Death Match

THIRTY-EIGHT

The Norman J. Weisenbaum Center for Biochemical Research stood on a point of land jutting into the Hudson south of Cold Spring. Lash pulled into visitors’ parking, hoisted himself out onto the macadam, and glanced up at the long, low structure of glass and stone that climbed the hillside. It was not at all the way he’d pictured it when he called the center the week before, on the flight back from Phoenix. It was unrelievedly modern. And yet somehow it did not seem out of place in this haven of Dutch gables. The rich tones of polished marble blended nicely with the backdrop of oak and sycamore. Waterbirds wheeled and cried overhead.

Inside, the receptionist’s station was manned by three women. Lash approached the closest, presented his card. “Dr. Lash to see Dr. Goodkind.”

“Just a moment, please.” The woman peered into a monitor recessed into her work surface, held a manicured finger to one ear, listened to an invisible earpiece. Then she looked up at him again. “If you’d kindly take a seat, he’ll be right with you.”

Lash had barely settled into one of the chrome-and-leather chairs when he saw Roger Goodkind approaching. Goodkind was carrying a few more pounds since they’d last met, and the sandy hair was receding dramatically from his temples. But the man still had the same sly half-smile, the same loping walk, of their undergraduate days.

“Chris!” Goodkind clasped Lash’s hand in his. “Punctual as ever.”

“Anxiety disorder. Presenting as compulsive timeliness.”

The biochemist laughed. “If only your diagnosis were that simple.” He led Lash toward an elevator. “Can this really be? Hearing from you like this, twice in two weeks? I’m almost prostrate with gratitude.”

“I wish I could say it was a social call,” Lash replied as the elevator opened, “but the fact is I need your help.”

Goodkind nodded. “Anything.”

Goodkind’s lab was even larger than Lash had anticipated. There were the obligatory lab tables and chemical apparatus, but there were also deep leather chairs, a handsome desk, bookcases full of journals, a stunning view of the river. Lash whistled appreciatively.

“The center’s been kind to me,” Goodkind said with a chuckle. He’d developed a new mannerism since Lash last saw him: he ran his fingers through his thinning hair, then grasped a few strands and tugged on them, as if encouraging growth.

“So I see.”

“Have a seat. You want a diet soda or something?”

Lash let himself be shown to one of the armchairs. “No, thanks.”

Goodkind took a seat opposite. “So what’s up?”

“Remember why I called you last week?”

“Sure. All those crazy questions about suicide among perfectly happy people.”

“Yes. I’m working on something, Roger, something I can’t tell you much about. Can I rely on you to keep it confidential?”

“What is this, Chris? Is it a Bureau matter?”

“In a way.” Lash watched the man’s eyes widen. If Goodkind thought the Feds were involved, he’d be more likely to cooperate.

Goodkind shifted. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

“You do a lot of work with toxicology, right? Drug side effects, interactions, that sort of thing?”

“It’s not my field of expertise, but, yes, we’re all involved with toxicology to some degree at the center.”

“So tell me. What steps would a biochemist go through in developing a new drug?”

Goodkind ran a hand through his thinning hair. “A new drug? From scratch, you mean?” He paused to tug on a lock. “Historically, drug development’s always been kind of hit or miss. You screen molecules and compounds, looking for a ‘hit,’ something that seems beneficial to people. Of course, now with computational chemistry, you can simulate the effects of reactions that—”

“No, I don’t mean that early in the process. Say you’ve already developed a drug, or something you think might be a drug. What’s the next step?”

Goodkind thought a moment. “Well, you do stability testing. See what delivery vehicle it likes best: tablet, capsule, solution. Then you expose the drug molecule to a variety of conditions — relative humidity, UV light, oxygen, heat — make sure it doesn’t degrade, break down into harmful byproducts.” He grinned. “People always keep drugs in their bathroom cabinets, you know, which is probably the worst thing you can do. Heat and moisture can cause all sorts of nasty chemical reactions.”

“Go on.”

“You perform tox studies, qualify the degradation products. Determine what’s acceptable, what’s not acceptable. Then you do a Trap.”

“A what?”

“A Trap. Toxicological risk analysis procedure. That’s what we call it here at the center, anyway. You run the functional groups — the different parts of the drug molecule — against a knowledge base of existing chemicals and pharmaceuticals. You’re essentially looking for adverse reactions that might cause different, and more dangerous, functional groups. Toxicity potential. Carcinogenicity, neurotoxicity, so forth.”

“And if you find such toxic potential?”

“That’s known as a structure alert. Each alert is flagged and studied for severity.”

“I see. And if the drug passes?”

“Then it goes on to clinical trials, first in animals usually, then humans.”

“These structure alerts. Can a drug cause a structure alert and still go on to be developed?”

“Of course. That’s one reason you have warning labels on medicine bottles. ‘Don’t take with alcohol’ and the rest.”

“Are these alerts listed somewhere, in a book? The Physician’s Desk Reference, maybe?”

Goodkind shook his head. “Structure alerts are too low-level, too chemical, for the PDR.”

“So they’re proprietary? Kept secret by individual researchers or pharmaceutical companies?”

“Oh, no. They’re all stored in a central database. Government regulations.”

Lash sat forward slowly. “Who has access to this database?”

“The FDA. Pharmaceutical manufacturers.”

“Biochemistry labs?”

Goodkind inhaled sharply as he realized where Lash was headed. Then he nodded. “With the proper accreditation.”

“The Weisenbaum Center?”

Goodkind nodded again. “In the research library. Two flights up.”

“Mind leading the way?”

Goodkind licked his lips. “Chris, I don’t know. Access to that database is government-sanctioned. You sure this is official?”

“It’s of the greatest importance.”

Still, Goodkind hesitated.

Lash stood up. “Remember what you said when I called? That you couldn’t predict suicide, that it was just a roll of the dice? That it made no sense, for example, why Poland had a drastically higher suicide rate than normal in 2000?”

“I remember.”

“Perhaps you forgot something, a fact I just dug up on my way here. Poland is the country where, because of the low cost to run studies, most drugs were tested in 2000.”

Goodkind thought for a moment. “You mean—?”

“I mean you should show me that toxicology database. Right now.”

Goodkind hesitated just a second longer. And then he, too, stood up.