Prayers for the Dead

12

Oliver tightened his grip on the wheel of an unmarked Matador. “If I see one more shopping mall, I’m gonna throw up.”

Marge sipped coffee from a thermos, stared out the window at an endless stretch of freeway. The asphalt bisected hillocks covered with untrimmed crabgrass, California orange poppies, mustard wildflowers, and royal purple statice. “Not much to do here. Shop, eat, sleep. Maybe have an affair.”

“Last option sounds like a winner, especially if I was female. Doesn’t cost anything and it burns off calories.”

Marge glanced at him, then returned her eyes to the front windshield. Oliver drummed his fingers on the wheel. “What’s the contact’s name again?”

“Gordon Shockley.”

“Dr. Shockley, right?”

“Right.”

Silence except for the staccatoed communications between the radio dispatchers and the patrol officers. Oliver started to whistle-tuneless, formless. Marge was about to say something, but changed her mind. The tweetie noises were annoying, but so was the quiet.

Forty-five minutes into the ride, and Marge was going nuts. Probably, Scott wasn’t doing much better. The first twenty minutes had been passable because they had talked shop, gossiped a little. Now they had run out of small talk. Desperation time, because neither wanted to open the door marked personal.

Oliver said, “Mind-numbing out here.” He paused. “Not that I do so much at home…”

“But you have the option,” Marge filled in.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

A long pause.

“Any more coffee?” Oliver asked.

“Sure.” Marge handed him the thermos. “You want me to take a shift, Scott?”

“Nah, I’m fine.” He swigged some java. “I’m not looking forward to this.”

“Why?”

“I hate talking to these kinds of guys. Especially because we have to ask technical questions. Which means we’ll get technical answers. Makes me feel like I should have stayed longer in college.”

“You and me both.”

“How many years did you go?”

“BA in sociology.” Marge laughed. “Like that’s really going to help.”

“You finished, then.”

Marge looked at him, smiled. “Are you impressed?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“It’s only State.”

“But you’re still a college grad. Me? I majored in pool and beer.”

“Bet you got straight As in that.”

“You’d better believe it, sister, I’m a card-carrying member of the Sigma Beta Tau. We threw the best parties west of the Mississippi, east of the Ohio, and anywhere else in between.”

“That’s everywhere.”

“That’s right! No one gave parties like Sigma Beta Tau.”

The car grew silent as Oliver fell into a blue funk. Finally, he said, “Yeah, we had parties. Unfortunately, chucking your cookies in rhythm to ‘Stayin’ Alive’ didn’t turn out to be a marketable skill.”

Marge smiled. “Did you actually attend any classes?”

“A few.” Oliver ran tapered fingers through thick, black hair. “I think I even took a sociology course. Something like Group Thinking.”

“That sounds like sociology.”

“Yeah, I thought it was.”

“I think I had the same course,” Marge said. “Only we called it Group Analysis. At the onset, the class was given a number of questions and asked to find solutions. First, we were told to solve the problems by ourselves. Then we divided up into teams, and were told to seek resolutions to the same problems.”

“Then compare the results?”

“Exactly. I told you it was the same class.”

“God, this brings back some Kodaks. The minute we started up in teams, everything got bogged down-”

“All these slow people dragging their asses-”

“Stupid people,” Oliver said. “Got so mired in procedure-”

“Future LAPD brass,” Marge said.

They both laughed.

“Everyone had to have a turn,” Oliver expounded. “Whether they had something to say or not. Especially these touchy-feely broads.”

“Yeah, we had a couple of those,” Marge said. “I kept saying, fuck the feelings and let’s get on with the task. I made this one girl cry. Her friend chewed me out, said…get this…‘You don’t have to be so brutal!’”

Oliver gave Marge a wide grin. “I love it when women are brutal.”

Marge dropped her smile, then looked away.

They rode the next few minutes without conversation.

Oliver muttered, “Talk about touchy-feely.”

Marge didn’t answer.

“Jesus Christ, Dunn, I was just making a joke.”

“I know.”

“So what are you getting so pissed about?”

“I’m not pissed.”

“Dunn, I know when a woman is pissed. And you’re pissed.”

“Oliver, I want a partner I don’t have to worry about, okay.”

“You don’t have to worry about a thing, lady. It’s the farthest thing from my mind.”

“Good.”

“Just trying to stroke your ego-”

“My ego doesn’t need stroking.”

“Funny. Everyone else’s does.”

Marge stared at him. “You want to stroke my ego, tell me I’m a good cop.”

Oliver spoke quietly. “You’re a good cop.”

Marge paused. “Thank you.” Again, she hesitated. “So are you.”

Oliver pushed hair off his forehead. “Thanks.”

He started whistling again. This time Marge recognized the tune-the refrain of “Stayin’ Alive.” His mouth pucking sounds came out as sharp, shrill stabs. Over and over and over and over.

After five minutes, Marge said, “Can you cool it with the bird songs?”

Oliver quit whistling. “What?”

“You sound like an avian mating call. I half-expect some mesmerized, horny robin to fly into the car and start showing you her tail feathers.”

“Dunn, you talk that way, you get me hot-”

“I don’t believe you, Oliver. You’re doing it again.”

“Lady, you started it, talking about horny robins and tail feathers. What’s an old goat to think?”

Marge was about to speak, but laughed instead. She did kind of set him up. Besides, she got her point across. No sense belaboring it.

The industrial park was blocks long, set on acres of rolling, manicured lawn that sported a variety of specimen willows and elms. The commercial buildings ranged in size, but each was fashioned from brick and landscaped with shocking pink impatiens, pastel pink azaleas, and emerald ferns, giving the development uniformity. In the middle of the complex was a rock waterfall that emptied into a pond complete with goldfish and koi.

Fisher/Tyne’s entry faced the waterscape. It was a two-storied structure with double doors. The lobby was masoned with white marble, the furniture sleek-suede couches, glass tables and chrome lamps. Oversized unframed canvases hung on the walls, the artwork being modern and stark. A couple of trim, blond, blue-eyed receptionists wearing headsets sat behind a glass window. Marge glanced at her partner, wondering if Oliver would be distracted by the view. His eyes revealed nothing.

He took out ID and showed it to one of the cuties in the see-through cage. “We’re here to see Dr. Gordon Shockley.”

The cutie stared at the ID, spoke into a mike. “It’s about Dr. Sparks, right?”

Oliver pocketed his badge. “Is Dr. Shockley in, ma’am?”

“I’ll check.” She punched a couple of buttons, spoke into the headset that encircled her face. To Oliver, she said, “He’ll be down in just a few minutes. Would you like some coffee?”

Oliver turned to Marge.

“Pass.”

“Maybe later,” Oliver said.

“Just have a seat, then.”

Marge parked herself on the sofa. It had all the give of a park bench. Oliver sat next to her. The lobby held several windows that looked out to the pond.

Marge said, “Nice view.”

“Plastic.” Oliver lowered his voice. “Or do you mean the ones in the cage.”

“Talk about plastic.”

He grinned. “Polymers have their place, Dunn.”

“Polymers is right,” she whispered. “All of them made out of the same mold-”

“Hey, you get a winner, stick with it.”

Marge turned to him. “Are you talking for my benefit only or are you really this shallow?”

“No, I’m really this shallow, Dunn. Get used to it.”

Marge laughed and so did he. A moment later, a man walked through a door marked PERSONNEL ONLY, a mellow voice introducing himself as Gordon Shockley. He shook Marge’s hand first, then Oliver’s.

Midforties. About six two, and well built. Curly, bronzed hair streaked with gray and thinning at the top. Deep brown eyes, aquiline nose, thin lips, and the smooth, almost wet-looking skin that comes from a very close shave. He wore a custom-made suit, the last button on the sleeve left undone to prove the point. Navy wool crepe. Oliver eyed it enviously. It spoke Italian. It said, “I’m Expensissimo.”

“This way, please,” Shockley led. “Were the directions adequate?”

“They were fine,” Marge answered.

They followed Shockley back through the PERSONNEL ONLY door to the elevator, and went up a flight. His office was a corner suite. Marge noticed another young cutie secretary as they passed through the receptionist’s office into Shockley’s chamber. Obviously, the same designer had done up the entire building. Same marble, same dark suede furniture and glass tables, and the same talentless art. Shockley’s desk looked to be eight feet long, constructed out of a single piece of black granite. Had as much warmth as a sarcophagus. The saving grace of the place was two walls of view. Green hills covered with wildflowers bleeding into a silvery-blue blade of ye olde Pacific. A whispery sky crowned the scene.

“Please, have a seat,” Shockley stated. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“Nothing, thanks,” Marge said.

“Detective?” Shockley looked at Oliver.

“Right now, I’m fine, thanks.”

“Easy customers.” Shockley’s expression turned grave. “Terrible thing about Dr. Sparks. I’m stunned.”

Oliver slipped out his notepad. “Did you know him well?”

“I knew him on a professional level. A very brilliant man.”

“Seems to be the general consensus,” Marge said, also taking notes.

“His genius is absolutely undebatable.”

“I heard he was also very exacting. Did you get along with him?”

Shockley eyed Marge. “Of course, he was exacting. With that high of an intellect, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Oliver repeated, “Did you get along with him?”

“Yes.” Shockley smiled. “We’re both exacting people.”

Ergo, both of you are of high intellect. Marge said, “No conflict?”

“What kind of conflict, Detective?”

“You were doing business with him, Doctor,” Oliver said. “There’s always negotiation in business.”

“We weren’t trading rugs, Detective.”

“No, you were trading millions of dollars.”

Shockley folded his hands and placed them on the desk. “I’m not sure why you people have decided to come out here. But let me clue you in on something. Fisher/Tyne is a major corporation in this country. We are public. Information about us is available to you through various K-forms and prospectuses. All very up and up. If you want to find out more about us, help yourself.”

Marge and Oliver traded glances. She said, “Doctor, what is your official position at Fisher/Tyne?”

“West Coast Vice President in charge of Research and Development. I also act as a liaison between the West Coast labs and our labs in D.C./Virginia.”

“I’m really ignorant on how all this works,” Marge said. “For instance, how did you come to buy Curedon? Who made that decision?”

“How’d you even find out about it?” Oliver said.

Shockley continued to sit with his fingers interlocked. “Why would this interest the police?”

Oliver said, “A man was murdered. We’re looking for reasons.”

“And what reasons did you hope to find here?”

“Money,” Marge said. “Lots of money.”

“Always a good reason for a homicide,” Oliver said.

“Like for instance, we all know that Dr. Sparks was paid a handsome up-front fee for Curedon,” Marge said. “And we all know he was promised part of the percentage of the profits if the drug came to market.”

“Now that he’s gone,” Oliver said, “we were wondering what happens to the percentage. Is it passed on like the rest of his estate?”

Shockley smiled. “And you expect me to divulge private information just because you’re the police.”

Marge said, “Maybe we can talk in general terms. Like if you promised Gentleman X a percentage of profits from drug B that you bought from him-”

“A percentage of profits if drug B comes to market,” Oliver added.

“And if Gentleman X happened to be murdered,” Marge went on, “who would inherit the percentage promised to him?”

Oliver smiled. “She’s just talking theoretical.”

Shockley’s face remained flat. But if his neck muscles grew any tighter, they’d pop his collar pin. “Who have you been talking to?”

Marge said, “Lots of people.”

“Everyone says the same thing.”

“But no one knows the exact numbers,” Marge said. “Not that we’re asking for exact numbers-”

“That’s good, Detective,” Shockley said. “Because the numbers are none of your business.”

Oliver frowned. “’Fraid you were going to say that. Let me ask you this, Doctor. By the way, are you a heart doctor like Dr. Sparks?”

A slight smile appeared on Shockley’s lips. “I’ve got a Ph.D. in both pharmacology and chemistry.”

Oliver said. “You answered that question real easily. We’ll try another. I understand that Fisher/Tyne was testing Curedon for the FDA. Just how does that work?”

Shockley said, “I don’t know what you’re asking.”

Marge said, “You are testing the drug for the FDA, correct?”

“Correct.”

“To test the drug, you need patients.”

“Correct.”

“Where do you get the patients from?”

“That’s confidential information.”

“We’re not asking for names and locations,” Oliver said. “We just want to know how you get the patients. Do you have your own hospital somewhere? Or do you talk doctors at hospitals into trying out the drug?”

“We don’t talk doctors into anything.”

“We’re just wondering how do you get patients to participate?” Marge said.

“That’s also none of your business.”

Oliver blew out air, sank back into the hard sofa. “You’re not being forthcoming.”

“You’re asking internal policy questions. I’ve neither the position nor the inclination to answer them.”

Marge turned to Oliver. “Maybe we should save these questions for Dr. Decameron? Betcha he’d know all about this.”

Shockley snorted.

Oliver said, “Ah, so you’ve met Dr. Decameron. Which means you’ve obviously worked with him. In what capacity?”

Shockley said, “If Dr. Decameron is so forthcoming with the police, why don’t you ask him?”

“You want us to go by his statement only,” Oliver said. “Fine with us.”

“Just what does that mean?”

Marge said, “That’s means, Doctor, if you and him have had any disagreements, you might want to tell us your side.”

“We’ve had no disagreements.” Shockley squirmed.

“No conflicts at all?”

“No business conflicts,” Shockley said. “Perhaps some personality conflicts.”

“I see.” Oliver smoothed his hair. “You don’t like gays.”

Marge’s eyes widened. Shockley winced. “I didn’t say-”

“Fine, you didn’t say,” Oliver said. “Let’s drop the PC crap, Doctor. He’s overtly gay and he’s proud of it.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Marge said.

“Absolutely not. You are what you are and we all know what Decameron is.” Leaning in close, Oliver said, “Reggie boy made me do a little squirmy-wormy when I was around him. Might make me squirm a lot if I had dealings with him. Did you have dealings with him, Doctor?”

Oliver sat back in his seat and waited, giving Shockley a chance to size him up. Hoping he caught the bastard by playing on his fears and weaknesses. Because men like Shockley were public image, never dared to admit prejudice until they were safely ensconced within the paneled walls of their clubs.

Shockley eyed Oliver. Unsure how to proceed.

Marge stepped in, playing good cop, giving Shockley the needed escape. “Did you have professional dealings with Dr. Decameron, Dr. Shockley?”

Shockley waited a beat. “Some.”

“What kind of dealings?”

Shockley weighed his options…to talk or not to talk. “Next to Dr. Sparks, Dr. Decameron is the most actively involved in our trials of Curedon.”

Oliver said, “Does he work out of Dr. Sparks’s lab or your labs in Virginia?”

“Both.”

“How’d that work? Does he fly in and out?”

“Yes.”

“Lots of back-and-forth travel?”

“Yes,” Shockley answered. “Lots of back-and-forth travel. As a matter of fact, the travel was the main reason we started working with Dr. Decameron in the first place. The flying became prohibitively time-consuming for Dr. Sparks’s hectic schedule. After the initial negotiations for Curedon were in place, Dr. Sparks handed the task of overseeing Curedon trials to Dr. Decameron.”

He paused.

“Actually, he first gave the assignment to Dr. Berger, then to Dr. Decameron.”

Marge asked, “Why the switch?”

“I don’t know why,” he said quickly. “I do know that Dr. Berger is also a practicing cardiac surgeon. Perhaps he was also scheduled too tightly for the travel. Actually, I was glad about the switch. Despite what you’ve implied, I have nothing against homosexuals.”

“Why were you glad about the change?” Oliver asked.

“Because…” Shockley tried again. “Once I…understood Dr. Decameron, I found him easier to deal with.”

“Easier than Dr. Berger,” Marge clarified.

“Yes.”

“How’s that?”

“A better team player. Quicker. Faster. Cutting edge. More willing to try unorthodox approaches if conventional ones weren’t working. I found Dr. Berger to be a very, very cautious man. Which is always a good thing when you’re testing out a new drug. But he was cautious to the point of being mulish. Had it been up to him, I’m sure Curedon would still be relegated to Sparks’s homespun lab. You know, if you’re going to do good for humankind, eventually you have to take the drug out to the market and test it on humans. There’s only so much you can infer by testing the drugs on primates.”

“Berger didn’t feel the drug was ready to be tested on humans?”

“He never actually espoused that opinion, no,” Shockley said. “Because Sparks always called the shots, of course. But the D.C. labs were frustrated by Berger’s pickiness.”

“Maybe some would call that exacting,” Oliver said.

Shockley’s smile was mean. “There’s being exacting…and there’s being ridiculous.”

“Ah,” Oliver said. “I guess it takes a person of very high intellect to know the difference.”

Marge shot Oliver a look, and he backed off. He asked, “Did you express your lab’s frustration with Dr. Berger directly to Dr. Sparks?”

“Of course not. We had complete confidence in anyone who represented Dr. Sparks. And I don’t want to imply that we were unhappy with Dr. Berger. We just felt that Dr. Decameron was…”

Oliver said, “More with the program?”

Shockley’s smile was condescending. “Better suited to the job.”

“Dr. Decameron told us the initial trials of Curedon looked promising.”

“Yes.”

“He’s also told us that some of the latest data was not so promising.”

Shockley said, “There are always wrinkles. That’s why we have trials before the drug is presented to the public, my friends.”

“Would you have the latest results?”

“Not at my fingertips.”

“Could you get them for us?”

“No. They aren’t your business.”

Marge said, “We can get them from Dr. Decameron.”

“So do that.” Shockley’s smile was smug. “You know, I am trying to help you out. But you can’t expect the company to just open up its data banks for you. First, it would serve no purpose. Second, it’s confidential information. For all I know, you two might be industrial spies.”

Oliver couldn’t help it. He broke out laughing, swinging a look Marge’s way. “My Ph.D. in chemistry must be showing.”

Shockley frowned. “Are you putting me on, Detective?”

Oliver said, “Yes, sir, I am putting you on. I apologize.”

Shockley glared at him. Oliver flashed him the peace sign. “No disrespect meant.”

Mollified, Shockley folded his hands and said, “Besides, you wouldn’t get a thing out of the trial data. Just a bunch of numbers and figures. Impossible to interpret unless you’re intimately involved in the trials.”

Meaning you dumbshits couldn’t understand them anyway. Marge said, “What do you think about Sparks ’s other colleague, Elizabeth Fulton?”

“I never dealt with her.”

“Never?” Oliver asked.

“Yes, I believe I did say never, Detective.”

Oliver said, “You spent lots of money developing and refining a drug like Curedon, right?”

“Researching and refining,” Shockley corrected.

“Yes, you’re right, of course. Sparks developed the drug.”

“Yes, he did.”

Oliver said, “Say you spend lots of money researching and refining a drug, and it turns out to be a bust. What happens?”

“We move on.”

“You take a huge loss just like that?” Oliver said.

“We move on,” Shockley repeated.

“Then how do you stay in business?”

“Our profits exceed our losses.”

Marge thought of something that Decameron had brushed upon. “How about this, Doctor? We all know there’re a million different names for the same aspirin tablet out there, right?”

“I’ve never analyzed all the different acetylsalicylic compounds. I can’t answer that yes or no.”

“You’re being picky, Doctor,” Oliver said.

“I’m being exacting.”

Marge was not about to be put off. “What if a drug proved to be safe and effective. But not much more effective than what’s available on the shelves.”

“Or what’s in the pharmacies,” Oliver stated.

Marge said, “Do you still market the drug?”

“I can’t answer that, Detective.”

“Not even evasively?” Marge asked.

Shockley smiled, but said nothing.

Marge said, “I mean why would drug companies spend all this money to put something on the market when it’s not a big improvement over what’s already out there.”

“Like we have a million types of cold medicines,” Oliver said. “Or a million types of toothpastes.”

“Or a million types of cola sodas, Detectives.” Shockley made quote signs with his fingers when he stated the word million. “Or all the different brands of cigarettes, coffee, orange juice, yogurt, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Different strokes for different folks,” Oliver said.

“I couldn’t have phrased it better,” Shockley said.

“Is Curedon more effective than what’s out there?” Oliver asked.

“Detective, we’re back to where we started.”

“Are the trials going to continue now that Dr. Sparks is gone?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Shockley said. “But I can’t see why they shouldn’t continue.”

“And you’d still be working with Dr. Decameron?”

“I’m not sure of anything at the moment.” Shockley stood. “Your police business has caught us all off guard.”

“Our police business?” Marge said. “Is that your way of saying Dr. Sparks’s murder?”

“Yes, Detective. Exactly.” Shockley walked over to the door. “I do have business to tend to. If you both don’t mind, it’s getting late. Do call if you have further questions. If I’m not available, you can always leave them with my secretary.”

Marge and Oliver exchanged glances. They were being unceremoniously dismissed. Oliver shrugged. They both got up and thanked Shockley for his time.

“You drive or I drive?” Marge asked.

Oliver flipped her the keys. “We didn’t learn too much, did we?”

Marge opened the door, slid in the driver’s seat, and reached over to unlock the passenger door. Once Oliver was belted in, she started the motor. “We learned that Decameron replaced Berger in the Curedon trials. If Shockley’s to be believed…that he didn’t complain to Sparks about Berger…I’d like to know why Sparks yanked Berger from the trials.”

“Yeah, that’s something.”

Marge pulled the Matador out of the vast parking lot chock-full of Japanese subcompacts. She turned left, onto the lone boulevard leading to the freeway. “I wonder how Berger felt about it…being cut from Curedon.”

“Maybe it was Berger’s decision.”

“Nah, Sparks made all the decisions regarding Curedon. The rest just followed orders.”

“And Berger resented Sparks for making the switch.”

“Possibly.”

“And that’s a motivation for murder?”

“What if money was involved? Whoever worked with Sparks got a piece of the profit?”

A good point, and Marge told him so. She took the on-ramp to the 405 North. “You know, Scott, you put money together with big egos… you get a powder keg.”

“Man, ain’t that so. I’ve never seen people so full of themselves.”

“Guess you play the part of God long enough, you begin to believe your own method acting.” Marge switched over to the left-hand lane. “We also found out that Shockley preferred Decameron over Berger. That says a lot.”

“You’re right. Berger must have been a real obstacle for Gordon Shockley to prefer a gay blade like Decameron.”

“Yeah, Scotty.” Marge fidgeted. “I want to talk to you about that. You think it was wise, bringing up the gay thing?”

Oliver grinned. “Made Shockley feel real uncomfortable. You know, Marge, sometimes you just gotta go for it. I had to get to the prick, and I did. He began to talk a little after that. Plus, he lost that smug smile of his.”

“What if it gets back to Decameron?”

“So what?” Oliver picked up the old thermos and took a swig of lukewarm coffee. “But if you want me to tell Decameron what went down, I’ll do it. I’m not the least bit embarrassed. I’d call him a queer to his face. He’d probably love it.”

“I don’t know about that.” She paused. “Does anything embarrass you, Scotty?”

“A lot embarrasses me, Margie. But I’m not gonna tell you about it.”

Marge smiled. “Too embarrassed?”

Oliver smiled back. “Too embarrassed.”