“But those women are troublemakers. Something will have to be done.”
“I’m coming to the same conclusion,” Lester said.
“Thanks.”
Hanging up his phone, Lester pressed his intercom.
“Penny,” he said, “ring up Ned Kelly in security. Tell him to get his arse up here on the spot.”
Ned Kelly’s name wasn’t really Ned Kelly, it was Edmund Stewart. But at a young age Edmund had taken such a liking to the stories of the renowned bushranger Ned Kelly that his friends had started calling him Ned.
Although most Australian men liked to think of themselves as some reflection of the famous outlaw, Ned took to imitating him, even to the point of sending a pair of bullock testicles to the wife of a man he was feuding with. A life of contempt for authority and petty crime led people to call him Ned Kelly, and the name stuck.
Lester pushed away from the desk and walked over to the window. It seemed that just when things were running smoothly, some irritating problem had to crop up.
Lester had come a long way from his humble origins in the cutback of New South Wales. At age nine he’d arrived in Australia from England with his family. His father, a sheet-metal worker, had taken advantage of liberal immigration policies in the immediate post-World War II period. The Australian government had even paid passage for the whole family.
Early on, Lester had gravitated toward learning. He saw it as his ticket out of the sapping dullness of the vast Australian interior. In contrast to his brothers, he thirsted for knowledge, taking correspondence courses to supplement the meager schooling available in his tiny hometown. His studies had led him to medical school. From then on he’d never looked back. Nor did he tolerate hindrances. When people got in his way, he stepped on them.
“Watchagot?” Ned asked as he came through the door. Behind him was Willy Tong, a slightly built but muscular Chinese man.
Ned kicked the door shut with a resounding thump, then sat on the arm of the couch. He was not a big man, but he exuded toughness. Like Carstans, he wore shorts along with a shirt and tie. On his sleeve was sewn the logo of the security department of the clinic. His face was tanned to a lined, leathery texture. He looked as if he’d spent his entire thirty-eight years in the desert sun. Above his left eye was a scar from a knife fight in a pub. The argument had been over a pitcher of beer.
Lester was chagrined to have to resort to such men. It was a bore to have to deal with the likes of Ned Kelly. Yet occasionally it was necessary, as it was at present. Lester had met Ned purely by accident when he was in his last year of medical school. Ned had come into the university hospital with one of his many gun shot wounds. During the course of his recuperation, they’d become acquaintances. Over the years Lester had used Ned for various projects, culminating in his being hired as head of the clinic’s security department.
“We have a couple of women interested in that article by Williams,” Lester said.
“It was the same article that brought that gynecologist from L.A. here. Do you remember? It was about a year ago.”
“How could I forget,” Ned said with a sinister smile curling his lips.
“He was the poor man who had that awful auto accident.
Remember him, Willy?”
Willy’s eyes narrowed as he smiled broadly.
“These women were talking about finding Williams,” Lester said.
“I don’t want that to happen.”
“You should have let me take care of Williams way back when,” Ned said.
“It would have saved a lot of trouble.”
“He was too much in the spotlight at the time,” Lester said.
“But let’s not worry about that now. Now we have to worry about these women. I want something done, and I want it done before they dredge up any more information on TB salpingitis.”
“You want it to look like some kind of accident?” Ned asked.
“That would be best,” Lester said.
“Otherwise, there will be an investigation, which I’d prefer to avoid. But can you manage an accident when there are two people involved?”
“It’s more difficult,” Ned admitted.
“But certainly not impossible.
Be easy if they rent a car. Yanks are lousy left-hand drivers.”
He laughed.
“Reminds me of that gynecologist. He almost killed himself without our help.”
“The women’s names are Marissa Blumenthal and Wendy Wilson,” Lester said. He wrote them down and handed the paper to Ned.
“Where are they stayine.” Ned asked.
“I don’t know,” Lester said.
“The only thing I do know is that they are planning to go out on the Reef.”
“Really!” Ned said with interest, “Now that bit of info could come in handy. Do you know when they plan to go?”
“No,” Lester said.
“But don’t wait too long. I want something done soon. Understand?”
“We’ll start calling hotels as soon as we get downstairs,” Ned said.
“This should be fun. Like going out in the bush and shooting ‘roos.”
“Excuse me,” Marissa whispered.
“I’m Dr. Blumenthal and this is Dr. Wilson.” Wendy nodded hello. They were standing at the main circulation desk of the University of Queensland Medical
School Library.
They had driven halfway to St. Lucia, where the university was located, when they’d asked the taxi driver if he knew where the medical school library was. To their surprise, he’d responded by “throwing a u-ey” and heading directly back to Herston. The medical school, they’d learned, was a short distance from the
FCA.
“We’re from the States,” Marissa said to the man behind the medical school library circulation desk.
“And we were wondering if it might be possible for us to use the library facilities.”
“I don’t see why not,” the man replied.
“But it would be best if you inquired in the office down the hall. Ask for Mrs. Pierce, the librarian.”
Marissa and Wendy walked down the corridor and into the administration office.
“Absolutely,” Mrs. Pierce answered in reply to their request.
“You’re more than welcome to use material here at the library.
Of course, we will not be able to allow any of it to circulate.”
“I understand,” Marissa said.
“Is there anything I could help you with?” Mrs. Pierce offered.
“It’s not every day we have visitors from Boston.”
“Perhaps there is,” Marissa said.
“We were lucky enough to have been vena tour of the FCA clinic building this morning.
I must say, we were truly impressed.”
“We’re quite proud of the clinic here in Brisbane,” Mrs. Pierce said.
“For good reason,” Marissa said.
“What we’d like to do is to read some of their current papers. I imagine they publish quite a bit of material there.”
“Indeed they do,” Mrs. Pierce said.
“They have been our leaders in reproductive technologies here in Australia. They are also generous contributors to the medical school; we have a lot of their material.”
“We’re also interested in a certain Australian pathologist,” Wendy said.
“His name is Tristan Williams. We have a reprint of one of his papers that appeared in an Australian journal. We’d like to see if he’s done any subsequent articles.”
“We’d especially like to locate him,” Marissa interjected.
“Perhaps you may have some suggestions as to how we might do that.”
“It didn’t mention where he practiced in the article?” Mrs.
Pierce asked.
“He’d been at the FCA when he published the paper,” Wendy said, “but that was two years ago and he’s since left the FCA staff. We asked over there at the clinic, but no one seemed to have a forwarding address.”
“We have an annual publication by the Royal College of Pathology,”
Mrs. Pierce said.
“It contains the hospital and university affiliations of all Australian pathologists. I think that would be the most fruitful place to start. Why don’t you come with me?
I’ll acquaint you with our reference and periodical rooms.”
Marissa and Wendy followed Mrs. Pierce. The woman was quite striking: she had flaming red hair and was quite tall, particularly in contrast to Marissa and Wendy. Together the three women descended a curved stairway leading to the lower floor.
Mrs. Pierce’s pace was brisk. Marissa and Wendy had, to keep up with her.
Mrs. Pierce stopped at a group of computer monitors. She put her hand on the top of the first screen.
“Here are the terminals for literature searches. This would be the easiest way to search for Dr. Williams’ latest articles.”
Leaving the computer area, Mrs. Pierce walked to a series of low bookshelves. She pulled a dark-covered volume from the shelf and handed it to Wendy.
“Here’s the Royal College of Pathology’s publication. That’s the best way to locate a pathologist, at least in terms of his professional associations.”
Leaving the shelves, Mrs. Pierce strode off at a determined pace. Marissa and Wendy hurried after her.
“She must do triathlons on the weekends,” Wendy muttered under her breath to Marissa.
Mrs. Pierce led them to another corner of the periodical room.
“This section here,” she said, making a sweeping gesture with her hand, “is devoted to FCA-related articles. So that should keep you busy for a while. If you have any further questions, please feel free to come see me back in the office.”
After Marissa and Wendy thanked Mrs. Pierce, she left them on their own.
“Okay, what first?” Wendy asked.
“Look Williams up in the book you’re holding,” Wendy said.
“If it says he’s gone to Perth I’ll scream. Did you know that’s about three thousand miles away from here?”
Wendy set the book on top of one of the periodical shelves and turned to the his. There was no Tristan Williams.
“At least he’s not in Perth,” Wendy said.
“I guess Mr. Charles Lester was telling us the truth,” Marissa said.
“Did you doubt him?” Wendy asked.
“Not really,” Marissa answered.
“It would have been too easy for us to check.” She scanned the surrounding shelves.
“Let’s take a look at some of this FCA material.”
For the next hour Marissa and Wendy pored over articles on a wide range of topics related to reproductive technology. The scope and breadth of FCA research was as impressive as the clinic itself. It soon became clear that FCA had played a pioneering role in fetal fertility research, especially in regard to the use of fetal tissue for treatment of metabolic and degenerative diseases.
Most of the articles they merely skimmed. Those dealing with in vitro fertilization they put aside. Once they had finished a cursory look at all the material, they turned back to the articles on in-vitro fertilization.
I’m impressed but confused,” Wendy said after half an hour.
“I must be missing something.”
“I have the same feeling,” Marissa said.
“When you read these articles in sequence, it shows that their percent success per cycle in terms of achieving pregnancy was going up every year. Like for five cycles the success rate went from twenty percent in 1983 to almost sixty percent in 1987 “Exactly,” Wendy said.
“But what happened in 1988? Maybe it’s a misprint.”
“Can’t be a misprint,” Marissa said.
“Look at the data for 1989.” She tossed a paper onto Wendy’s lap. Wendy studied the figures.
“Curious that they didn’t even calculate the per-cycle pregnancy rate after they’d made such a big deal out of doing it in every other year.”
“It’s a simple calculation,” Marissa said.
“Do it yourself for five cycles.”
Wendy pulled a piece of paper from her purse and did the division.
“You’re right,” she said when she’d finished.
“It’s the same as 1988, and when compared to 1987, it’s much worse. Less than ten percent. Something was going wrong.”
“Yet look at the pregnancy rate per patient,” Marissa said.
“Iley changed the basis of their reporting. 11ey didn’t talk about achieving pregnancy per cycle anymore, they switched to pregnancy per patient. And that still went up in both 1988 and 1989.”
