HD66: Search for a cure or a killer? Page 4

  I gaze around at the lovely chapel. The building is a marvel of Pittsburgh gothic revival architecture. The light streams in through the floor to ceiling stained glass windows. The dominant color is blue – how appropriate. I was raised in cohousing, which I learned after I left was unusual. Our development was a cross between condominiums and a commune. Growing up, I never went to church. Maybe that’s why I’m fascinated now. The smell, the dark paneling, the lights – inside, it feels timeless and endless. Unlike why we are here. Errol, what happened to you?

  Jim gets up to deliver the eulogy. He’s a wonderful speaker. But he looks thin and strained. He looks older too. I guess we all do. I think about how I first got to know Jim.

  …….

  Quixotic started with Jim Reichert. He had formed a life sciences incubator called Cyteoff to create startups that would advance human health. I knew from my science undergraduate days that “cyte” meant cytology, the study of cells. He had explained, “Many of the most promising discoveries in the university lab never make it out to the patient. Oh, papers get published, but unless there is strong intellectual property and a desire to commercialize – by both the inventor AND the university – then the invention often sits there not helping anybody. I wanted to correct that and make money at the same time.” That was his pitch to me to join Quixotic at the interview that was not an interview.

  Jim’s background was journalism; for years he had written a weekly column about entrepreneurship in The New York Times called “Voice from the trenches.” He wrote a few books about entrepreneurship as well. They’re good. Jim teaches an entrepreneurship class open to graduate students at Carnegie Mellon, Pitt and Centre. I regret that I didn’t take it while getting my MBA. But I’m making up for that now.

  Jim still writes. He publishes on his “NewVenturist” blog once a week. He aims his posts at the first-time entrepreneur, who need to hear the been-there-done-that voice. His posts have paralleled Quixotic’s journey. Particularly the ones about funding. It’s amazing that startups can attract funding when they are high-risk, pre-revenue. Statistically, most of us will fail. But, heck, if you don’t try, you’ll never get there. Jim had taught me that. “Aim high and don’t give up.” His latest series is called “Startup Briefs.” He explained to me that it was supposed to be “everything I know about entrepreneurship in less than 50 pages.”

  Jim takes his seat, the eulogy over. I glance around the chapel at the myriad of faces. Errol could have had a heart attack. Or, he could have killed himself. Or, any one of them could be the killer.

  Chapter 6

  March 10

  Buzz, buzz. My phone startles me as I drive. I glance at the caller ID. It’s Errol. I lose control of the car and hit the curb. What? Fortunately, no other cars are around. “Hello?”

  “Brie? I’m sorry to call so early. I hope that I didn’t wake you,” Errol’s wife, Amy, says. That’s right. I have her listed along with Errol in my contacts.

  “Of course not, Amy. I’m on my way to the office actually.” Who sleeps now, anyway? “Are you OK? I mean I know that you’re not…” I shift into reverse, cringing at the thought of the dent in my Prius.

  “I want to ask you something, actually. I need your help, Brie.” She needs MY help?

  “Amy, anything. What can I do?” I look around for a place to pull over before I crash the car again. I swerve into the Whole Foods parking lot, which is almost empty, given that it is 7 a.m. I slowly drive up one level to the parking area outside of the liquor store so that I can concentrate on the call. As I pull into a parking spot, I look out over the busway and Ellsworth Avenue. They had finished the walking bridge from the lot over to Ellsworth, and I notice a few bikers riding across. They remind me of Errol. He probably rode his bike over that bridge. I choke back tears as I brake to a stop. Oops, too far, I hit my bumper on the curb. These low bumpers and high curbs. Yikes! Another dent.

  Amy is talking. “I know what everyone is saying. That it was a heart attack. I have my own suspicions. Errol was acting strange, erratic, I don’t know, guilty. Something was up. I have no idea what it was.” She pauses, and I hear ragged gasps.

  “I’m sorry Amy, I don’t know what to say.” I can’t tell her about my own suspicions.

  “Look, everyone thinks this was a natural death.” Like a heart attack is natural. “But Brie, Errol was very experienced with boats. He’s not just a Pittsburgh river boater. He sailed in the Aegean for years growing up. He sailed across the Atlantic when he was 18, before college. Boating was in his blood. We got the “Scoot” so that he could, scoot around,” she said and I heard a light laugh and then a gasp. This is so hard for her. She blows her nose.

  I wait. When she comes back she sounds more definite. “Look, I’m sorry if I’m babbling but it’s important that you understand that Errol would never, I mean never, allow his boat – any boat – to go over those falls. He could be dead drunk…ah.” I think she realizes what she said. “No matter what, no matter who he was with, or what he was doing, Errol would guide that boat safely. He just couldn’t go over those falls unless he was dead.”

  I am flabbergasted. What am I supposed to say?

  Amy breaks into my thoughts, “In those first few moments when I was told, I had a funny feeling, I don’t know, call it intuition or whatever, but Errol is not the type to have a heart attack. I mean his European upbringing, and we use a lot of olive oil – you know what they say about that. I just know, I really know, that he did not have a heart attack.” She pauses. “Even if he did, you know, have a heart attack – which he did not, I am sure – no way would he die and then let his boat go over the falls. He’s too experienced for that. He would know to sound the air horn, light a flare, radio the guys at the lock. Even with a heart attack, even in extreme pain, he would have had time to do something – not nothing.”

  “Amy, I believe you. How can I help?”

  She ignores my questions and continues. “Then there is Luna. You know that beagle loved that man. She never wanted to be away from him. That damn dog.” I could hear the gulp. “Luna got out and swam away. If Errol was alive…” The beagle would not leave her master unless...

  “I know, Amy,” I say softly. “But if Errol was dead before going over the falls, then…”

  Amy’s voice nearly jumps out of the phone, “I know that Brie. I am completely and 100% aware that that something like that could have happened. But it didn’t; I know in my soul that it didn’t. There is something else going on here, something that I don’t understand. And I need help.” She trails off with an audible rasp, and my heart goes out to her. I can hear Luna barking in the background, the beagle bah-roo that I had heard at the river. Help.

  “Amy, what if Errol was, if he…”

  “Are you going to say killed himself? I know that’s still on the table – it’s one of those letters, right the S in SHNHU or something? Listen, I know that it’s possible to think that. I may have even put that thought in people’s heads because I am the first to admit that something was wrong, something was really bothering my husband. But Errol, the man I loved, the man I married? NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENED, HE WOULD NEVER DO THAT.” She stops and breathes loudly.

  I let the silence linger. Something Jim had taught me. “Don’t fill empty space,” he had cautioned. “You learn more when you wait. And then listen with all you’ve got.”

  “Brie, you’ve got to believe me.”

  “I do, of course I do.” She must know. Isn’t that what spouses do? Become soul mates? Know inside the soul of their mate? Can I do that with Neal?

  “Did you get the autopsy report?” I ask gently. I have no idea what an autopsy report consists of, but I know from what the cops told us that it might reveal how he died.

  “Yes,” she says simply. “It’s very hard to tell what it really says. Thankfully, it’s only a page…” she breaks off in a sob. “Brie, there’s no sign that he bumped his head or that anything knocked him out. No evidence. I talked to his p
hysician, Jerry, Dr. Jerry Bass, and he agrees that it’s unlikely that Errol had a heart attack. In the autopsy they look for signs: enlarged heart, clot, aneurysm, anything. I gather that’s routine. But, about Errol, they can’t tell anything conclusive.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that he could have died of natural causes or not. They just don’t know. His lungs were full of fluid… they had to be, of course. They found him face down in the…”

  “Yes, I heard,” I say gently.

  “Look, I know the medical examiner here. I went to school with him.”

  This is such a typical Pittsburgh story. If you were raised here, you know everyone. The mayor is a friend of the lawyer who is a friend of the doctor – the golf courses are crowded with elementary school buddies who still do business with each other. As a native Pittsburgher, Amy knows a lot of people around town, so I am not surprised.

  She continues, “Victor Williams, Vic, is our ME. He’s a super guy. Friends with Errol too. And, you know, he’s not just a coroner. In rural counties, the coroner is an elected official, so he or she might not actually know much about forensics or anything.”

  “Wait a minute, forensics? You mean forensics like in criminal investigation?”

  “That’s what I am saying, Brie. Look, Errol didn’t kill himself. And he didn’t die of a heart attack. Or any other natural cause. It just doesn’t add up. So I think this is…”

  Murder? I might have whispered the word. There is a moment of complete silence. I hold my breath. I knew it!

  “Well, Vic is a superstar in criminal forensics,” Amy states, ignoring my question. “See, he’s an MD, a forensic pathologist; he went through college, medical school, did a few years of pathology, and then he had to complete a year of forensic fellowship training. To top it off, he had to pass his board certification examination.” She pauses. “Like I said, he’s a superstar. He’s particularly revered in the African American community. He’s from Homewood.”

  She draws another breath. “I used to date him – before Errol, of course.”

  Another Pittsburgh story. Somebody should draw a flow chart of the liquids that have flown from one body to another in this city. It would make a tangled web of sex intrigue. I vaguely remember seeing pictures of this guy in the newspaper. Handsome African American, local guy makes good kind of thing, education, a high-profile position. And friends with the Pyrovolakises.

  “Vic agrees with me. It’s not clear what the actual cause of death is. They did a toxicity screen to check for blood alcohol level or…” she pauses for a minute. “Or drugs. There was nothing. No definitive cause of death. No clear case. I don’t have any proof. That’s what they need, that’s what Vic needs, to make this a criminal case. That’s why I am calling. Look, Brie…” She pauses and clears her throat, clearly struggling to get something out.

  “It doesn’t look to me, or to Vic, or to Jerry, that it was a heart attack – or any other natural cause. Of course, we don’t know for sure, but I know. I know that he didn’t kill himself. So that leaves us with…” she trailed off.

  I whisper into the phone, “You think that it’s murder, don’t you?”

  “Exactly,” Amy concurs.

  I knew it had to be. But I don’t know why. I don’t remember the rest of the conversation or how we end it. I know that I sit for minutes gazing out my windshield but not seeing. I get out of my car and walk across the footbridge and up Ellsworth into the retail area, the stores dark and closed. I take the long way up to Shady Avenue, left on Penn, left on Highland, and right back into the parking lot. It was probably a 20-minute walk. I have been in a non-thinking state since Errol’s death. If Amy agrees that it wasn’t a heart attack or an accident – that confirms that it’s not an N or an A. And it’s not S. U is just a wimpy way out. I’m going with H. For sure. What now?

  My mind syncs with my steps as I walk the circuit again. Think, Brie. What happened? First there was Boris – his being in the office and the puddle. Then there is NeuroGenex. Errol hated some guy there. He hated the Russian venture capitalists too. What about his students? What about – us? No one is innocent.

  …….

  Amy sends me an electronic copy of the autopsy report that afternoon. In addition to nothing definitive about the N – heart attack or whatever – there is also no sign of a struggle. “Unclear cause of death,” I read, a “U – Undetermined.” I read that officially they are ruling it as a drowning. I think that it’s weird that he was still in the boat, even though it was full of water. There was water in his lungs, hence the verdict of drowning, but he hadn’t fallen or drifted out of the boat. The boat was floundering, mostly full of water, but not sunk. There’s no reason to suspect anything amiss; officially, no one seems to think it’s anything but an N or A, or both. But Amy’s insistence… I know that the cops can’t investigate unless they have a case. What constitutes a case?

  …….

  It’s late. I have to finish the letter before I leave. Matt insisted on a letter to send to investors and partners about Errol. Something confidential but not revealing. I sit down to write. It’s my job.

  I remember how against venture capital funding Errol was. “I don’t think they’re all assholes,” he’d smirked to me as an aside. “But they are VCs.” He’d made it clear.

  Errol isn’t from Pittsburgh either. We both hail from Amherst, Massachusetts. Given our age difference, we didn’t know each other back home. Errol left while I was still small, but we share some favorite places. “It’s my fault that Amherst Coffee House morphed into an after-hours scotch bar,” he told me once. “My friends and I from grad school would gather there late into the night. They finally gave in and served us what we really wanted – booze!”

  I remember how Errol would come bounding in to the office, radiating a smile like a flashlight. “Hey beautiful,” he would call to me. “You don’t mind if I call you beautiful, do ya beautiful?” He’d laugh, delighted with his little joke. He’d then bounce his lanky frame towards the lab, shirttails and flip flops flapping, torn khakis trying to keep up with his legs. He’d boom “hallo” to the right and left, greeting everyone like it’s been a long time since he saw them. Usually it was yesterday. His joie de vivre was genuine; you couldn’t help but get sucked in. He wore delight too. He sported a Hawaiian shirt every day. Even in winter. “I have a whole closet full of them,” he told me once, laughing. “Drives Amy around the bend! Oh, I’m a preferred customer of Tommy Bahama.” He howled at the look on my face. Errol’s beach foot gear disappeared only in the dead of winter, usually because of snow. I never, and I mean never, saw Errol in a suit.

  Chapter 7

  March 12

  I’m dreaming of bees. I can’t shake them. They’re after me. Buzz! I wake with a start. It’s Matt calling me. Oh no, not again! It’s 6:30 a.m.

  “Matt?”

  “You talked to Amy, right? I’m calling another emergency meeting. I need you to come in right now. Fuck.” From Yale to the gutter.

  “Of course.” Matt’s already gone.

  In the shower, the water runs off my arm in a waterfall and spirals down the drain. My cat, Arwen, tries to leap out of my way as I clamber out of the shower, stumble and catch myself on the sink, twisting my bad ankle, which aches.

  “You’re off early,” Neal remarks.

  I say nothing as I kiss him goodbye. I arrive 15 minutes early. No one else is there. I peer in at the empty offices.

  Since the beginning, I’ve loved being in a startup. Who else gets to experience this rush? This thrill? All of my classmates wanted to be involved in startups. But most of them had no idea what that meant. It takes a whole lot more than dreams to get from idea to exit, where shareholders make their money. Don’t I know it.

  We’d come so far. It took a long time to get the company up and running. Bringing a new drug to market is a billion dollar effort and can take up to 10 years. Life in the early days of Quixotic had been constant fundraising. Bigfo
ot Capital, our first big investor, was the first West Coast venture firm to take a chance on Pittsburgh. Josh Matey, Bigfoot’s founder, was born here. After graduating from Centre-Pittsburgh, he ended up in Seattle, with a stint at Microsoft, then Amazon, and two successful startups. When he decided to form his own fund, it was logical to base it in Seattle. Of course, he had an office in Silicon Valley too. But Bigfoot was aggressive about finding the best deals. The firm has portfolio companies in Ohio, Michigan, and now Pittsburgh. Josh comes back here pretty often. He has family here, including an aging mother. Huntington’s is in there somewhere. I think that his mother’s friend had it.

  When I started at Quixotic, the team was raising a seed round that totaled $8 million from a bunch of doctor friends, individual angel investors, and GreenBush, the regional angel group, which pools investments from members. I love the story Jim told me about why angels are called that. Apparently, there was a rich man who had promised a young playwright that he would produce his play on Broadway. Before that happened, however, the rich man died. The playwright went to the widow to ask if she would still back him financially. She refused. But, a couple of weeks later she was going through her husband’s desk and found a check written out to the playwright. Wanting to fulfill her husband’s wishes, she gave it to the young man, who then declared that the man was an “angel” since the money came down from heaven.

  Our second institutional funding round, our Series B, was excruciatingly drawn out. Who knew that it would take so much time, that it would be SUCH a distraction? Errol would do the funniest investor imitation: “What’s my ROI, IRR, REQ, and can I get an REM and fries and a coke with that?” He didn’t like the Russian VC firm at all. But we took their money anyway.