Next: A Novel (9 page)

“We’ll see about that,” her mother said, and hung up.

About half an hour after that, her brother, Tom, called. “Hey, Lise.” Real casual, laid-back.

“Just got a call from Mom.”

“Yeah?”

“She said something about a test?”

“Yeah. I did a test, Tommy. And guess what?”

“I heard. Who did this test, Lise?”

“A lab here in Long Beach.”

“What’s it called?”

“BioRad Testing.”

“Uh-huh,” her brother said. “You know, these labs that advertise on the Internet aren’t very reliable. You know that, don’t you?”

“They guaranteed it.”

“Mom’s all upset.”

“Too bad,” she said.

“You know she’ll do her own test now? And there’s going to be lawsuits? Because you’re accusing her of infidelity.”

“Gee, Tommy, I don’t really give a damn. You know that?”

“Lise, I think this is causing a lot of needless trouble around Dad’s death.”

“Your dad,” she said.“Not mine.”

CH009

Kevin McCormick, chief administrator of Long Beach Memorial, looked up at the chubby figure coming into his office, and said, “How the hell did this happen?” He pushed a sheaf of papers across his desk.

Marty Roberts, the chief of pathology, glanced quickly through the document. “I have no idea,”

he said.

“The wife of the deceased, Mr. John J. Weller, is suing us for unauthorized release of tissue to the daughter.”

“What’s the legal situation?” Marty Roberts said.

“Unclear,” McCormick said. “Legal says the daughter is a family member and has a clear right to be given tissues to test for diseases that may affect her. Problem is, she did a paternity test and it came back negative. So she’s not his daughter. Arguably that makes our release of tissues unauthorized.”

“We couldn’t have known that at the time—”

“Of course not. But we’re talking about the law. The only important question is, can the family sue? The answer is yes, they have grounds to bring a suit, and they are.”

“Where’s the body now?” Marty said.

“Buried. Eight days ago.”

“I see.” Marty flipped through the pages. “And they are asking for…”

“Besides unspecified damages, they’re asking for blood and tissue samples to conduct further testing,” McCormick said. “Do we have blood or tissue samples from the deceased?”

“I’d have to check,” Marty said. “But I’d presume that we do, yes.”

“We do?”

“Sure. We keep a lot of tissue these days, Kevin. I mean, everybody that comes into the hospital, we collect as much as we possibly can legally…”

“That’s the wrong answer,” McCormick said, glowering.

“Okay. What’s the right answer?”

“That we don’t have any tissues from this guy.”

“But they’ll know that we do. At the very least, we did a tox screen on the guy because of the accident, so we have his blood—”

“That sample was lost.”

“Okay. It was lost. But what good does that do? They can always dig up the body and get all the tissues they want.”

“Correct.”

“So?”

“So let them do that. That’s Legal’s advice. Exhumation takes time, permits, and money. We’re guessing they won’t have the time or the money—and this thing will go away.”

“Okay,” Marty said. “And I am here because?”

“Because I need you to go back to pathology and confirm for me that, unfortunately, we have no more samples from the deceased, and that everything not given to the daughter has been lost or misplaced.”

“Got it.”

“Call me within the hour,” McCormick said, and turned away.

Marty Roberts entered the basement pathology lab. His diener, Raza Rashad, a handsome, dark-eyed man of twenty-seven, was scrubbing the stainless steel tables for the next post. If truth be told, Raza really ran the path lab. Marty felt himself burdened by a heavy administrative load, managing the senior pathologists, the residents, the medical student rotations, and all the rest.

He’d come to rely on Raza, who was highly intelligent and ambitious.

“Hey, Raza. You remember that forty-six-year-old white guy with crush injuries, a week back?

Drove himself into an overpass?”

“Yeah. I remember. Heller, or Weller.”

“The daughter asked for blood?”

“Yeah. We gave her blood.”

“Well, she ran a paternity test, and it came back negative. Guy was not her father.”

Raza stared blankly. “That right?”

“Yeah. Now the mother’s all upset. Wants more tissues. What’ve we got?”

“I’d have to check. Probably the usual. All major organs.”

Marty said, “Any chance that material got misplaced? So we couldn’t find it?”

Raza nodded slowly, staring at Marty. “Maybe so. Always possible it could be mislabeled. Then it would be hard to find.”

“Might take months?”

“Or years. Maybe never.”

“That’d be a shame,” Marty said. “Now, what about the blood from the tox screen?”

Raza frowned. “Lab keeps that. We wouldn’t have access to their storage facility.”

“So they still have that blood sample?”

“Yeah. They do.”

“And we have no access?”

Raza smiled. “It might take me a couple of days.”

“Okay. Do it.”

Marty Roberts went to the phone and dialed the administrator’s office. When McCormick came on the line, he said, “I have some bad news, Kevin. Unfortunately, all the tissues have been lost or misplaced.”

“Sorry to hear that,” McCormick said, and hung up.

“Marty,” Raza said, coming into the office, “is there a problem with this Weller guy?”

“No,” Marty said. “Not anymore. And I told you before—don’t call me Marty. My name is Dr.

Roberts.”

CH010

At the Radial Genomics lab in La Jolla, Charlie Huggins twisted his flat-panel screen around to show Henry Kendall the headline: TALKING APE CLAIMED FRAUD . “What’d I tell you?”

Charlie said. “A week later, and we learn the story’s a fake.”

“Okay, okay. I was wrong,” Henry said. “I admit it, I was worried about nothing.”

“Very worried…”

“It’s in the past. Can we talk about something important?”

“What’s that?”

“The novelty-seeking gene. Our grant application was denied.” He began typing at the keyboard.

“Once again, we’ve been screwed—by your personal favorite, the Pope of Dopamine, Dr. Robert A. Bellarmino of the NIH.”

For the last ten years, brain studies had increasingly focused on a neurochemical called dopamine. Levels of dopamine seemed to be important in maintaining health as well as in diseases such as Parkinsonism and schizophrenia. From work in Charlie Huggins’s lab, it appeared that dopamine receptors in the brain were controlled by the geneD 4DR, among others.

Charlie’s lab stood at the forefront of this research, until a rival scientist named Robert Bellarmino from the National Institutes of Health began referring toD 4DRas the “novelty gene,”

the gene that supposedly controlled the urge to take risks, seek new sex partners, or engage in thrill-seeking behavior.

As Bellarmino explained it, the fact that dopamine levels were higher in men than women was the reason for the greater recklessness of men, and their attraction to everything from mountain climbing to infidelity.

Bellarmino was an evangelical Christian and a leading researcher at the NIH. Politically skilled, he was the very model of an up-to-date scientist, neatly blending a modest scientific talent with true media savvy. His laboratory was the first to hire its own publicity firm, and as a result, his ideas invariably got plenty of press coverage. (Which in turn attracted the brightest and most ambitious postdocs, who did brilliant work for him, thus adding to his prestige.) In the case of D 4DR, Bellarmino was able to tailor his comments to the beliefs of his audience, either speaking enthusiastically about the new gene to progressive groups, or disparaging it to conservatives. He was colorful, future-oriented, and uninhibited in his predictions. He went so far as to suggest that there might one day be a vaccine to prevent infidelity.

The absurdity of such comments so annoyed Charlie and Henry that six months before, they had applied for a grant to test the prevalence of the “novelty gene.”

Their proposal was simplicity itself. They would send research teams to amusement parks to draw blood samples from individuals who rode roller coasters time and again during the day. In theory these “repeat coasters” would be more likely to carry the gene.

The only problem with applying to the NSF was that their proposal would be read by anonymous reviewers. And one of the reviewers was likely to be Robert Bellarmino. And Bellarmino had a reputation for what was politely termed “appropriation.”

“Anyway,” Henry said, “the NSF turned us down. The reviewers didn’t think our idea was worthy. One said it was too ‘jokey.’”

“Uh-huh,” Charlie said. “What does this have to do with Robbin’ Rob?”

“Remember where we proposed to conduct our study?”

“Of course,” Charlie said. “At two of the biggest amusement parks in the world, in two different countries. Sandusky in the U.S., and Blackpool in England.”

“Well, guess who’s out of town?” Henry said.

He hit his e-mail button.

From: Rob Bellarmino, NIH

Subject: Out of Office AutoReply: Travel

I will be out of the office for the next two weeks. If you need immediate assistance please contact my office by phone…

“I called his office, and guess what? Bellarmino is going to Sandusky, Ohio—and then to Blackpool, England.”

“That bastard,” Charlie said. “If you’re going to steal somebody else’s research proposal, you should at least have the courtesy to change it a little.”

“Bellarmino obviously doesn’t care if we know he stole it,” Henry said. “Doesn’t that piss you off? What do you say we go for it? Put him up for ethical violations?”

“I’d like nothing better,” Charlie said, “but, no. If we formally charge misconduct, it means a lot of time and a lot of paperwork. Our grants could dry up. And in the end, the complaint goes nowhere. Rob’s a major player at NIH. He’s got huge research facilities and he dispenses millions in grants. He holds prayer breakfasts with congressmen. He’s a scientist who believes in God. They love him on the Hill. He’d never be charged with misconduct. Even if we caught him buggering a lab assistant, he wouldn’t be charged.”

“So we just let him do it?”

“It’s not a perfect world,” Charlie said. “We have plenty to do. Walk away.”

CH011

Barry Sindlerwas bored. The woman before him yammered on. She was an obvious type—the rich-bitch Eastern broad who wore pants, Katharine Hepburn with an attitude, a trust fund, a nasal Newport accent. But despite her aristocratic airs, the best she could manage was to hump the tennis pro, just like every L.A. fake-tit dimwit in this town.

But she was perfectly suited to the dumb-ass attorney by her side—that Ivy League jackoff Bob Wilson, wearing a pinstripe suit and a button-down shirt with a rep tie and those stupid lace-up wingtips with the little perforations in the toes. No wonder everyone called him Whitey Wilson.

Wilson never tired of reminding everyone he was a Harvard-trained lawyer—as if anybody gave a shit. Certainly Barry Sindler didn’t. Because he knew Wilson was a gentleman. Which really meant he was chickenshit. He wouldn’t go for the throat.

And Sindler always went for the throat.

The woman, Karen Diehl, was still talking. Jesus, these rich bitches could talk. Sindler didn’t interrupt her because he didn’t want Whitey to state on the record that Sindler was badgering the woman. Wilson had said that four times already. So, fine. Let the bitch talk. Let her tell in full, exhausting, incredibly stupefyingly boring detail why her husband was a lousy father and a total shit heel. Because the truth was,she was the one who’d had the affair.

Not that that could ever come out in court. California had no-fault divorce, which meant there were no specific grounds for divorce, just “irreconcilable differences.” But a woman’s infidelity always colored the proceedings. Because in skilled hands—Barry’s hands—that fact could easily be turned into the insinuation that this woman had more important priorities than her darling children. She was a neglectful parent, an unreliable custodian, a selfish woman who sought her own pleasure while she left the kids all day with the Spanish-speaking maid.

And she was good-looking at twenty-eight, he thought. That worked against her, too. Indeed, Barry Sindler could see his central theme shaping up quite nicely. And Whitey Wilson looked a bit anxious. He probably knew where Sindler would take this.

Or maybe Whitey was troubled by the fact that Sindler was attending the depo at all. Because ordinarily Barry Sindler didn’t conduct spousal depos. He left those to the jerkoff peons in his office, while he spent his days downtown, racking up expensive courtroom hours.

Finally, the woman stopped to catch her breath. Sindler moved in. “Mrs. Diehl, I would like to hold this line of questioning and go on to another issue. We are formally requesting that you undergo a full battery of genetic tests at a reputable facility, preferably UCLA, and—”

The woman sat bolt upright. Her face colored swiftly. “No!”

“Let’s not be hasty,” Whitey said, putting his hand on his client’s arm. She angrily pushed him away.

“No! Absolutely not! I refuse!”

How wonderful. How unexpected and wonderful.

“In anticipation of your possible refusal,” Sindler continued, “we have drafted a request that the court order these tests”—he passed a document to Whitey—“and we fully expect the judge to agree.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Whitey said, thumbing through the pages. “Genetic testing in a custody case…”

By now Mrs. Diehl was full-bore hysterical. “No! No! I will not! It’s his idea, isn’t it? That prick! How dare he! That sneaking son of a bitch!”

Whitey was looking at his client with a puzzled expression. “Mrs. Diehl,” he said, “I think it’s best if we discuss this in private—”

“No! No discussion! No test! That’s it! No!”

“In that case,” Sindler said, with a little shrug, “we have no choice but to go to the judge…”