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

  Gigi’s tires squeal as she runs the stop sign and races down the curves of One Wild Place past the zoo. I hear a roar. “Hey, Gigi, Errol always told me that he could hear the lions roar from his house. Did you just hear that? It sounds like...”

  She looks at me, and I stop talking. I hear a woman scream, but, before I can react, Gigi quells me sharply, “It’s a peacock, Brie.” Errol told me about those too.

  At Butler Street, Gigi turns left, heading away from the bridge. “It’s quicker,” she states as she swerves into the Bailey Creamery, screeching to a stop. “We can walk down to the river from the ice cream place, right here,” and she quickly exits the car.

  I was in this very spot last summer, licking a dripping ice cream cone while gazing out over the river. I ruined a nice blouse from chocolate stains. I can see the bridge to our right. I see flashing lights and barricades. They’ve closed the inbound lanes of the bridge, and there are three police cars, a fire engine, and a few other cars parked with flashing lights. One of them is Jim’s BMW; I see its silver sheen reflecting from a street light on the bridge. Something is swirling in the river below.

  Gigi starts down a set of steep stairs that plummet down to the river bank. This will put us just downriver from the lock. As we navigate down, I see that she has completed her black outfit with black leather tennis shoes, not her usual six-inch heels.

  I remember being on Errol’s boat, going through the lock and glancing back at the falls. The drop is not that far, maybe 10 feet, but it goes all the way across the river. When you are on a boat, above the lock, the river looks like a continuous level. It’s deceiving. You can’t see the drop. Once you get out of the lock and look back, you see the giant wall of water falling from one height to the other. I shudder and trip, falling to my knee. Getting up quickly before Gigi turns around, I continue down the stairs, rubbing my knee.

  As we arrive at the bottom of the path and make our way towards the river, I see a cluster of people on the shore. Matt and Jim are there. They probably came by way of the path from the bridge. As we walk towards the group, I hear the sound of the water crashing over the weir. The high-powered flashlights are trained on something in the middle of the whorl. It’s the “Random Scoot.” I recognize Errol’s boat even though it is half submerged.

  Jim greets us, “They can’t get the boat until it’s light. Soon I guess,” he says glancing towards the dawn trying to break through the clouds behind us. There’s a dog barking somewhere on the opposite shore of the river. Gigi frowns in its direction.

  Two uniformed policemen approach us. I’ve had no dealings with the police in Pittsburgh in the four years I’ve lived here. I haven’t even gotten a traffic ticket. I hear snatches of conversation as they approach. Something about a bob. Capturing the bob. Maybe they’re referring to the boat bobbing in the water? I wouldn’t describe it like that. I look at Errol’s boat. The engine is down and the boat is twirling in a sad, slow motion dance.

  The beefy policemen are pure Pittsburgh, I hear by their accents as they introduce themselves: “Officers Bill Ramping, Ramone Shyler.”

  A third form approaches, a woman police officer. She is short and slim. She introduces herself. “Hello; I am Officer Tania Aguiar.” Officer Aguiar rolls her r’s, but she’s easy to understand. We introduce ourselves.

  “Youse’re friends of the guy on the boat?” asks Officer Ramping. He waits expectantly.

  Jim responds, “Errol was our chief scientific officer. We’re all involved in a startup company together. Errol invented the technology that we’re bringing to market.”

  I see a wide smile on Officer Shyler’s face. “Oh yinz’r entreeeepreneurs!” he says drawing out the “e’s in the word. “My nephew’z at Car-Neggy Mellon,” he continues in a broad Pittsburghese dialect. “Yup, CMU ‘z where he’z studying entreeepreneurship!”

  Jim responds for all of us, “That’s great. We have quite a few alums.” The officers look at him. “Who went to CMU, Carnegie Mellon,” he explains. “Gigi here, and Brie,” he nods towards us. “I do some teaching,” he adds. “Of entrepreneurship.” Jim smiles at Officer Shyler. “Errol…” he starts, “the deceased, was at Centre, you know, Centre-Pittsburgh University, not CMU,” he trails off lamely.

  “Yes, that’s what we understand,” says Officer Aguiar, her r’s flowing like the current of a river. She frowns at Officer Shyler. “We talked with the wife, one Amy Prrrya…” she begins stumbling over the last name.

  Jim immediately interjects, “No one can pronounce that name.”

  The three officers chuckle among themselves. “Sir,” Officer Aguiar starts, “We see this all of the time. Someone is careless; they don’t see the warning signs, and they tumble over the falls. It is almost impossible to survive that. The whirlpool, as you see, is very powerful,” she says, the letter r swirling above our heads.

  “And usually dere’s al-co-hol involved,” Officer Ramping adds. “Why last summer we lost three fishermen out real early…”

  Officer Shyler interrupts, “Actually, I think they were out reeeel late.”

  Gigi inhales sharply. Matt lets out a choking sound. Jim clears his throat and says, “Officers, Errol was a very experienced boater and…”

  “Yes, Mrs., um Mrs. Errol, she told us that,” Officer Aguiar responds.

  Gigi says, “Errol was raised on a boat. He sailed all over the world. He has his Captain’s license, which is very demanding, and there is little likelihood…”

  “So, you knew him pretty well?” Officer Ramping asks, staring at Gigi. She looks at him like she might bite.

  “Yes, she knew him well,” Matt snaps. “We all knew him very well.”

  “I see,” Officer Shyler says. “This looks like either an accident or a natural cause. We gotta classify somepin like this as an N, A, S, H, or U. That’z Natural, Accident, Suicide, Homicide, or Undetermined,” he says, emphasizing the first letter of each word. “Thoze’er the letters, NASHU. Right now, we think that this here’z an N or A. If youse thinkin’ this is an S, we could consider that too.”

  “How would we know?” Matt snarls.

  “But he was under pressure; we know that.” Jim adds quietly.

  “OK, da S is in. We’ll add it.” Officer Ramping turns towards Shyler.

  Officer Aguiar dismisses her colleagues with an impatient wave. She turns to us, “I am very sorry, but these letters, the NASHU, they are classification categories. We have to classify the incident and to file a report. Of course, it does not mean that we know for sure. That comes later.”

  Jim says, “We don’t want to jump to conclusions.”

  “Riiight,” drawls Officer Ramping. “Look, we gonna put in the S, and we gonna keep da N and da A. Sometimes it’s both N and A. Know what I mean? But it can’t be N and A and S. See? N can include A, and A can include N, but S means it can’t be N or A. Sometimes it’s just U.” He shrugs his shoulders.

  Are they kidding? This is like “Who’s on First?” ’“What if it’s H?” I ask. I could feel six pairs of eyes on me. “Of course, I don’t really know…”

  It’s daylight now. A few rays of a cold March sun pierce through the wintery clouds. The dog is still barking like crazy across the river. The officers shift their feet.

  “The wife, Mrs. Errol, she can order an autopsy,” Officer Aguiar says. “She’ll have to talk to her husband’s physician first. To rule out, you know, any obvious conclusions.”

  “Like ‘he was a ticking time bomb, ready to go at any time,’ that kind of thing,” Officer Ramping offers helpfully. Gigi chokes back a snarl.

  Officer Aguiar rolls her eyes at us and continues. “If the physician gives the OK, that there is nothing that would cause a natural death – N – we can get the medical death investigator, the MDI, involved. She, because she’s a she in Pittsburgh, has to accept jurisdiction. That gets the medical examiner, the ME – and he’s a he – involved. If the ME accepts the case, then he does the autopsy.” She pauses and gives me a
smile. “We are still thinking it’s A or N, OK? Maybe S. But, if something turns up in the autopsy, then who knows? Let’s start with the physician. That’s what we told…” She looks at me, “the wife. We didn’t tell her about the letters.” Her consonants are lovely, the lithe r’s a distraction in the surreal dawn.

  “Spare her the acronym soup,” Gigi hisses through her teeth.

  Officer Shyler leans towards us. “Look it’z 7:30 and we gotta open up the bridge.” Officers Ramping and Shyler nod at us and start walking away. Officer Agiar hands us each a card and quietly says, “Call me if you need us.” She grins, and hurries to follow them.

  “Thanks so much, officers,” Jim calls out to the trio.

  “Jus’ doin’ our jobs iz all. Yinz’r welcome too,” Ramping tosses over his back.

  We’re left alone. I stare at the river. We see a tug. It’s an orange Coast Guard craft. The tug has lines to the “Scoot.” It takes a long time to get control of the boat, like she doesn’t want to go. But they have finally lassoed her. The tug drags her out of the vortex and downriver where the water is calmer. The convoy veers to the right and approaches Silky’s Marina on the other side of the river. The “Scoot” is riding low in the water, but her railing is just visible above the water line. She looks burdened and sad. I see one glimpse of her bright red hull in a ray of sunlight.

  Errol was proud of the “Random Scoot.” I remember the first time he took me out to explain the science behind Quixotic’s lead drug that he had invented. “Scoot’s my powerful lady, with 225 horses on the transom,” he told me as he patted her like a dog.

  “She’s lovely,” I had replied, admiring the shiny red hull. We went through the lock and motored downriver. By the time we returned, I understood exactly how the mechanism of our drug worked. I created a PowerPoint slide image shortly afterwards that captured the essence of what an investor would need to know about why the drug would work on patients who suffered from Huntington’s Disease.

  The “Scoot” has her stern to me as she is dragged away ignominiously. The barking dog is running up and down the bank on the other side of the river. The dog is jumping and barking at the boat. I am struck by a bolt of realization. “My gosh,” I shout. “It’s Luna. Errol’s beagle. Look!”

  “What the fuuuu…” Matt starts.

  “She’s right!” Gigi says excitedly. “That’s Luna!”

  “Luna must have been on board,” Jim reasons. “Well if the dog swam across the river then why the heck didn’t…” Jim doesn’t finish his thought, but we all have the identical insight.

  “Oh my God,” Gigi cries. I see tears running down her face.

  My mouth is open but nothing comes out. If Luna could swim out of the whorl, why couldn’t he? The water winks at me as the sun peeks through the clouds and then disappears. On the far bank, Luna starts to howl.

  Chapter 3

  June 11, six years before the incident

  Errol awoke with a start, the Voice still inside his head. He was in a cold sweat, but he could see the glimmer of sunrise out his bedroom window. Amy was peacefully asleep beside him. He heard Luna’s gentle snore at the end of the bed. He crept out of bed and stretched his long limbs.

  Standing by the window a few minutes later he heard the familiar roar – feeding time at the zoo. He chuckled at the sound. From his Highland Park house, Errol could hear the lions roar every morning. The Pittsburgh Zoo meanders its 77 acres up the hill towards the park, one end of which stretches to the end of his street, Sheridan Avenue. He heard a woman scream and smiled, recognizing the sound belonged to a zoo peacock.

  Errol glanced at the clock on his bedside table, but he knew exactly what time it was: 6 a.m. He woke every day at the same time for as long as he could remember, with the recurring nightmare on his mind. The Voice. He tried to be quiet as he was leaving the bedroom. “Shit,” he blurted as he stubbed his toe on the door jam.

  Amy stirred as she changed sides and pulled the covers closer over her. “Errol?” she pleaded sleepily.

  “I’m sorry, honey.” He tiptoed out the door. Luna jumped down from the bed, jangling her tags, and noisily bumped into Errol as she raced down the stairs.

  “Please!” Amy groaned, pulling the covers over her head.

  Bumped off balance, Errol nearly fell but caught himself on the railing, yanking a bracket from the wall with a loud squeak. He looked in dismay at the hole in the plaster and dust on the stairs. “Shit!”

  “Errol!” she cried.

  “It’s nothing, honey. Sorry.” He heard her snort with frustration and lapse back into silence.

  The sun’s first rays streamed into the kitchen as Errol brewed espresso, popped a piece of bread in the toaster, and walked out onto the deck. He fed the fish in the pond. “Hello Tom, Dick, and Harry,” he said fondly to the three goldfish who gulped the pellets floating on the surface. The cloudless sky was reflected in the water, broken only by the orange flecks of the fish as they darted around the pond that he had built. He thought of how perfect it was, their enclosed world. No stresses, no worries, just nibble the algae. “Shit.” He had fed them too much.

  He settled on a deck chair with his lab book and read over his notes. He was deep in the book when Amy walked out with a tray.

  “Good morning,” she said as she placed the tray down. “I couldn’t get back to sleep. You burned the toast, and your coffee is cold,” she said with a sigh. “I made a fresh cup.” She handed him the small white cup and planted a kiss on his forehead. She sipped from her cup.

  “Mmm, thanks,” he said, not listening and tipping his cup. “Oh piss,” he said as the coffee spilled.

  “I’ll get it,” she chuckled and went back inside for a sponge to mop up the spill. When she got back, he was sipping her coffee. “Honey, I have news.”

  She took her cup back. “What?”

  “I’m starting a company today,” he announced and reached back for her cup.

  She slammed the cup down on the table. “A company? Really? On top of everything else? Oh Errol.”

  As he mopped up her spilled coffee with the sponge, he pleaded with her. “I have to Amy. If I don’t form a startup and license my technology into it, all my work will be wasted. Look, you know that two years ago I discovered a drug that cures Huntington’s Disease. You know that it’s a condition for which there is no cure, no hope. I have to bring it to market, or it will never save a soul. My discovery will be meaningless.”

  “Couldn’t you just license it, Errol? You know, to a big…” she fumbled with her hands.

  “You mean pharmaceutical company?” he responded.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  Errol snorted through his long nose. “Pharma’s not interested until it’s less risky. I have to get it to the next level before they’ll take me – it – seriously. I have to de-risk it for them.”

  “That seems so petty. Can’t they take the risk? Don’t they have gobs of money?”

  “You’re right, of course,” he said stroking her cheek. “But they don’t take risks, not really. Later, when we’re further along, when we’ve done more testing and have results, they’ll pay a premium because we’ll have lowered the risk.”

  She raised her now empty cup with a frown. “There’s no stopping you, is there? You’ll do this no matter what?”

  Errol looked in her eyes, hoping that she would understand. “I have to.”

  “Why now?” She glanced upwards.

  He winced, thinking about the tousled teens upstairs: Sam, their son, and Ariel, their daughter. School was out. Amy had wanted to take a longer vacation this summer. Sailing. She knew that he longed for the sea. For years he had refused to take her to Greece, where he spent so much time as a boy. But he had promised her that they would go this summer.

  Errol shook his head. “It has to be now. It can’t wait.” They sat in silence, the sound of the pond’s waterfall in the background. Amy looked at her husband and sighed. “OK, Errol, I get it.” She smiled. “S
o, give me your pitch.”

  “I thought you’d never ask!” Errol launched into a rapid fire sequence, peering at her over his glasses like she was one of his students. “Huntington’s is a devastating, progressive, neuro-degenerative disease. HD, as it is known, is one of the most tragic of all nervous system disorders. The symptoms may start out as mild and unnoticeable, but inevitably they progress to complete nervous system failure. The end result of Huntington's is always death. There is no cure. Until today. My drug, HD66, offers HD patients – and their families – hope.”

  She picked up the tray. “It’s good. Who’s the team?”

  “Oh, Jim of course, and this great guy as CEO, Matt House. Gigi thinks we can raise money.”

  Amy frowned. “Gigi’s a part of this?”

  “Yup, the four of us as co-founders. We’re ready. It’s the perfect storm of opportunity. I have to jump. It’s now – or never.”

  Amy studied her husband. She stepped close to him. “I don’t mean to be selfish. The world needs this, right?”

  Errol clasped her to his chest tightly, and breathed in her smell, looking over her head at the sunlight piercing through the greenery that they had planted when they moved here 12 years ago. “I need you to understand.”

  “We can go sailing next year. For now, you go ahead and save the world,” Amy whispered as she reached up on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

  “It’s timing, you know,” he continued, oblivious to the caress. “That’s why it has to be now. The federal government sponsors research up to a point. But it doesn’t really support translational research.”

  “Yea, I know – getting from the benchtop to the bedside,” Amy said. “You’ve told me.”

  “Exactly. The White House – and Congress – figure that the private sector is responsible for that. So, I have to do this. If I don’t, the drug stays in the university lab. Great patent, great potential, but no product. You know how long it’s taken to get to this point?”