Bad Medicine Read online

  He drove carefully to the vicinity of his chosen victim’s home, which was in a sparsely populated area of Wells. The home of Mrs. Emily Weston, who was sixty-three years old, worked at an Italian restaurant in York, and gave a cousin in New Hampshire as her emergency contact.

  When he neared his destination, he pulled off the road and left his car in a parking lot that seemed to be used by hikers. Then he walked half a mile along a wooded road, passing two other houses before he reached his target. The driveway was empty and the house was dark, so he went up to the front door and rang the bell. He was carrying a brown cardboard box—if anyone was home, he’d just be a UPS driver who’d gone to the wrong address.

  No one answered the bell, so he knocked loudly. When there was still no answer, he used his lock pick to let himself in. Then he paused and waited. This was the tricky moment, there’d be no good way of explaining himself if someone suddenly appeared. But that didn’t happen. He was alone.

  The house was a small ranch. Two bedrooms, one of which appeared to be a guest room. The one that was in use had an attached bath, and a bottle of pills with an MTRI label was sitting on the counter. What could be easier? Even better, there were only three pills in the bottle.

  He removed one of the capsules from the bottle and emptied its contents into the toilet. Then he refilled the capsule from the vial of white powder in his pocket and replaced it in the bottle. The label said to take one of the pills each morning.

  Mrs. Weston would have the bad luck of starting one of the next three days by taking the wrong capsule.

  10

  Karen took off before eight on Monday morning, in time for her to make a ten o’clock meeting back at FBI headquarters in Chelsea. My plan was to spend today and tomorrow making the rounds of the MTRI faculty members, including Gelman and Heller but the others as well. Just a series of informal visits so that I could introduce myself and chat with each of them about their work and whatever administrative concerns they might have. Most of those conversations would undoubtedly include the two pending tenure cases, but you never knew what else might be going on. Unless you asked.

  Anna greeted me with an open box of Congdon’s donuts when I got to the institute. “Happy Monday,” she said, as I thanked her and carefully selected an apple fritter. I remembered Congdon’s from when Karen and I were here last summer. They were a Wells institution, and I had no argument with their claim to serving America’s best donuts.

  Another pleasant surprise greeted me when I opened the door to my office. There was a rubber plant in the corner next to the conference table, a clock hanging opposite my desk, and two paintings of shorebirds on the walls. I recognized one as the sandpipers I was familiar with from Wells Beach and was examining the other when Anna came in behind me.

  “Piping plovers,” she said. “Could you tell?”

  I gave her a grateful smile. “I recognized the sandpipers, but I wasn’t sure about these guys. They’re endangered, but they nest on the beaches here, right? Thanks for doing all this, it looks great.”

  She beamed at the praise. “My pleasure. It needed something. Is where I put the clock okay?”

  “Yep. Just right for me to look at when a meeting’s running too long and I need to give someone the signal that time’s up.”

  She grinned. “That’s what I figured. Speaking of meetings, Dr. Gelman is scheduled to come in at two this afternoon. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  “Thanks, I’m good for now. I’m going to spend a few hours going around the institute and introducing myself to some of the faculty. Just dropping by their offices for informal chats with whoever has time.”

  ***

  It was one thirty before I got back to my office. Just enough time to review Carolyn Gelman’s file once more before our two o’clock meeting. My tour had connected me with seven different faculty members. Back-to-back meetings with that many people was exhausting, but it had been worthwhile. Not only could I start putting names together with faces and personalities, but I’d gotten a preliminary sense of how people felt about the Heller and Gelman cases.

  As I’d expected, nobody had any question about Heller. The universal opinion was that he was a superstar and a sure bet for tenure. On the other hand, my new colleagues’ views on Gelman were decidedly mixed.

  Three of them, two men and one woman, were strongly opposed, with opinions similar to what I’d heard from Carlson. In their views, Gelman was a poor colleague who refused to participate in institute activities. They thought her work was potentially interesting, but still very preliminary. It was clear that at least two of them were strongly influenced by Carlson in reaching that conclusion. Ann Osborne—the woman who’d aggressively questioned Gelman at her seminar—made Carlson’s influence abundantly clear when she asked if I’d been at the seminar. When I responded affirmatively, she said, “Then you heard what Carlson thinks. If he doesn’t trust her work, neither do I.”

  Two others were solidly in Gelman’s corner. While acknowledging that Heller’s case was stronger, they felt that Gelman did good work and was above the bar for promotion for tenure. They wanted to support her, as long as doing so wouldn’t jeopardize Heller’s chances—which I assured them it wouldn’t. When I asked what they thought about Carlson’s criticism of her work, one just rolled his eyes and said, “Not much.” The other was a bit more expansive. “Carlson’s coming at this from two sides, both highly prejudicial,” she said. “On the one hand, Heller’s his golden boy. On the other, he’s a misogynist who thinks women belong at home. Not in science. Thank God there aren’t many like him left. At least not as many as there used to be.”

  The remaining two were on the fence. They acknowledged but were willing to overlook the fact that Gelman wasn’t a great colleague. However, they didn’t know what to think about her work. It seemed fine as far as they could tell. But if someone like Carlson didn’t trust her, how could they have the confidence needed to support promotion to tenure? They wanted to hear what people had to say at a full faculty meeting before reaching a decision.

  With this kind of split in the faculty, the meeting to discuss and vote on the two tenure cases would be critical. I was glad that I’d postponed it. Carlson would obviously play a strong role, and I needed to be prepared to provide whatever counterbalance was necessary to keep the proceedings fair.

  But first, I needed to figure out where I stood. And the next step—talking to Gelman—was about to happen.

  Anna knocked on my door a few minutes before two. Good; Gelman was right on time. I stood up to greet her and told Anna to show her in.

  “I’m sorry,” Anna said. “She just called. She’s not coming.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. Was she crazy? What in hell was she thinking to blow off a scheduled meeting with her new director?

  “She sounded pretty frantic,” Anna continued. “One of the patients in her trial got terribly sick and has been rushed to the emergency room. Dr. Gelman’s gone to the hospital to be with her.”

  I calmed down. She would naturally be concerned about an emergency involving one of her patients. But cancelling a meeting with me, especially one that could be key to her future, didn’t fit the picture of Gelman as a cold self-centered woman that her colleagues had painted. I wondered if she was genuinely worried about her patient, or if her concern was a more selfish focus on how an unexpected complication would impact her trial…and her obviously faltering bid for tenure.

  There was one way to find out. Which might give me more insight into Carolyn Gelman than I’d get from a formal meeting.

  “What hospital are they at?” I asked.

  “York Hospital, why?”

  I’d seen signs for it on US 1, a few miles south of Ogunquit. Maybe a fifteen- or twenty-minute drive.

  “I’m going to go find Gelman there. See if she needs anything.”

  I started to leave, then had an afterthought. “What’s the patient’s name? I’ll need it to locate them in the ER.” />
  “Emily Weston,” Anna said.

  11

  I headed south on US 1 through Ogunquit to York, where I turned off just before the entrance to I-95 and made my way to York Hospital. It was located on a street called Loving Kindness Way, which pretty much epitomized the hospital’s atmosphere. Rather than the towering structures of hospitals in Boston, York Hospital was a two-story brick building with the welcoming look of a country inn. Inside the main entrance, I was greeted by a smiling woman at a concierge desk. When I said that I was looking for a patient recently admitted to the emergency room, she asked for the patient’s name and then directed me across the hall to a softly lit waiting room that featured a large fish tank and Maine coastal seascapes on the walls.

  In contrast to the frenetic crowding in the emergency rooms I’d visited before, there were only two people there, sitting on opposite sides of the room in comfortable-looking overstuffed chairs. I recognized one of them as Carolyn Gelman. She was sitting rigidly straight, staring blankly at the entrance to the ER across from her. Worry was written all over her face.

  I went over and introduced myself. It seemed to take a moment for her to recognize my name. Then her eyes widened and she said, “Dr. Parker? What…what are you doing here?”

  I sat down next to her. “My admin told me that one of your patients became unexpectedly ill, and that you were here with her. I thought I’d come down and see if there was anything I could do to help.”

  Her eyes moistened and she gave me a tentative smile. “That’s so kind of you. I certainly didn’t expect you to do that. Thank you.”

  Since none of her other colleagues were here, I could see why she was surprised to see me. “I’ll be happy to do whatever I can. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “It’s Emily, Emily Weston. She was one of the first patients to start in my trial, around six months ago. And she’s been doing so well. Her cancer went into remission, and it’s stayed there. No sign of emerging drug resistance.” Her lower lip started to tremble and tears formed. “And now this.”

  Gelman didn’t seem like the hard-hearted bitch her colleagues had described to me. I reached over and tentatively squeezed her arm. “I’m so sorry. What’s happened?”

  “I apologize for breaking down like this.” She paused and took a deep breath. “She said it started with nausea and vomiting around eleven this morning. Then she started having severe stomach pains. She said they got worse and worse until she couldn’t stand it anymore, at which point she called 911. They sent an ambulance and brought her here, which is when they called me. She’s also having trouble breathing now, and they’re not sure what’s going on. Food poisoning maybe. They’re going to admit her and get her into a room shortly.”

  “I hate to ask this, but do you think it could be drug toxicity?”

  “I don’t know. Obviously, I’m terrified of that.” Her hands started trembling again. “She’s such a nice woman, I feel terrible. But it seems odd—she hasn’t had any side effects until this. Why so suddenly? And so severe?”

  I tried to be reassuring. “Don’t blame yourself. If she hasn’t had previous problems, it’s probably not the drugs. Food poisoning sounds more likely.”

  She tried to smile, but it didn’t quite come off. “You’re very kind.”

  She didn’t say it, but I was pretty sure that being treated kindly wasn’t something she was used to.

  “Can I get you anything?” I asked. “Coffee or something to eat?”

  “Thank you, but I don’t want anything. I’ll just stay here, at least until her cousin comes. That’s her emergency contact, he lives in Concord, New Hampshire.”

  “I can stay with you, if you’d like.”

  There were tears in her eyes again when she looked at me. “That’s really very nice of you. But you don’t have to; I’ll be all right. My husband’s managed to leave work early to pick up the kids and feed them tonight.”

  “All right.” I wrote my cell phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to her. “Keep me posted, and don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything I can do.”

  She managed another weak smile as I left, hoping that I’d been able to offer some comfort. I’d learned a lot from the visit. My take was that Carolyn Gelman was sensitive and empathetic, far from being the self-centered bitch her detractors portrayed. And from her evident surprise at my attention, she was also a woman who seemed unused to anyone offering support. I wondered if that applied to her husband, as well as to her colleagues. There was something about the way she said that he’d take care of the kids tonight that made it sound like that didn’t happen often. If that were true and she bore the brunt of responsibility at home, she’d have no choice but to keep a rigid schedule and a clear sense of priorities at work.

  The woman at the reception desk smiled as I passed her on my way out. “How’s Mrs. Weston doing?”

  “I’m afraid we’re not really sure,” I said. “I believe they’re moving her to a room now.”

  “So sad. She must be a nice woman, to have so many people worried about her. You, that sweet Dr. Gelman, and now her brother just called. He sounds like a nice man.”

  That seemed odd. Carolyn had said that the emergency contact was a cousin.

  “Don’t you mean her cousin?” I asked.

  “No, her cousin called earlier. This was her brother, said he lives nearby in Sanford. It was odd, though, he didn’t sound like a Mainer. He had a funny accent.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t really know. Maybe Russian. I’m from New York; I used to go to a Russian restaurant there.”

  A brother with a Russian accent who wasn’t the emergency contact? Weird. I’d have to remember to ask Carolyn about him.

  12

  Tuesday was the first morning I woke up alone in the Drakes Island house. Well, alone except for Rosie. It took a minute for me to get oriented before I shuffled into the kitchen to make coffee and let Rosie out into her yard. Then I took my coffee out to the deck and started checking email.

  A message from Carolyn was already waiting.

  Thanks again for your support yesterday. I really appreciate it. My patient is stable this morning, but now complaining of pain in her feet. Still having trouble breathing. I’m going to go back to the hospital soon. Can we reschedule the meeting we were supposed to have yesterday?

  I thanked her for the update and told her that I was going to be in Boston for the rest of the week after today, but Anna would be in touch to reschedule. In the meantime, I added, don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything.

  That left the day open for more visits with MTRI faculty, including Mark Heller, whom Anna had scheduled to meet with me in my office this afternoon. I wanted formal meetings with him and Carolyn as tenure candidates, rather than the casual drop-ins I was doing with the other faculty members. Except for Tom Carlson, with whom I’d already spent more time than I wanted to.

  Unfortunately, that’s who was sitting in my outer office when I got to MTRI. Anna looked apologetic, but Carlson was on his feet as soon as I opened the door. “Sorry to intrude, but I need a word with you. It’s somewhat urgent.”

  The lack of any kind of pleasantry was notable but not surprising, given our last meeting. I remained equally aloof as I let him into my office and sat behind my desk, indicating that he should take a chair across from me. “What’s on your mind?”

  “I’ve heard that one of the patients in Gelman’s trial is acutely ill. It sounds like severe toxicity. I’m bringing it to your attention so that you can terminate the trial immediately.”

  “I’m aware of the situation, and I’ve spoken with Gelman. It’s not clear what’s wrong with the patient; it may simply be food poisoning. Gelman says that the patient has been in the trial for six months and has been doing well, with no side effects. I don’t see any reason to assume this is drug toxicity.”

  Carlson’s eyes flared. “I heard that the patient presented with severe nausea and vomiting. Y
ou don’t see any reason to think that’s drug toxicity? What more classic side effects of cancer treatment could you be looking for?”

  “I understand, although those problems are much less common in patients like Gelman’s who are receiving targeted therapies rather than standard chemotherapeutic drugs. And again, this particular patient has been taking the same drugs without a problem for months.”

  He turned red and rose out of his chair to lean over the desk. “Bullshit! I don’t understand why you’re defending her. Your duty is to the institute, which means protecting our patients and reputation. You need to shut Gelman down before she kills somebody.”

  I struggled to control my temper as I got up to face him. “Why do I feel like you have an ulterior motive here? What do you have against Gelman that warrants this kind of behavior?”

  “I just want you to do your damn job!”

  “I intend to. By seeing that all of our faculty are treated fairly and objectively.” I sat back down and turned my attention to some papers on my desk. That failed to make him disappear, so I looked up after a while and said, “You can leave now.”

  He stomped out, slamming the door even louder than he had after his last visit. It was getting to be a habit.

  ***

  I’d completed my rounds of most of the remaining faculty members by the time I was scheduled to meet with Mark Heller. Their views of Carolyn Gelman were pretty evenly divided, mirroring what I’d heard the day before. Somewhat surprisingly, the news about her stricken patient had traveled fast. Several of the people I talked to asked me about it, and two of them echoed Carlson in suggesting that I shut down the trial—albeit less venomously. They seemed satisfied with my explanation for why I didn’t think the patient’s illness was drug toxicity and let the matter drop. Still, I was left with a lingering sense that they didn’t really believe me and were just waiting for the next piece of bad news.