Prayers for the Dead (40 page)

Oliver shoved him forward. “He’ll probably be transferred to Van Nuys jail for arraignment—”

“Oh God!” Berger moaned. “Stop. I’ll tell you everything. Just
please
don’t book me for murder.”

Oliver stopped walking. “You’ll tell us everything?”

“Yes, yes.” Berger nodded rapidly. “I’ll tell you everything.”

“So suddenly you know what I’m talking about,” Oliver said.

“Yes. Yes, I do know. And I’ll tell you. Just please don’t book me.”

“He asked for a lawyer,” Elizabeth pointed out. “You can’t talk to him now.”

Oliver glared at her. “One minute you’re spitting in the guy’s face, the next you’re his advocate?”

“He’s my colleague!” Elizabeth said. “We have our own ways of censuring. I’m not about to let him drown in your hands.”

“Oh
please
!” Marge said wearily. “C’mon! Let’s go.”

“Wait!” Berger yelled out. “Yes, I’ll talk to my lawyer. But I guarantee you, if you wait, you won’t be sorry. You’ll like what I have to tell you. Just… please… hold off… with the… murder charges. Because bottom line, I swear I didn’t do it.”

Oliver and Marge exchanged glances. “Are you willing to take a polygraph?”

“Yes, of course. Right away. Just don’t book me.”

Oliver shrugged. “What exactly do you have in mind, Doc?”

“Let me talk to my lawyer. I know what you want, Detective Oliver. I know you’re after the big guys. Please. Be patient. I promise you won’t be sorry.”

Oliver looked at Marge. “What do you think?”

“We should ask the Loo.”

“So we’ll ask the Loo.” Oliver paused. “Should we hold off on booking him?”

Berger looked at Marge with hopeful eyes. She shrugged. “He gave us a rough time with the arrest—”

“I’m very sorry about that,” Berger said. “Very sorry. Please. Let me talk to my lawyer. Then I’ll talk to you.”

Again, Marge shrugged. “Okay. You bought yourself some time. You’d better come through.”

Berger smiled. “I will. I swear I’ll make you happy.”

Oliver said, “Last time someone said those words to me, I wound up with crabs. C’mon. Let’s go.”

Great to be
on the other side of the one-way mirror. Decker leaned against the wall, watching Myron Berger and his lawyer confer. Not that there was much to talk about. The deal had been cut hours ago. The doctor had been guaranteed immunity from prosecution by the FBI on charges of computer tampering, theft, and fraud in exchange for becoming a material witness. And though Berger hadn’t been formally booked, the police had retained the right if future information and/or evidence warranted an arrest.

Marge sipped coffee. “Is my watch fast or is it already seven?”

“Your watch isn’t fast.”

“Where does the time go?”

“I don’t know.” Decker rubbed his neck. “Tomorrow night is the Sabbath. I can’t wait.”

Marge said, “Are we still on for Sunday?”

“Absolutely.”

“I know Rina’s strict with her kitchen, so I don’t want to bring any food. How about if I bring flowers?”

“Great. Thanks.”

Decker drank from a thermos, regarded the action on the other side of the looking glass. Berger had chosen Justin Dorman as his counsel, a man in his late thirties with styled wheat-colored hair and deep-set brown eyes. His regular features bore a nondescript expression. In his herringbone suit, he looked about as menacing as a model in
GQ
. But he had cut Berger a good plea. Decker had been impressed.

The doctor, on the other hand, was anything but Perma-Prest. His clothes were wrinkled and he needed a shave. More than anything, Berger was tired. Yes, he’d withstood fourteen-hour surgeries, but no endurance test could have prepared him for this.

Decker said, “You didn’t want a piece of the action?”

“Nah.” Marge threw away her plastic cup. “The deal’s been cut. Nothing to do but listen. Might as well do it here where I can make wisecracks.” She observed the scene on the other side, the door opening… “And on with the show.”

Oliver came in the interview room. With him was Mitch Saugust, the deputy DA. Also young — in his thirties — but not as well coiffed nor as well dressed. Saugust was tall but not muscular. His shoulders sloped, his gut spilled over his belt. He shook hands with Dorman, then sat down. Oliver took the chair to his left.

Saugust looked at Oliver. Scott said, “We’re ready whenever you are, Doctor.”

Berger was draped in fatigue. “Oh my.” He hung his head. “Where to begin.”

The room was quiet.

“I’ve been with Azor Sparks for nearly twenty-five years. A few of our colleagues considered us a team. But most didn’t. More important, I didn’t. I had always looked to Azor as a boss, even though we were in the same graduating class at Harvard Medical School.”

He took a deep breath.

“About ten-plus years ago, Azor went back and got a Ph.D. in biochemistry. I always felt he was a bit… intimidated by my own master’s in chemistry. Because when we used to talk about drug structure — specifically Cyclosporin-A analogs — he often would be forced to cede to my knowledge, sometimes graciously, sometimes begrudgingly. Not that I was smarter, but I had been more educated in this one particular area.”

Marge said, “I’ve found the perfect superhero for Berger
.”

“
What’s that?
”

“MIGHTY EGO.”

Decker smiled. “Yeah, egos are something else. They make us able to live with ourselves
.”

Marge laughed. “Otherwise, we’d all curl up and die from embarrassment
.”

Berger kept talking. “Finally, Azor did go back to UCLA and he did receive a Ph.D. Which again gave him the formal educational advantage — at least on paper. Being involved in biochemistry years before Azor, I felt I still had the practical edge. I would have liked to further my interest in chemistry, but when Azor went back, I had to pick up the slack around the hospital. Which meant I worked long, long hours—”

Dorman tapped Berger’s shoulder, whispered in his ear. Berger sighed and nodded. He went on.

“Admittedly so, Curedon was Azor’s brainchild — a highly modified cyclophillin binder which seemed to be a very potent T-cell inhibitor. In theory.”

Berger stopped, regarded his lawyer, Oliver, and the deputy DA. They were staring at him. He cleared his throat and continued.

“The point is Azor had developed a potentially wonderful drug in his lab, but he lacked the practical experience to refine it.”

“And that was where you came in,” Oliver stated.

Berger eyed him with suspicion. “Yes, as a matter of fact, that was where I came in. He developed a very raw analog, I refined it into something more workable, albeit not perfect. Later on, Dr. Decameron and Dr. Fulton were brought into our club. Reggie fine-tuned the drug. Then Elizabeth set up the protocol for Curedon’s animal experimentation.”

The doctor smacked his lips.

“Azor had the reputation… and Azor got the funding.”

“From the hospital?” Oliver asked.

“From the hospital, from NIH grants, from private donations… from everywhere.” Berger clasped his hands together. “I worked over eight years on Curedon. There was extra pay for me through the grants, but the money hardly made up for the excessive time I had put into the drug. And I should remind you that I was doing this while maintaining a full-time cardiosurgical practice.”

Marge said, “He needs to remind us, Pete
.”

Decker said, “He’s pissed
.”

“
Doesn’t justify what he did.” She paused. “But it explains his motivation
. MIGHTY EGO
strikes again. Must be hard to be number two, standing in the shadows of the top dog.” She smiled. “I should know about that
.”

Decker jerked his head. “Beg your pardon?
”

“
Oh, nothing…” Marge returned her attention to the interview. “Nothing at all
.”

Berger said, “The finalized drug sold to Fisher/Tyne bore little resemblance to Azor Sparks’s original Curedon. The Fisher/Tyne Curedon was developed after years of trial and error by four scientists working as a unit. Yet, Azor got all the credit.”

Oliver said, “Doctor, Sparks was the… how do you say it…” He flipped through his notes. “The primary investigator… the acknowledged chief, Dr. Berger. Because it was
his
drug you were refining. You knew you weren’t going to get the glory at the outset, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but… I mean… another—”

“You certainly must have known you weren’t going to get the money,” Oliver pressed.

Berger glared at him.

Oliver said, “True or false?”

Dorman said, “Detective, can we keep it friendly here? My client has been completely cooperative—”

“Think so? Then next time you try to arrest him.”

“Detective—”

“Do you know how much money Fisher/Tyne paid Dr. Sparks for the rights to acquire Curedon?”

Anger flickered from Berger’s eyes. “Something in the seven-figure range.”

“Do you know if any other fees were owed to him?” Oliver asked.

Berger said, “I was aware of something in the contract that promised him additional monies should the sales of Curedon reach a critical limit.”

Marge said, “Why are some people so mealy-mouthed? ‘Additional monies should sales reach a critical limit
.’”

“
Just the way academics talk
.”

“
You think guys like him and Sparks ever drop their masks?
”

“
Azor rode motorcycles
.”

Marge nodded. It was a good point
.

Oliver asked, “Is that clause in the contract — the one that promises him money if Curedon has big sales — still in effect after Dr. Sparks’s death?”

“I don’t know.”

Saugust said, “Detective, why don’t we let Dr. Berger continue… do you think you might take out a little of the history, sir, and bring it back to contemporary times?”

“I’m just trying to give you the appropriate background,” Berger snapped.

“Of course,” Saugust said.

Berger said, “Well, to make a long story short, even with all the hoopla of Curedon’s arrival, there were still problems. But nothing the team couldn’t hammer out.

“Since I was so instrumental in Curedon’s development, Azor assigned me the role of liaison from our labs to Fisher/Tyne. Sparks also gave me a bonus when Curedon was bought. Nothing compared to what Azor had made. But it was a nice gesture.”

“Did he give all his colleagues bonuses?” Oliver asked.

“Yes, I believe he did.”

“Generous guy.”

“He certainly had enough to play with.”

The room was quiet.

“I took my job very seriously,” Berger said. “Worked very hard with Fisher/Tyne, smoothing out the areas that needed improvement.”

“Such as?” Oliver asked.

“Primarily improving the efficacy of the drug and the honing down of the unwarranted side effects. As I worked through these problems, studying the interactions at a cellular level, specifically Curedon’s propensity for human cyclophillin binding and its corrolate of immunosuppression, I discovered something very interesting. I proposed the following theory. That if one modified the drug’s butenyl ring structure, you could further increase the affinity for cyclophillin binding to a fourfold level. On a theoretical basis only, of course.”

“Of course,” Oliver said.

Dorman said, “Doctor, I think you’re going to have to simplify the technical aspects of your research.”

Berger was peeved. “On a strictly theoretical basis, I thought I discovered a better drug than Curedon.”

“Ah.” Oliver held up his finger. “That I understand.”

“Mind you, I had nothing tangible. Just an idea. And a very abstract one at that. But I was pleased with myself. Nevertheless, I didn’t think about pursuing it. I didn’t have the time or the resources. In passing, I happened to mention my idea to someone at Fisher/Tyne. He got very excited.”

“Shockley,” Oliver said.

“No, his boss, Joseph Grammer. Dr. Grammer was intrigued. We met a couple of times. Talked a bit about my idea. Developing any drug is a very expensive proposition. And like they say, a bird in the hand…”

No one spoke.

“Grammer took the matter up with Fisher/Tyne’s executive board. He came back and told me the bad news: I had almost been granted funding. But then the moment of truth. The board didn’t have enough funds to support my research, and support Curedon at the same time. Since Fisher/Tyne had already spent an enormous sum for Curedon, and since it was almost ready for human trials, the board wasn’t keen on going back to square one with my analog. The board voted to continue Curedon research. And I was left in the cold.”

“Made you bitter?” Oliver asked.

“No,” Berger insisted. “I was not bitter. Disappointed, yes. But not bitter. I continued on with Curedon, figuring the matter to be dropped.”

The room was quiet.

“Oh my,” Berger said. “Oh my, oh my.”

“Deal’s been cut, sir,” Saugust said. “Why don’t you just get it off your chest.”

“About a week later…” Berger sighed. “A week later, after my defeat, Gordon Shockley came to me with a proposition. How would I like to see my theoretical drug turned into a practical moneymaking venture? I asked him what he had in mind.”

Berger’s hands turned into white-knuckled fists.

“He started naming numbers—”

“Who named numbers?”

“Shockley. Shockley informed me about the enormous sums of money that Fisher/Tyne was planning to spend on Curedon’s R and D. He said if we could develop something even equally as good as Curedon and cut our fees by half… we could undersell Curedon and still make out like bandits.”

“Undersell to whom?”

“To Fisher/Tyne. It’s happened before. A company will abandon a project
if
they have something better lined up. In truth, we would have sold to any drug company willing to put up cash.”

“And you agreed to work with Shockley,” Oliver said.