I waited until three o’clock the following afternoon to head to the drugstore and pick up a disposable camera. I drove to the chicken coop and took pictures from various angles. It did not look the least bit out of the ordinary.
At the Chemistry Department I took pictures of the building and each outside entrance and exit. I then went inside to mingle with the students and take pictures when I thought no one was looking. Finally I dropped the camera off at the one-hour photo booth at the drug store.
I had time to kill before sixty-thirty, so I went to my office. Of course there were twenty-five messages, including five from Officer Jones. One message, however, commanded my complete attention.
“My name is Marie Sherman. I was a friend of Chris Johnson. I read about his death in the paper. I don’t think it was an accident. I need to talk to you right away.” I wasted no time in calling her back. She did not wish to talk over the phone but agreed to come to my office within the next half hour. It occurred to me that if my home was bugged, maybe my office was as well. I would have Bob check it out later.
I checked my e-mail and was shocked at how many people wanted to help me lose weight, improve my sex life, and make me rich. I remembered the days before the Internet when a person had to pursue goals like that through hard work. How primitive mankind used to be.
I was too nervous to work so I played a card game on the computer while I waited for Ms. Sherman. Exactly twenty-two minutes later, Marie Sherman arrived. She had long black hair and brown eyes and wore glasses. Her pale skin spoke volumes as to the amount of time she spent in the laboratory. She was in her late twenties and wore a plain white t-shirt and blue jeans. Her accent was slightly east coast.
“My name is Marie Sherman.”
“Come in. I’m Sam.” I pointed her to a seat in front of my desk.
She sat down. “Chris and I worked together in the Chemistry Department. I was pursuing my doctoral degree at the university.”
“Congratulations.”
“Don’t bother congratulating me. I won’t finish. I’m going back home”
“Why?”
“Why? I should have trusted Chris. I have known him for three years, but I was willing to accept that he was a drug dealer, just like that. I guess I am not much of a friend. I feel like I let him die.” She started to cry. I understood her pain; I had also failed Mr. Johnson. I hoped her pain would give her the strength to make up for her lack of faith in her friend.
“He wanted me to do some snooping in the computer database. I told him no. When he told me the head of the department was out to get him, I thought the drugs had simply made him paranoid. Of course I had never even seen him use drugs. In the three years I knew him, I never saw him the least bit out of control. I’ve never even seen him drink a beer. Yet I couldn’t find it in my heart to give him the benefit of the doubt.” Now she was sobbing. I tried to offer her a tissue but she pushed the box away, “I’m sorry ... I don’t usually get upset like this ... I feel like a complete idiot.”
I suspected she had been hard on herself her whole life. You don’t get to her level in academia in a male-dominated area like chemistry without being a bit tough on yourself. I also get the feeling she was ordinarily hard on others.
“Listen,” I said. “It may be too late to save Chris’s life, but it is not too late to save his reputation as well as the lives of others.”
“You think he was murdered?” she asked.
“Yes, I do. I suspect you do as well.”
“Yes, I guess I do. Chris asked me to go through the database at the university as well as the database for Schlangenol Pharmaceuticals—C.L.O.E.—looking for unusual drug studies. He specifically told me the areas he was investigating prior to being arrested. He wanted me to look at old Nazi experiments and studies involving synthetic drugs.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“What did you find?”
“The Nazis were among the first groups of people to use computers extensively. They stored information on old IBMs. This was basic census type information—names, ages, religions and locations. I could not find any actual experimental data in the computer system that was entered during the nineteen-thirties or forties. It appears, however, that Schlangenol Pharmaceuticals did perform chemical testing on prisoners during the war and kept written data on their findings. Some of the results of these experiments were copied onto a computer database in the seventies. From what I could see, none of the studies were of any real value.
“I was then able to access files that had been erased around the time Chris was arrested. By going through the cookies as well as the erased and deleted files, I was able to find a number of experiments involving synthetic cocaine.”
“Are those ever legitimate studies?”
“Cocaine does have legitimate medical uses. It is still used even today for medical reasons. It is a good surface anesthetic and vasoconstrictor. Cocaine was first synthesized in eighteen-fifty-five and has been used for medical purposes ever since. The Germans in particular were big fans of cocaine. It was tested on the Bavarian army in the mid eighteen-hundreds, and Sigmund Freud claimed it cured depression and indigestion.”
“What were the studies you found?”
“Three of them seemed of interest. The first two were performed by an African pharmaceutical company no longer in business. The third study was done by an American company I couldn’t find information on—I’m not sure any ever existed. The university and Schlangenol Pharmaceuticals were not responsible for these earlier experiments. The original study listed as its goal the need to create synthetic cocaine—a drug with all the positive effects and none of the negative effects of real cocaine. They hoped to treat crack addicts with a less addictive alternative to the drug. A less addictive cocaine would also be more in demand for medical use.”
“What happened?” I asked as I stood up to stretch my legs.
“The first study took place in Africa on the Ivory Coast. They informed the subjects it was to help cure AIDS. Apparently they told the government that was their intention as well. Even the researchers believed the drug could help slow down the replication of the virus in the blood. The company itself did not believe the drug would help with AIDS but concluded that if someone died or got sick during the testing they could blame it on the virus. They also believed that if synthetic cocaine was safe, it would be worth a fortune.
“The experiment turned out to be a huge mess. The drug was ten times more addictive than crack cocaine. The subjects were out of control while high and completely desperate when they were not. Five people were in the initial study, none of whom had ever used cocaine prior to the study. All five were addicted after the first use. None of them would eat, drink or sleep. All they wanted was the drug.”
“What ended up happening to them?”
“They murdered each other in pursuit of more drugs. After three or four days they found four of the five people naked and dead, lying in a pile on top of one another. All four had their throats ripped open. The lead researcher said, ‘It was as if they tried to eat one another.’ The fifth guy they found sitting in the corner of the room covered in blood, simply waiting for the researchers to provide more of the drug. The final subject ended up breaking his own neck by running headfirst into a metal door. The scientists were late in providing the drug by fewer than five minutes. Oddly the drug increased rather than decreased the amount of AIDS virus in the blood. In fact, the drug seemed to increase the metabolism of the subjects in every way, including aging. The doctors all agreed the subjects looked older, even after a few days, although no objective testing was done to determine the extent of the aging effect,” she said.
I tried not to seem excited, in fear of scaring her off but this was the missing information I was looking for. I was both thrilled and afraid to hear what followed.
“What about the second study?”
“It took place in Haiti. Apparently they combined a smaller dose of the synthetic cocaine with a synthetic version of a substance they obtained from some sort of native witch doctor. The local doctor claimed his concoction of herbs, leaves and roots would allow him to hold a man’s soul. This would make the person more docile and easier to control. Although they thought the part about ‘a man’s soul’ was ridiculous, they did find that he was right about the second claim: the substance made the subjects easier to control. It took six months to synthesize and copy the witch doctor’s organic compound and create a synthetic substance with the same impact.
“During the drug trial one of the scientists went crazy. The other scientists claimed the poor man believed the witch doctor was trying to invade his dreams and take his soul. He was sent to Germany for psychiatric care. Apparently he cut his own throat with a plastic butter knife.”
“Isn’t the use of human ‘guinea pigs’ illegal?” I asked. “You know, the Nuremberg Code and all that.”
“First of all,” she said, “these experiments took place in Africa and Haiti. Second, the companies who performed these studies are no longer in business. Not to mention that the use of human ‘guinea pigs’ for pharmaceutical testing goes on all the time. Even in this country. Our own government is one of the worst culprits. Sometime, when you have nothing better to do, look into how many radiation experiments were done during the cold war on innocent children and the mentally ill.”
She rubbed her eyes, looking older than when she had first begun her story.
“That’s encouraging,” I said. “You have restored my faith in humanity. What about the overall results of the second experiment?”
“It turned out better. The drug was still overly addictive and still seemed to have an aging effect on the users. But they did not kill one another and were able to eat and sleep and live somewhat more normal lives. If they did have problems, the threat of removing the drug was enough to keep them in line. They seemed to have more energy and performed better on standardized intelligence tests. The scientists also found they had almost no sensitivity to physical pain and would perform any type of manual labor requested without getting tired. They were completely obedient to the commands of the researchers.”
“What was the point of these experiments?”
“None that I could see. They list no specific goals in the paperwork I was able to find. They seemed just to have been just playing around.”
“What about the subjects?”
“One person had a heart attack after three months; the others were simply released. No further information was provided.”
“What about the third study?”
“Apparently they made more changes to the formula with the help of chemical experiments and animal studies. They added a small percentage of cocoa leaves, used more of the synthetic drug obtained by copying the organic materials given to them from the Haitian witch doctor, and combined that with another drug used primarily to open up blood vessels and arteries in heart patients. The result was a much improved new drug. Once again the goal was to use the new drug to cure cocaine addiction the way methadone helps heroin addicts. They intended to show that people addicted to this new drug could live ordinary lives. They started with nine people already addicted to crack cocaine.”
“Did this study occur in Champaign County?”
“No.” She shrugged. “I mean, I don’t know; it didn’t say. It would be risky to do drug experiments here. Safer in a third world country.”
I raised my index finger. “Although ... no one would suspect such an experiment here, and they would have access to laboratories and high tech equipment.”
She grimaced. “I still think it’s farfetched, but I guess all of this is farfetched.” She made a sweeping gesture. “Wait until you hear about this last study; it is beyond crazy. Who knows, maybe all this is made-up—somebody’s idea of a sick joke. You know, just add some odd fictional experiments to the database to freak people out.”
“Do you think it’s a joke?”
“No.”
“Tell me about it.”
The phone rang, interrupting our conversation. I didn’t answer, but then I started to feel antsy. Excusing myself, I went to the window facing the parking lot. A black Mercedes and a Champaign County Sheriff’s Department squad car were pulling up into the lot. I ran back into my office.