mercedes SUV, behind Vincent. Once inside BRI’s grounds, they followed a curving tunnel of live oaks. Beyond, an enchanted forest allowed only teasing glimpses of the imposing white building ahead.

“These oaks are over two hundred years old,” Bellfort said. “The property was a portion of one of the oldest Spanish Land Grants in this part of the world. “We bought the mansion and eighty-five acres in 1988 from the estate of the fifth generation land owner, an eccentric Texas governor—an oil man. The house was about fifty years old when we purchased the estate.

“We restored the exterior and some of the interior of the mansion to its former glory, and remodeled the rest to meet our needs. If you look over there among the trees, you can see we designed the out-buildings to be as unobtrusive as possible; even the primate house conforms to the landscape.”

Bellfort, obviously enjoying the role of tour guide, slowed so they could take in the sights.

Vincent turned to Raymond. “You’re doing research with primates?”

“Ahh… not at present… Animal rights activists broke in some time ago and ‘kidnapped’ most of our macaque monkeys and chimps. Some of our staff members received threatening phone calls and letters. Everyone was pretty nervous. We decided to suspend our primate research at that time.”

He added quickly, “But now, sure, we can get new animals from a breeding facility in West Texas—squirrel monkeys, rhesus macaques, chimpanzees and so forth…”

After a long pause he seemed to realize a question still hung in the air and added, “We’ve worked out an understanding with the animal rights people. We now have a veterinarian on staff—David Crowley. I’m sure you met him at the party last night. So, everything’s cool. The monkey huggers are no longer a concern to us.” He glanced over at Vincent who nodded.

Satisfied, Bellfort went on with his monologue.

“BRI was incorporated in 1990. By 1999, we were profitable enough to build the marina.” Raymond chuckled. “Boaters out on the bay call it the Texas White House. Some people think it’s an exclusive yacht club. But for the most part, people don’t have a clue what we do here.

“As you can see, we have plenty of room to expand. Future plans include having a science think-tank setup like the one at Cold Spring Harbor on Long Island.”

Emerging from the woods onto a brick roundabout, they were presented with a full frontal view of the Greek revival building that housed Bayside Research Inc. Bellfort dropped Diane and Vincent off at the front steps, allowing them time to gaze upon the amazing structure while he parked the car.

The evening before, the BRI edifice had looked like a dimly lit acropolis looming large over the marina. But now, the light of day revealed a wedding cake of a mansion in all its pilastered, pedimented splendor.

They climbed the steps to a shaded veranda where perhaps liveried domestics once served mint juleps in silver cups on sultry summer afternoons.

Raymond caught up with them and pointed out jogging trails that headed off through the trees to their right and a formal garden, pond and fountains to the left. Then he threw open massive paneled doors to reveal a green and gray marble-columned entry that rivaled the Great Hall at the Library of Congress.

Your garden-variety research facility it was not.

Bellfort explained that being Saturday, just a handful of employees were “on property.” A couple scientists could be found in their offices hovering over computer keyboards. Lab assistants saw to round-the-clock tasks such as feeding Sprague-Dawley research rats and white mice and monitoring experiments. Maintenance people tended the grounds and the marina.

In a second floor paneled office overlooking the formal garden and lily pond on the west side of the building, Raymond placed the Roses in the “capable hands” of Jerome Wentzel.

On the ride up in the elevator, Bellfort had given them a thumbnail bio of Dr. Wentzel who had not been able to attend the party the night before.

Wentzel was a psychiatrist and an electrical engineer schooled in the Northeast. He taught two computer science courses at the local campus of the University of Houston and was closely involved with Johnson Space Center, also nearby, and The National Space Biomedical Research Institute. On the personal side: he and his wife Connie had three grown sons and two grandsons. He had a keen sense of humor and loved golf and the internet. But—to Bellfort’s great dismay—he hated chicken-fried steak and boats.

Raymond excused himself saying that he had a few things to take care of. He promised he’d catch up with them for lunch.

The Roses found Dr. Wentzel to be an affable man, tall and fit, probably in his mid fifties. He greeted them with an air of colleagueship, his knee-length white lab coat adding a layer of professionalism over a gray sweat suit.

“Jerome is my father’s name; please call me Jerry,” Dr. Wentzel pleaded as he subdued his animated hands long enough to shake theirs. “Welcome to BRI. Sorry I missed the party last night. I had just returned from a conference in Asia and hadn’t quite recovered from the jet lag.”

He inquired about the weather in Pittsburgh, their flight down to Houston and how they enjoyed last night’s party. Social amenities satisfied, he gestured toward a door on the far side of the office. “If you’ll be kind enough to follow me, I’ll give you a quick look at my pet project before we move on.