Hypocrisy (6 page)

“Let me preface my answer by first giving you some background on Dr. Hulda Clark.”

Dupree remembered Mrs. Crawford talking about her daughter’s relationship with Dr. Clark.

Mason adjusted himself in the seat and rested his chin on his folded hands. “I’m not going to get too technical but here’s the story. Clark had a doctoral degree with an emphasis in biophysics and cell physiology. She wrote several books describing her methods of treating cancer and she operated a number of clinics in the U.S. Perhaps her most controversial book was titled,
The Cure for all Cancers
. Following a series of legal difficulties and actions by the
Federal Trade Commission
, she was pretty much run out of the country and relocated to
Tijuana
,
Mexico
where she launched the Century Nutrition Clinic. One of her fundamental theories was that all cancer patients had two things in common. First, they all had parasites in their intestines called flukes. Second, they all had high levels of isopropyl alcohol in their bloodstream. For healthy people, the flukes pose no major problems because most parasitic eggs pass out of our bodies with bowel movements. But some eggs
hatch and get into your blood stream.” Mason paused and drank some water.

“Under normal conditions, our liver kills the hatchlings. However, for people who have a high level of isopropyl alcohol in their bodies, the liver is unable to trap and kill these flukes. So, they settle in any host organ that is unhealthy—like a smoker’s lungs, a breast with a benign tumor, an enlarged prostate, or low functioning kidneys. The hatchlings begin to reproduce at an out-of-control pace. Once they become adult parasites, they feed off the infected organs.

“When adult parasites infest your liver, a growth factor called ortho-phospho-tyrosine appears. This causes normal cells to divide uncontrollably and ultimately produce cancer cells. The only way that the fluke parasite can live outside of your intestines and exponentially reproduce is if isopropyl alcohol is present in your body.

“Clark’s theory was that three herbs: black walnut hulls, wormwood from the Artemisia shrub, and common cloves—administered in conjunction with a low dose chemotherapy drug—could rid your body of over one-hundred different types of parasites—including the cancer-causing fluke. And the treatments did not produce any major side effects.” Mason took another mouthful of water. “There’s more, of course, and I could go on for hours, but that’s a brief overview of Hulda Clark’s theory.”

Dupree looked at T.J. and could sense he had a bunch of questions to ask, so she ever so slightly nodded her head and hoped he’d get the message.

“How do these fluke parasites get into your body?” T.J. asked, glancing at Dupree. “Mostly from processed foods and undercooked beef. Poultry, believe it or not, could be the single biggest cause of parasite infestation.”

T.J. continued. “How does the isopropyl alcohol get into the bloodstream?”

“This may surprise you, but isopropyl alcohol is everywhere. It’s in shampoo, hairspray, mousse, cold cereals, cosmetics, bottled water, store-bought fruit juices, mouthwash, shaving cream, white sugar—even in carbonated beverages and decaf coffee.”

Dupree’s head was spinning with all this technical information. She wondered whether this was a murder investigation or an anatomy class.

“Dr. Crawford’s mother told us that her daughter actually spent some time working with Dr. Clark in Tijuana,” Dupree said.

“That’s correct,” Mason said. “That’s how the Horizon Cancer Research Center was born. After witnessing many terminal patients outlive the prognosis given to them by American doctors—including Mrs. Crawford—Lauren concluded that Dr. Clark was on to something. But Lauren felt as though Clark hadn’t taken it far enough. As Lauren used to say, ‘Clark’s in the right church but the wrong pew.’ ”

“Earlier in our conversation,” T.J. said, “you mentioned that Dr. Crawford was a few months away from submitting an application to the FDA. If Dr. Clark was plagued with legal issues and moved her operation to Tijuana, how did Dr. Crawford get the FDA’s blessing to continue research in the USA?”

“It’s well documented that Dr. Clark was not very popular with the medical community or with anyone involved in traditional health care or research. In fact, the vast majority of medical professionals were convinced that she was not only a quack but a charlatan. They felt she preyed on people with hopeless diagnoses. But Lauren didn’t agree to work with Clark to act as judge and jury on her reputation or her motivation. In spite of the overwhelming evidence that Clark was a fraud, Lauren believed that her theories—however misdirected—were valid and worth pursuing further. Let’s not forget that Lauren had some pretty
impressive credentials and some powerful backers. Billionaire, Dr. Sidney Goldman, donated a hefty sum of money to fund this research center. Not to mention the fact that he, personally, was very influential with the FDA.”

“That’s quite a story,” Dupree said, glancing at her wristwatch. “What was it about Dr. Crawford’s research that distinguished it from Dr. Clark’s?”

“Through clinical trials, Lauren discovered that combining the three homeopathic herbs with two modified chemotherapy drugs Clark was not using, she could completely stop the progression and spread of certain cancers. It wasn’t a cure—at least not yet—but an effective treatment regimen that extends the life of terminal cancer patients while maintaining their quality of life. No hair loss or digestive issues.”

“Something certainly worth pursuing,” Dupree said. “Dr. Crawford’s death is quite a blow to this research center.”

“Yes, Detective. It sets this whole project back two or three years. Maybe even scraps it.”

“That would be terrible.”

“Indeed.”

“Two more questions and we’ll let you get on with your day,” Dupree promised. “First, any idea why Dr. Crawford parked her car in the ramp garage near Yankee Stadium? There’s plenty of parking right next to the building.”

“Lauren was so absorbed with her research that she rarely got much exercise, so she purposely parked a few blocks away and walked to and from our facility.”

Dupree could understand her motivation. It made perfect sense. “Last question—and this may sound odd—but do any of your employees shave their heads?”

Mason stroked his chin in a contemplative way. “There are a couple guys on their way to baldness, but no one here is completely bald.”

“Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with us,” Dupree said. She handed him a business card. “Please contact me if you think of anything else that might help our investigation.”

“Sure thing, Detective.”

Dupree and T.J. were about to exit Mason’s office when they heard him say, “Wait a minute. Something just occurred to me.”

The two detectives did a perfectly synchronized about face as if they were performing a drill in boot camp.

“I don’t know if this has any bearing on anything, but about a month ago, Lauren fired an employee named Maggie Hansen, one of our senior research scientists. She’s a southern gal with a little attitude. But other than Lauren, nobody at Horizon understood the research project as thoroughly as Maggie did. Now I’m not suggesting that this woman killed Lauren, she certainly didn’t seem capable of something like that, but there was quite a blowout when Lauren fired her. So much so, that Lauren had to call security to escort Maggie out of the building. As Maggie was leaving, she yelled something like, ‘You haven’t seen the last of me, bitch’. I don’t know if it means anything, but I thought you should know.”

“Would you happen to have Maggie’s address?”

Mason typed something on his computer, waited a minute, then wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to Dupree. “I hope you find whoever is responsible for Lauren’s death. He not only killed
her
, but potentially killed millions of cancer patients worldwide.”

“So what do you think?” Dupree asked T.J., as she slipped the key into the ignition.

“Well, it seems that whoever murdered Dr. Crawford had it timed perfectly.” T.J. flipped down the visor and checked his bloodshot eyes. “If what Dr. Mason said is true—that Dr.
Crawford rarely worked from home—then somebody was tipped off that she would not only be carrying her computer and external hard drive, but that they would contain every piece of research data downloaded from the secure server.”

“A little too coincidental,” Dupree said. “Someone on the inside has dirt under their fingernails.”

“Dr. Mason?”

“Well, he sure is in the thick of things. And he did mention that he has an equity position in Horizon. We need to complete a thorough background check on him. I’d like to know if there are any criminal records, malpractice lawsuits, ugly divorces, or significant debt. And I really would like to know who he hobnobs with. Maybe this Maggie Hansen can fill in a few blanks.”

“Before we track her down,” T.J. suggested, “why don’t we check out Dr. Crawford’s place first? We’re driving to Brooklyn anyway and Park Slope borders Prospect Heights.”

“Nice thought, but the search warrant hasn’t come through yet. So unless you’re into breaking and entering…”

“Hey, it’s worth a try, no? Let’s kill two birds with one stone.”

“Okay,” Dupree said. “I’ll bet you a cold brew or cocktail of your choice that we don’t get into Dr. Crawford’s apartment without a warrant.”

“I’ll take that bet.”

Dupree grabbed a folder from the backseat and leafed through the pages. She entered Dr. Crawford’s address into the police department issued GPS. As soon as the woman’s voice started barking driving instructions, she merged into traffic. The voice on the GPS directed Dupree to the Sheridan Expressway south to the Bruckner Expressway.

It was a cloudy day in New York and the humidity seemed like it was flirting with 100%. Dupree wanted to remove her suit jacket, but felt certain her silk blouse was soaked with perspiration. Sweat
stained armpits weren’t exactly the image she wished to portray. And of course, there was also the ongoing desire to conceal her bountiful “gifts” from God.

When they arrived at the apartment building, a freakishly tall doorman, dressed in a navy blue uniform and an official-looking hat that made him appear to be an admiral in the Navy, hustled toward the front door and opened it for the detectives. He seemed about ten pounds away from looking like a stick person.

“Good afternoon folks.” He gave them a thorough onceover and Dupree figured he was trying to remember if they looked familiar. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Dupree flashed her badge. “We’re New York City homicide detectives and we need entry into Dr. Lauren Crawford’s residence.” She glanced at her folder. “Apartment 22C.”

His pleasant and welcoming look turned sour. “Such a terrible tragedy. Dr. Crawford was a lovely person.” His eyes glazed over with tears. “Let me put you in touch with the building superintendent.”

The doorman strolled over to a small table, picked up a telephone, and dialed a number. Dupree strained to hear the doorman’s half of the conversation but could only make out every third or fourth word. He returned with the same sour face.

“Mr. Cardone will be down in a few minutes.” He pointed to an ornate bench with a padded seat cover that looked like velvet. “Please make yourselves comfortable.”

As the doorman walked away from them, Dupree whispered in T.J.’s ear, “Looks like a piece of furniture from Buckingham Palace.”

“Someone working here must be related to Prince William,” T.J. added.

About to sit down, the elevator opened and a well-dressed, distinguished looking mid-fifties’ man made his way toward them. His full head of black hair didn’t have a trace of gray—not
even at his temples. Grecian Formula had done a fine job, Dupree thought.

“My name is David Cardone,” he said in a formal fashion. “I’m the building superintendent. What can I do for you, Detectives?” He didn’t offer a handshake and had an air of arrogance about him that made Dupree feel that he had much more important things to do than speak to a couple of nosey detectives.

Dupree wondered why the superintendent seemed so inhospitable. They were cops, not auditors from the IRS.

Dupree and T.J. showed him their badges and police IDs. “We’re conducting a homicide investigation and need access to Dr. Lauren Crawford’s apartment,” Dupree said.

“What a shocking incident,” Cardone said, shaking his head. “Dr. Crawford was one of my favorite tenants. At Christmastime she would give gifts to our entire staff and somehow she never forgot a staff member’s birthday. Such a tragic loss.” For an instant, Cardone’s demeanor softened, but his face quickly returned to an unfriendly scowl.

“It would help us a great deal if you would let us into her residence,” T.J. said, repeating the request.

“Of course. I’d be more than happy to assist you. May I see your search warrant, please?”

Dupree and T.J. eyeballed each other.

“You
do
have a warrant don’t you?” Cardone asked.

“We’ve already requested one,” Dupree said. “And the judge should sign it in the next day or so. However—”