W Is for Wasted (35 page)

I peered in Henry’s screen door and saw him standing at the counter, unloading groceries. I tapped. He leaned over and unlatched the door so I could let myself in. He said, “Have a seat. I’m almost done.”

I found myself peering down the hall. “Where’s Anna?”

“Out looking for work.”

“Enterprising of her. What’s she have in mind?”

“I’m not sure. She went through the classified ads and circled five or six possibilities. Two were downtown, so I told her she could borrow the station wagon.” He sat down. “You’re not big on cousins.”

“Not that one, at any rate,” I said. Ed appeared and hopped up into my lap, the little suck-up. I was sure he was just as attentive to Anna behind my back. I rubbed his ears so he’d like me better than her.

Henry said, “I haven’t seen you since Dietz arrived. I’m looking forward to catching up.”

“Too late. He’s gone again. He took off this morning with his son Nick . . .” I could tell from Henry’s expression, he’d forgotten Dietz had two sons.

While Henry emptied the last brown paper bag and put canned goods away, I took a few minutes to refresh his memory. That recital segued into an account of the latest developments in the drama that had begun to unfold three nights before in my argument with Dietz about Pete.

By the time Henry joined me at the table, I’d skipped from the subject of Pete Wolinsky to Aaron Blumberg’s report about Dace’s death. I also filled him in on the charts I now had in my possession. I reached into my shoulder bag, removed the pill bottle, and put it on the table. “Those are the pills Dace took that he swore were making him sick. Check out the doctor’s name.”

Henry picked up the bottle and read the label through the clear plastic wrap. “Linton Reed was Dace’s doctor?”

“Looks that way.”

“Doesn’t that beat all?”

“I don’t know if it means anything or not. Probably not.”

We tossed the subject around to see what made sense. Like me, Henry was puzzled by the odd crossroads where Terrence Dace’s death intersected Dietz’s surveillance of Linton Reed and Mary Lee Bryce. “There almost has to be something going on there,” he said.

“You think? I can’t decide. It could be just what it looks like: Dr. Reed supervised Terrence Dace’s participation in the drug study and he’s also Mary Lee Bryce’s boss. Big deal.”

Henry said, “Put it that way and it doesn’t seem so strange.”

“Then again, according to Dandy and Pearl, Dace was scared to death of the man.”

“Has anybody else confirmed all this talk of Dace going downhill?”

“Just Dandy and Pearl.”

“You think they’re reliable?”

“If you’re asking if I believe them, I do. They may drink a lot, but they don’t make things up. He must have been getting sicker or he wouldn’t have died.”

Henry weighed the matter. “Maybe.”

I thought about that for a moment. “What’s that word for things that happen at the same time?”

“Synchronicity. Eight across in a crossword puzzle two days ago,” he said. “Which is an instance of synchronicity.”

I laughed. “That’s right.”

“Carl Jung came up with it. He didn’t believe in random events. He believed in a deeper underlying reality.”

“And I believe in the Easter Bunny. How deep is that?” I said. “You have any cookies? I tend to think better when I’m hyped on sweets.”

Henry got up and removed a cake tin from the cupboard. He placed it on the table and opened the lid. “Spice cookies. New recipe and one of my better efforts.”

I ate a cookie and then said, “I mean, what if Dace was right and the pills made him sick? As Pearl points out, he was only fifty-three years old, which makes death a bit premature, don’t you think?”

“I guess you could ask Dr. Reed.”

“Oh, right.”

“I’m serious.”

“Don’t think so. If he had a problem with Dace, he’s not going to tell me.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to ask.” When he saw the look I was giving him, he said, “I’m playing devil’s advocate.”

“I can’t go hunting him down to quiz him about Dace. He doesn’t know me from Adam. Even if I talked my way into his office, he could say anything . . . medical gobbledegook . . . and I wouldn’t know the difference. How would I explain why I’m so interested in this stuff?”

“You could ask about the program. Tell him how much you appreciate what he tried to do for your dear departed cousin.”

“Oh, please. I know I’m a good liar, but I’m not that good.”

Henry held up a finger. “But as you so often say to me, you want to be good at lying, it’s practice makes perfect.”

“I practice,” I said crossly.

“The point is, for all you know, this is a case of bungled communication. Maybe Dace misunderstood. Maybe he got the dosages mixed up. Some doctor explains what he’s prescribing and half the time you tune him out. That’s why the pharmacist goes over it with you a second time when you pick up the medication.”

I made a noncommittal response to indicate I wasn’t quite buying it until I had another cookie.

“How would I know if he’s telling the truth?”

“How do you know anyone’s telling the truth? You listen to what he has to say and then corroborate it with an outside source.”

“I love it when you come up with a big hot plan I’m supposed to implement. You talked me into Bakersfield and look how that turned out.”

“Then you’ll do it?”

“Possibly.”

Henry said, “Good. I’m glad that’s settled.”

“Anything else on your mind?” I asked. “You have that look like there’s more.”

“Anna. Regardless of how you feel, this is her father we’re talking about. I think she should be told what’s going on. If you don’t mind, I’ll bring her up to speed.”

“Just keep her out of my hair.”

•   •   •

I didn’t give a shit about Anna, but I had to admit he had a point in the matter of Dr. Reed. Dandy and Pearl thought he was treacherous, but that didn’t make it true. The idea of calling him made my palms damp. Knowing how much I didn’t want to make the call, I sat right down at my desk and went to work. Put off anything you don’t want to do and the avoidance becomes only more burdensome. It took me several tries to connect with his office. I started with St. Terry’s, asking someone in administration about the process by which patients with drug and alcohol problems were recommended for participation in experimental drug trials. That netted me a blank. I asked who might know and right away everyone pitched in, handing me off from person to person so as not to have to deal with me themselves.

The call was transferred from one department to another, which forced me to repeat myself. The rehearsal was doubtless good for me because by the time I’d been connected to the proper office in the Health Sciences Building at UCST, I’d told my tale so often I almost believed it myself. In point of fact, much of what I was saying was the truth, give or take. I simply embellished according to what I sensed might be persuasive to the person I was chatting with.

Within the first few words tendered by the department secretary, I was aware of her chilly manner, which didn’t sit well with me. This was the first impediment I’d come up against. Her telephone greeting consisted of her identifying herself and the department in a cadence so staccato it was off-putting in itself.

I had to roll right over her, infusing my voice with a wholly manufactured warmth. I said, “Hiiiii, my name is Kinsey Millhone. I’d like to set up an appointment with Dr. Reed, if I may.” I’d managed to stretch the word “hi” across two syllables and three musical notes.

There was a pause during which she marshaled her defenses, her job apparently being to ward off all who approached. “And this is in regard to what?”

“A family member died recently. This was Terrence Dace. I’m not sure if you’re familiar with the name, but I believe he was enrolled in a research study of Dr. Reed’s. I’d appreciate any information he’d be willing to share.”

Two beats of silence before she said, “Your name again is what?”

“Kinsey Millhone, with two L’s. Terrence Dace is my cousin. The rest of the family lives in Bakersfield and they’ve asked me to find out what I can about his last days.”

Whereas before, I’d hoped not to have to talk to Dr. Reed, I was now determined to get in to see him.

“I see,” she said. “Of course, I’m not sure Dr. Reed would be at liberty to discuss a patient currently in his care.”

“My cousin’s dead. He’s been in Jesus’s care for the past two weeks.”

That turned out to be a showstopper, so I went on. “I’m not asking about his
medical
problems. For heaven’s sakes! That would be his own private business, wouldn’t it? I want to know how he was doing . . . I guess you could say, spiritually. The family’s very religious. His daughter came all the way down here out of concern. I’m sure you can imagine how upset they were when he passed so unexpectedly.”

“I understand. Unfortunately, Dr. Reed won’t be in the office again until Thursday and I’m not sure he has anything available. I’d have to take a look at his calendar and he’s with someone at the moment.”

“Thursday’s fine. What time would work best for him?”

I’m sure she was panting to say that what would work best for everyone would be for me to fall in a hole and die. With palpable skepticism, she said, “It’s possible he has a nine o’clock appointment open, but I’d have to check . . .”

“Perfect. Nine on Thursday. I’ll be there. Thank you so much. I really appreciate your help.”

I hung up, which left her in the lame-ass position of not having my contact number so she could call me back and cancel.

I devoted all day Wednesday to my quest for a new car so I could off-load the old. I cruised used-car lots for much of the day, my search culminating in the purchase of a 1983 Honda Accord. This was a four-passenger four-door sedan, and I bought it for the following reason: I’d been to the same lot twice and hadn’t noticed it until the salesman called it to my attention. The car was boxy and plain, an unprepossessing dark blue; one owner, low mileage, with all of the service records stapled together in a manila envelope. The tires were so-so, but that didn’t bother me, as they were easily replaced. I paid thirty-five hundred dollars, which meant I’d picked up an extra fifteen hundred on the deal. My stars must have been in the proper alignment, because I had money coming at me at every turn.

By the time I returned home, it was too late to worry about completing the sale of the Mustang. The DMV was closed for the day. I called Drew and suggested we meet there in the morning, but he and his brother had plans for that day, so we postponed the exchange until the following Monday morning. He’d hand me five thousand in cash, I’d sign over the pink slip, we’d turn in the paperwork to the DMV clerk, and go our separate ways. Fine with me. I had other things on my mind.

Thursday morning, I struggled into a pair of pantyhose and then slipped on my black all-purpose dress, which I hoped would look properly funereal for my meeting with Dr. Reed. I’d jogged my three miles, of course, hoping to quash my anxieties. I had no reason to be afraid of him except that Dace had been afraid. Given our close family relationship, that was good enough for me.

Armed with my shoulder bag and car keys, I was just going out the door when the telephone rang. I didn’t want to stop and chat with anyone, but I did pause long enough to hear Ruth Wolinsky say: “Kinsey, this is Ruthie. I wonder if you could stop by today at your convenience. Nothing critical, but there’s something I’d like to discuss. No need to call in advance. I’m off work and I’ll be here.”

I locked up, already planning to swing by her house when I left the university. Ruthie’s tone was new to me; a touch on edge. She didn’t sound alarmed so much as puzzled. In the meantime, Henry and I hadn’t had a chance to strategize about my upcoming meeting with Dr. Reed, so I was running conversational loops in my head as I drove north on the 101 and took the exit road that led to the UCST campus.

At the information booth, I told the guard where I was going. He handed me a campus map and used his pen to circle the Health Sciences Building.

“What about parking?”

“The lot’s this gray area,” he said. “Have your ticket validated and you won’t have to pay the parking fee.”

I thanked him and drove on. I hadn’t been to the university for years and I was disconcerted by all the new buildings that had sprung up. Vacant lots were gone. A two-tiered parking structure had been razed and a five-story garage had gone up in its place; new dorms; a new student union building. I had my sheet map on the steering wheel, trying to get my bearings. I finally found the lot and pulled in, waiting while the dispenser buzzed and pushed a ticket through the slot. I took it and the gate arm swung up.

I grabbed the first place I spotted, then paused to check my teeth, hair, and makeup before I got out of the car. By makeup, I’m referring to the four passes with a mascara wand that had left a small black clot on one lash. I’d also applied lipstick, but that was already gone. Really, I don’t get the point.

The doors to the Health Sciences Building were open. Students strolled in and out, most of them in scanty clothing—tank tops and short shorts; lots of boobs, bare arms, and flat abdomens. Footwear seemed equally divided between flip-flops and thick-soled army boots. At least a hundred bicycles had been chained to a corral of fencing outside.

Once in the building, I rounded the corner to the elevators and checked a directory posted on the wall. The only clinic was on the ground floor. As I passed the entrance, I glanced in. Several students were seated in the waiting room. I walked on, keeping track of room numbers. Several clinic doctors had offices in the same wing, strung out on either side of the corridor. I found the administrative offices, where two secretaries and three clerk-typists were hard at work.

Linton Reed’s secretary, Greta, was away from her desk. I’d expected to announce myself, reminding her of my name and the time of my appointment, but her chair was empty and all the other women were intent on their computers. Her appointment book was open in plain sight, but today’s schedule was blank. I’d seen Dr. Reed’s name on a white laminated tag mounted on the wall as I’d come down the hall. I retraced my steps.

Dr. Reed’s door was open and I stepped into the anteroom. In the larger office beyond, he was seated at his desk, focused on a medical chart on which he was scribbling notes. He was left-handed, always of interest to me. I knocked on the door frame. “Dr. Reed?”

He looked up. “Yes?”

“Kinsey Millhone.”

When that didn’t spark a response, I said, “I’m your nine o’clock appointment.”

He seemed stumped by the news. He flipped a page or two on his desk calendar and then rose to his feet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I had anyone coming in. The secretary’s usually good about telling me.”

“Is this a bad time?”

“It’s fine. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask your name again.”

I said, “Kinsey. The last name is Millhone.”

We shook hands across the desk and then he gestured me into a chair. His grip was warm, quick, and firm. Nothing to complain about there. I’d taken an instant mental picture of him. Early thirties, with a full, open countenance, blue eyes, something close to a pug nose. Nice smile, good teeth, and a thick head of pale brown hair that was tinted with gold. Angled on his desk was a wedding photograph. There he stood, decked out in a tuxedo with a gorgeous young girl clinging to his arm. Judging by the sunlight, it was summer, but of course I couldn’t tell if it was the one just past or one previous. I recognized the gardens at the Edgewater Hotel, which was probably where they spent their first night before embarking on their official honeymoon. I propelled them like Ken and Barbie paper dolls, first to the south of France, then to Fiji. Then I pictured them in the Swiss Alps, flying down the ski slopes in expensive matching outfits. Did it snow midsummer in the Alps? I hoped so. Otherwise, their little paper legs would get all bent and torn.

The bride was slim and blond in a strapless wedding gown as tight as swaddling and a veil that had lifted in the breeze. She, too, was all blue eyes and honey. Everything about her spoke of money, including her wedding and engagement rings, which were clearly visible—diamonds too large and too numerous to miss.

I realized Dr. Reed was waiting for me to speak. I was at a disadvantage in that I was anticipating him, but he had no idea I’d be coming in to speak with him. I gave his secretary high marks for retaliation. She’d put me in the position of having to explain myself while I was hoping she had paved the way for me by blabbing my business in advance.

“I’m sorry to catch you off guard,” I said. “I had a nice long chat with your secretary Tuesday, which is when she made the appointment. She sounded like she was right on top of things . . .”

I let my voice trail off briefly and gave him an eloquent look expressing my sympathies that he was at the mercy of someone incapable of so simple a task.

His smile was perplexed and his shrug didn’t amount to much. “I’m not sure what went wrong. She’s usually efficient.”

I said, “Ah, well. I know your time is limited so I’ll tell you why I’m here.”

“No rush. I have the morning free. What can I help you with?”

He seemed so relaxed and confident, I became curious what would happen when I mentioned Terrence Dace.

“I was hoping to talk about my cousin, who died week before last. I believe he was enrolled in a study you’re running, but I’m not sure if you’ll remember the name.”

“There are only forty participants in this phase of the study and I know most of them well,” he said. “If this is Terrence you’re referring to, I should tell you how sorry I was to lose him. Aaron Blumberg called as soon as he learned he’d been under my supervision.”

“I’m glad you spoke to Aaron. I was worried I’d have to start from scratch and explain everything. I know you can’t discuss my cousin’s health issues . . .”

“I don’t know why not. Aaron said he’d already gone over autopsy and lab reports with you, so you know about as much as I do at this point.”

“Well, I doubt that,” I said. “I have questions, but I don’t want to violate doctor-patient privilege.”

“I knew Terrence primarily in my role as researcher. I wasn’t actually his doctor if it comes right down to it. I can’t claim we had any long heart-to-heart talks, but I know he was a smart and talented man. Take a look at this.” He leaned to one side, opened his desk drawer, and removed a four-by-six-inch folio that bore Dace’s characteristic printing style, neat and uniform. He handed it across the desk.

“Roadside Plants of Southern California.” Like the other folios he’d done, the small hand-bound booklet was no more than sixteen pages. I smiled as I leafed through it. Some of the illustrations were done in pen and ink, and some in colored pencil; chokeberry bushes, wild cucumber, saltbush, and a plant called
Nolina
parryi
identified by name. There were thirty or forty more. Each delicate drawing was accompanied by a brief description. “He gave you this?”

“I asked if I could borrow it. I don’t think he meant me to have it on permanent loan. You can take it if you like.”

“I would. Thanks. He left one of these to each of his children—different subjects, of course. I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but he was estranged from his family when he died. One of the reasons I came in was in hopes of taking away something that might soften the blow.”

“I knew his personal history through his group-therapy sessions. I think part of what motivated him was his deep shame at what went on in the past. I’m not sure how much of his struggle you were party to.”

“In all honesty, we never met. I found out we were related through a complicated set of circumstances, but he was gone by then.”

“He was a lost soul and I wish we’d done better by him.”

“When did he enroll in the study?”

“Might have been March. He was hospitalized for acute alcohol poisoning. The social worker referred him after he’d been through detox and rehab. This was meant as long-term support.”

“So you felt he would benefit?”

“That was the hope. Do you know anything about the study?”

I shook my head, not wanting to interrupt the flow. He was already more forthcoming than I’d had reason to hope.

“We’re looking at the use of three drugs in combination, one of which, Glucotace, we’re especially interested in. When Terrence came into the program, we explained we were running a random double-blind study and couldn’t guarantee which group he’d be assigned to. One group is given the drug. The control group receives a placebo.”

“That’s actually one of the questions I had for you,” I said. “He seemed to think the medication made him sick.”

Dr. Reed said, “So I was told. He was convinced he was on Glucotace. This was week one when we were barely under way. Fifty-fifty chance of it. Subjects aren’t told what medication they’re taking. Those of us conducting the study also operate in the dark. That’s what the term ‘double-blind’ refers to.”

“Really. You didn’t know what he was taking?”

“I do now. I’m not sure how familiar you are with research strategies. Since I designed the study and applied for the grant, I have a rooting interest in the outcome, as you might imagine. If we both knew he was on Glucotace, it might influence the questions I asked and the answers he gave. Even if I knew what he was taking and he didn’t, the outcome could be affected. We’re all suggestible in one way or another. A patient taking a placebo might actually get better because that’s the nature of the beast. What we believe affects our physiology. If we’re anxious, our heart rate goes up. If we feel safe, our respiration slows.”

“I’ve experienced that myself,” I said.

“In a clinical trial, our job is to render an unbiased account of test results. Some of this is based on blood work and other screening procedures, but some of what we track are the subjective reports from the patients themselves.”

“If he complained, would you have looked into it?”

“Of course. Absolutely. As you may know, Terrence did complain and we undertook a review. He was seen by three other clinic doctors, and all of us kept a close eye on his lab values and conducted regular physical examinations. If he’d suffered serious side effects, the symptoms would have surfaced.”

“So there weren’t any?”

“I wish I could reassure you, but he had a problem showing up for his appointments. Completely hit or miss.”

“Because of the medication?”

“This was a personality issue. We’re meticulous about outpatient monitoring, but we’re dependent on compliance. Without that, the numbers mean nothing.”

“Was he terminated or did he leave of his own accord?”

“We were forced to sever the relationship. We had no choice. I felt bad about it. He was a good man and we gave him every chance to straighten up. He couldn’t seem to manage it.”

“He had a friend named Charles Farmer.”

“I remember Charles. Same thing with him. He was another of those hard-core cases. Charles showed up for one of his exams so high, he could hardly stand. I have no idea what he was on, but I terminated him that day. Without reliable feedback, we might as well abandon ship. We can’t have patients taking meds we know nothing about. Even something as innocent as vitamins or nutritional supplements can skew results.”

“Were you alarmed that both men died within months of their enrollment?”

“Of course. That’s why I contacted the coroner’s office. I was concerned there was an underlying disease process hampering his recovery.”

“And was there?”

“Nothing any of us could pinpoint, including Dr. Palchek’s postmortem. Subjects aren’t always honest about their medical histories. A participant with unsuspected health issues could be at increased risk of an adverse event. We screen as rigorously as we can, but ultimately we can’t pick up every warning sign, especially if a patient is hiding something.”