Chrysalis

35

Logan sat in the small conference room where he’d met Dr. Purchase three days before. The man’s piercing blue eyes looked anxious, and now and then he tugged on a lock of his carrot-colored hair. He had brought Logan’s printout with him and placed it on the conference table before he took a seat. Now and then he instinctively began to reach for it, then drew his hand back sharply, like a child toying with a garter snake.

Logan waited until Claire Asperton joined them. Then he went around the conference room, closing the automated louvers over the glass walls. He met the lawyer’s glance and raised his eyebrows. She silently nodded a go-ahead.

He cleared his throat. “Dr. Purchase, this is what we’re going to do: I’m going to speak briefly; then you will answer. And once you’re done, all the uncertainty Ms. Asperton and I currently feel will be resolved. Agreed?”

Purchase swallowed, nodded.

“You’ve been very forthcoming about certain things, such as Piers Bridger and his interest in the prototype of your new diagnostic device.” He leaned forward. “I understand you didn’t know exactly why I was asking so many questions at the time. But surely you understand I would have had great interest in this.” He pointed at the sheets in front of Purchase. “So please explain why you neglected to mention your fourteen phone calls — the shortest five minutes, the longest twenty-five — with Russell Spearman over the last eighteen months.”

“The dead board member,” Asperton said, taking the ball.

As Purchase opened his mouth, Logan interrupted. “We’re in a hurry, so no need for rationalizations or handwringing. Just tell us completely and succinctly what those fourteen conversations were about.”

Purchase paused, took a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his brow, tucked it away. “Spearman had an implant,” he said.

“To control his cyclothemia?” Logan asked.

Purchase looked surprised, but nodded. “Normally, mood shifts associated with that condition aren’t extreme enough to require mitigation. But in his manic states, he was closer to bipolar one disorder. Of course, that wasn’t my diagnosis to make.”

“Of course,” said Asperton.

“It was his doctor’s,” Purchase added quickly.

“And who was that?” Logan asked.

Purchase drew in a breath. “A clinician at Columbia’s Vagelos College of Physicians. I’ll get his name for you.”

Logan nodded.

“He’d tried lithium, but didn’t tolerate it well. The specialist at Columbia suggested Carewell’s own new formulation, Thanturil. We’d locked the clinical database on the drug, gotten sign-offs from the PIs, months before. It had just come out of trials, and — since it combines a mood stabilizer with an anxiolytic — seemed a perfect fit.”

“Why the implant?” Asperton asked.

“Two reasons, really. Mr. Spearman was almost pathologically forgetful. He had encountered problems repeatedly by forgetting to take his medication, so a small implant in his shoulder, preprogrammed, made that moot. And second… well, I guess you’d call it vanity.”

“Vanity?” Logan echoed.

“It’s not as surprising as you might think. As more true implants have become available — intrathecal spinal pumps, ICDs, so on — wealthy people have begun to see bespoke implants, tailored to their conditions, as a status symbol. Not unlike cosmetic surgery.”

Someone had mentioned this peculiar vanity to Logan before. “What do you mean, ‘true implants’?”

“Just that. Not ‘depot’ injections that only last until their polymer coatings wear off — but ‘smart’ implants that can be replaced, updated. That can transmit information to a hospital or a doctor. That can send a warning in case of an emergency. Whose dosage schedule can be adjusted remotely. Whose firmware can be updated from home clinics almost anywhere in the world.”

Despite the relative gravity of his recent offense — lying to superiors in order to appease a member of the board — Purchase couldn’t keep a note of pride out of his voice.

“Firmware,” Logan repeated. “In pacemakers, too?”

“Of course.”

“And if there’s a bug in the update? If somebody starts stroking out because their pacemaker turns flaky, there’s not exactly a lot of time to program a patch.”

“There are procedures in place for any exigency.”

Claire Asperton shook these speculations away — perhaps because they struck close to home. “We’re getting off track. Besides, our facility here isn’t in the business of implanting devices, made-to-measure or otherwise.”

“Normally, that’s true,” Purchase replied in a quiet voice.

Both looked at him.

“Spearman put a lot of pressure on me. So did his doctor.”

“When was the device implanted?” Asperton asked.

Purchase thought. “Twelve — no, thirteen months ago.”

“Done where?”

“Here,” Purchase said, even more quietly.

“What?! Secretly?” Asperton was suddenly more agitated than Logan had ever seen her.

“He said he’d have me fired. Me and the BioCertain surgeon both. Said he’d go to Christie directly.” Purchase paused. “He made a lot of threats.”

For a moment, the conference room was silent.

“I guess that explains the dopamine levels in Spearman’s blood,” Logan murmured.

“What was the procedure?” Asperton snapped at Purchase.

“He wanted a PCA pump to control the dosage himself. Both his doctor and I disagreed, but I gave his physician discretion over the release schedule. That was the one condition under which we’d do the implant.”

“But you didn’t see him during the board meeting two weeks ago?” Asperton asked.

Purchase shook his head.

“When did you last see him?” asked Logan.

“About four months ago.”

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“That’s the way Spearman was. He always demanded the latest and greatest.”

Asperton cursed under his breath.

“So how many implants did you arrange for him, in total?” asked Logan.

“Just two. We were finishing trials on a new module in June—”

“That can wait. For now.” Asperton put an ominous spin on the last two words. “What about the medication itself? How was the implant refreshed?”

“His doctor at Columbia did that. We sent him the medication directly. Thanturil’s been available in solution since they first approached me.”

“Let me make sure I understand,” Logan said. “His doctor has been refreshing his implant’s medication — upgrading the device along the way — for over a year?”

Purchase nodded.

“And the doctor himself is the only one in charge of dosage control? Not Spearman himself?”

“Besides us, technically — yes.”

“Do you usually send out refill medications for implants to individual doctors?”

“No. But in addition to everything else, Spearman was a hypochondriac. I had to personally watch each time his recharge dose was drawn. Then it was identified with a UV stamp and shipped directly to his doctor, rather than the normal bulk route to a hospital or medical supply house.”

“When was the last time you sent this doctor a fresh supply of Thanturil?” Logan interrupted.

“Around three months ago. The same time I sent him half a dozen trial implants.”

“Trial implants?” Asperton echoed.

Purchase nodded. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. The new implant, the one Spearman wore when he was here for the board meeting, now has FDA approval for use with nearly a dozen medications… in addition to Thanturil.”

This was greeted by silence.

“In a way, I’m glad Spearman didn’t stop by after the board meeting,” Purchase said into the quiet of the office. “I’d hate to have told him his special implant was now available to anyone.”

Logan abruptly stood up. Asperton did the same.

“Be sure to get the name of Spearman’s doctor to me,” Logan told Purchase.

“Of course, of course. Right away. Anything else?” He cocked his head like a scolded dog, anxious to please.

“No. Actually, yes. I want you to assemble all the synthesis data on new drugs for the last eighteen months. Be especially thorough with Thanturil. And please: note anything out of the ordinary. Anything.”

Purchase nodded.