HD66: Search for a cure or a killer? Read online

  HD66

  search for a cure or a killer?

  by Babs Carryer

  © Copyright Babs Carryer 2016

  All rights reserved

  First edition

  ISBN-13: 978-1518766206

  ISBN-10:151876620X

  Cover art: Justine Carryer

  Preface

  Startups rise and fall like empires – some wildly successful, some quiet dreams. With 20 years’ experience in building and launching startup companies, I have participated in the dynamics of these macroscopic worlds. I realize that most people never have the opportunity to see biomedical entrepreneurship in action. The brilliance and tenacity behind successful startups flutter in a mirage of stunning, invisible creativity. I wrote HD66 to tell the story of a biomedical startup through the lens of my experience. I chose the genre of mystery because the intrigue of solving the crime maps perfectly onto the ups and downs of an early stage venture.

  The character of Brie is your guide to this world. Women are underrepresented in startup culture, and it was more effective for a non-scientist to walk the reader through the story. A few years ago I co-founded a group called “Women In Bio-Pittsburgh” to accelerate the inclusion of women in the life sciences, and the group has blossomed. I hope that my readers – especially women and STEM-oriented girls – see in HD66 the excitement (and pressures) of a dynamic and compelling world that needs them.

  Startup culture matters. It matters to researchers and investors, but most of all it matters to all of us. Research leads to breakthroughs. The more we understand the complexity of biomedical entrepreneurship, the better we can foster growth and discovery of new cures.

  Unweaving fact and fiction is a critical part of research, so to properly introduce the world of startups, I wanted to provide certain scientific realities and background for book group discussion and individual reader consideration. Huntington’s Disease is a devastating genetic ailment, of the family of neurological impairments including ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis) and Parkinson’s. Huntington’s has no cure. In a society where illness is the root of so much suffering, healing is the root of justice. If you accept that premise, then you will understand that startups are more important than ever.

  In this spirit – please enjoy the story.

  Disclaimer

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, actual companies, legal entities, organizations, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Chapter 1

  March 4

  Buzz! I shoot out of bed, afraid that the bees will get me. Shadows surround me. Buzz! Where are the bees? I look around. It’s my phone buzzing. I glance at the clock, 4:06 a.m. The caller ID tells me that it’s Matt House, Quixotic Pharmaceutical’s chief executive officer.

  I work for a startup. We work all kind of hours. Matt’s on the edge; as CEO he has to be. But I’ve never received a call from him in the middle of the night, early morning actually. Of course, Errol called me at all hours. “Matt, what’s up?”

  “Errol’s dead,” Matt barks.

  He can’t be serious. “What? But…”

  “This will fuck Quixotic,” Matt says gruffly. “I’m calling an emergency meeting. Now.”

  “But, what?” The line is dead. “Of course. On my way,” I say to nobody. What has just happened?

  Rain spatters on my window. My room is still dark, but my eyes have adjusted. I sense that it’s cold and gray outside. It’s almost spring, but winter has curled its fingers around the City of Pittsburgh and won’t let go. I know that the floor is cold. But I don’t feel my feet. I don’t feel.

  Pushing the thoughts away, I hurry to get dressed. “Shysta!” I stubbed my toe on the door jam. Limping, I race down the stairs of my Shadyside apartment.

  …….

  4:39 a.m.

  “Errol drowned. His boat went over the falls at the bridge. The lock falls.” Matt addresses us from the head of the conference room table. Our chief financial officer, Gigi Loft, stifles a scream. She’s standing, holding herself tightly around her tiny waist. She’s dressed in black jeans and a black sweater – cashmere I guess? No makeup, no jewelry. Her pale face is as naked as a face can be.

  Our board chairman, Jim Reichert, dressed in a suit, steps away from the wall with a grunt. He’s holding a tray with donuts and coffee, which he sets down gently. Where did he find donuts at this hour?

  The heating system of the former warehouse that is now our office creaks to life. No one moves; no one speaks.

  Errol is an experienced boater. He keeps his boat, the “Random Scoot,” on the river near the Highland Park Bridge. I’ve been on the “Scoot.” We’ve all been on her. Errol must have piloted her a hundred times through the lock. How could he have possibly gone over the falls?

  “What do we do?” I didn’t think I spoke aloud.

  Matt slumps into a chair and runs his fingers through his salt and pepper hair. “I don’t know. This is fucked, totally fucked.”

  Jim pushes the donuts to the center of the table and busies himself setting out cups. He opens a small bottle of Johnny Walker Black. I see shot glasses on the coffee tray. The golden liquid hitting the glass is the only sound in the room. Jim nods at Matt and hands him a cup of black coffee. Stirring sugar into a second cup, he hands it to Gigi who takes it without noticing. He pours cream into a third cup and walks over to me. How does he remember how we each take our coffee? He hands each one of us a full shot glass.

  I take my cup with a shaky hand. “Thanks,” I hear a high, frightened voice and realize it’s mine. Jim smiles sadly at me.

  Quixotic is our baby. For me, it’s more than a job. It’s personal. The clinical drug we are commercializing is my only hope. I need Errol!

  I glance around the room at the company’s leaders. We were one of the first to rent space in the formerly run-down neighborhood of East Liberty. The startup accelerator, UpWind, helped us secure the space. Errol was friends with the founder. UpWind is next door. Now, there are other startups. Coffee shops, bars, and restaurants have been popping up everywhere. We’ve thrived in the burgeoning startup environment in Pittsburgh. But this is too much. Can we survive?

  Sadness hangs in the silence like Spanish moss on an old tree. Gigi takes a deep, uneven breath and looks at Jim. She sits down at her laptop. “The ambulance chasers know already.” She starts to read:

  “Renowned scientist is found dead on a boat floating in the Allegheny River. The boat and its passenger apparently went over the lock falls just west of the Highland Park Bridge. Errol Leopold Pyrovolakis, MD, PhD, was a physician and scientist at Centre-Pittsburgh University’s Institute for New Diagnostics. Centre-Pittsburgh was founded in 1989 as a collaboration between the two research universities, Carnegie Mellon University and University of Pittsburgh, to focus on research and development in healthcare and information technology. Dr. Pyrovolakis was also chief science officer of local startup company, Quixotic, was pronounced dead upon arrival at St. Anne’s Hospital at 2 a.m. The boat, “Random Scoot,” is registered to Dr. Pyrovolakis. Fellow boaters from nearby marinas say that the “Scoot” was often seen out on the river. Dr. Pyrovolakis was “an avid fisherman and loved to spend time on his boat,” his wife, Amy, stated. Mrs. Pyrovolakis further said, “It was not unusual for my husband to go out alone at any time of day or night on the “Scoot.” In fact, Errol often came up with his best ideas on his boat.”

  Gigi looks up from her laptop. “Errol was born on a boat. Now he dies on one.”

  No one
speaks. This is terrible for her. Not only did she work with Errol at Quixotic but I recall that their relationship goes way back.

  The rain pounds against the windows. Not exactly boating weather. Jim munches on a donut. His broad face is furrowed with concentration. He swallows, clears his throat and says, “We have no idea what happened. We need to not panic or jump to conclusions. I know that we all are shocked by the suddenness of this tragedy. We share a deep sadness for which words do not do justice.” He asks us to pass a moment in silence “in honor and reverence to the great man.” In the harsh neon lights of the conference room, the loss is unbearable.

  Errol was the brains behind our company. His invention of a new drug to cure an incurable disease was at the core.

  Matt interrupts our thoughts, “We all loved Errol as a friend. We must not forget that. But right now we have to think about Quixotic. Brie, we need you to write a press release that minimizes the damage.” He looks like he might split open. He’s sweating and breathing very fast. Startups are stressful all the time. But this is past stress.

  Jim takes over, “Brie, remember that resource I sent to you on crisis management?”

  I remember the lunch where he lectured me on the topic of public relations in negative situations. It was one of our first monthly lunch and learns. They were fun. Jim taught me about entrepreneurship using examples from his own experience. Plus, the lunches were free. Jim always picked up the check with a laugh: “We lunch; I teach, but really it’s me that learns.”

  A few days later I saw a post in his “NewVenturist” blog related to our “learning.” I can only imagine the next one. My life in a startup.

  I know what I need to do. As manager of marketing and media for Quixotic, I’ve never been in an emergency like this, but Jim knows his stuff. He was an investigative journalist for over 20 years with The New York Times. He understands how bad press could hurt Quixotic. We have investors and corporate partners. Negative media coverage about Errol could hurt us. It could kill us. I wince at my thought.

  “On it.” I get up to go.

  “Wait,” Jim commands gently. “Before you start, let’s think through what might have happened.” He glances around at each one of us. “We have to consider all the possibilities. We don’t know the circumstances. We need to look at different scenarios. Just in case…” he trails off.

  “Good idea,” I say. “I’ll take notes.” Gigi frowns at me. I put down my pen. Or not.

  “This looks like an accident,” Jim says sadly. “I suspect a heart attack. He’s male, the right age…”

  “Bullshit,” Matt butts in forcefully. “Look, it’s possible. But, Errol’s in super shape. He’s so easygoing; he doesn’t feel stress like I do. A heart attack doesn’t make sense.”

  “No it doesn’t,” Gigi says quietly. She looks like she’s seen a ghost.

  “What does Amy think?” I ask, referring to Errol’s wife.

  “Amy told me that Errol had been acting ‘secretively.’ That’s the word she used,” Matt pauses awkwardly. “She’s not sure what was bothering him, but she thinks it has something to do with the lab. You know how he is. He obsesses over his inventions.” Of course he does. That’s what it takes.

  Jim grunts, “You know, Errol was up for tenure at the university. That’s a lot of pressure.” There is a long pause. Yes, but Errol thrived under pressure.

  Matt continues, “Plus, the NGX deal going sour and the clinical trial being pulled for our – sorry, for his – drug. That could shake anyone to their roots.” He was referring to NeuroGenex, which had licensed the drug to take it to the final stages of clinical trials and to the market. Recently, and unexpectedly, NGX had cancelled the deal. We had other options, but it was going to be difficult; we all knew that. Are they kidding? Do they think Errol would give up?

  “There might have been something else,” Jim states softly. “Maybe something happened between Amy and him?” He looks at Gigi.

  “Errol loved Amy,” I chime in, defensively. “And he was perfectly happy when I saw him yesterday. “Why, it’s absurd that he would pilot his boat over the falls. No matter what, Errol would have stopped that from happening. Look, if it’s not an accident, and it’s not suicide, then what happened?” All eyes turned to me. Gigi downs her glass of scotch in one noisy gulp.

  “Ah-hem,” Jim continues, ignoring me. “It’s got to have been an accident. He must have gotten distracted and then…”

  Matt says darkly, “I don’t think so. He hated the NGX guy. He hated that we had to take institutional money. You all know how he felt about our ‘so-called’ venture capital friends. Assholes,” he says bitterly.

  “He was particularly negative about the Russians,” I add, trying to be helpful.

  “The feeling was mutual,” Matt admits. “I don’t know who hated each other the most.”

  “Something might have been up in his lab, you said?” Jim asks, deep in thought. “What about his students, his colleagues? Maybe he was disturbed about something?”

  “Yea, who of us really knew Errol?” Matt asks miserably.

  “The hard things in life could get to anyone,” Jim announces.

  Gigi gulps for air. I hold my breath. They’ve got to be wrong. Errol would never do this.

  Stunned silence surrounds us, envelopes us, oozes into the room. I feel sick and grab the edge of the conference table. Jim takes a deep breath and reaches for another donut. “We don’t know what happened. Just imagine how amused Errol would be if he were here and heard us guessing…” I can’t believe my ears, but Jim just let out a low chuckle.

  …….

  5:30 a.m.

  We agree to split up. We’re to meet at the Highland Park Bridge. I stay in the office to draft the press release. Gigi, too. She urges me to hurry. We may be devastated, but, to the world, we have to pretend that his death will not adversely affect the company. I feel disloyal. “Don’t think about it too much,” Gigi warns me. “Get it done.” Her dark eyes bore into me.

  It is eerily quiet as I make my way down the hall to my office. The lab doors are dark. The street lights outside glare through the windows as I enter my office, leaving the door open. As I sit down at my desk and start to write, I hear a strange sound coming from the common room at the far end of the building.

  Buzz! I jump, thinking bees! I’m deathly afraid of them. I’m allergic. Brie, get a grip! It’s just Gigi calling me on my cellphone with a few additional pointers for the release. I focus and continue typing on my computer. I still hear the odd sound in the background. Steady, rhythmic. I save my draft, email it to Gigi and walk softly down the hall. I think of home, of my dad. The back of the office is like a den, with couches, television, old game consoles, and a ping pong table. I remember Errol thwacking the ball, acing us all in the last tournament. The sound is louder. Through the blackness, I see a figure on one of the couches. The sound is snoring. “Hello? Who’s there?” I ask.

  The form on the couch stirs and says in a heavy accent, “What, who? Oh, Brie. Yes, hello.”

  It’s Boris Zokshin. He’s one of our scientists who works for Errol. He’s Russian, I recall, although I can’t remember much else about him. Except that he introduced us to the Russian venture capitalists that Errol hated.

  “Hi Boris,” I say awkwardly. What’s he doing here?

  “Sorry, I here,” he responds in his thick accent, the vowels and consonants leaning together. “I no place to staying tonight.”

  “No worries, Boris,” I say brightly, pretending that it’s normal. “Quixotic had an early start today. Lots to do. See you later.” I leave him and return to my office wondering: Did he hear us? Does he know about Errol?

  I jump at the sound of my door opening. “Hey,” Gigi says. “I made a few corrections to your draft. Here it is,” and she hands me a sheet of paper with red marks. “Make the changes and then let’s go. I’ll get my coat and be back in a minute.”

  I revise the release and email it to my media contacts.
It’s official now. It’s public. I listen. No snoring. Creeping to the back, Boris is gone. I approach the sofa. It’s empty. I see something on the floor. Prodding it with my foot, I feel a small puddle of wetness. Water. Why?

  “Brie!” Gigi is calling me from her office. “Is it done? We have to go!”

  I duck back into my office for my coat. I can’t resist checking my voice mail. One message. It’s too soon for it to be a media contact. I punch the required password. My vision blurs for a moment as I recognize the voice. My heart pounds. It’s Errol. He sounds far away, there is background noise like a truck. I sit down and breathe for a minute before listening again. I repeat and hear the date and time. Last night 11:01 p.m. Oh my gosh, he called me just before…

  “Brie, I have something for you. Something important, relating to what we talked about. Too important for email. I can’t wait to tell you. No one else knows. I will leave it for safe keeping in…”

  The voicemail stops abruptly. The background noise cuts out. It was his engine, I realize. He called me from the “Scoot.” What did he have for me? He said it was important. He’s the only one who knows about my father. About me. He left it somewhere for safe keeping. Where? I have to find it!

  “Hurry up!” Gigi commands as she sweeps past my door. “Let’s go!”

  Chapter 2

  6:14 a.m.

  We’re in Gigi’s black Mercedes speeding up Highland Avenue. It’s still dark, but glimmers of dawn peek at us as we top the crest by the park entrance. The statues beckon like dark shadows. Below us snakes the Allegheny River like a sinister black ribbon. I remember that the “Allegheny” comes from “oolikhanna,” which means “best flowing river of the hills.” There is an Indian legend of a tribe called "Allegewi," who used to live along the river. I had googled all of this when I first arrived in Pittsburgh to get an MBA at Carnegie Mellon University.