CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TACKING & JIBING

AFTER THE POST-DOCS LEFT, Carrie studied the database. Time was of the essence. The hospital sample retention clock was ticking. She would have to act quickly to determine if anybody died or was hospitalized in the greater San Francisco area after the Head Shrinkers Gala. If there was a case, then she had a chance to make a direct link and even obtain a blood sample if the hospital still had the specimen.

The computer finished the search. Two patient records appeared. Carrie read the search results out loud: “Hospitalization for presumed serotonin poisoning at UCSF and death at California Pacific Medical Center (CPMC), presumed suicide . . . empty prescription bottle found nearby.”

She called Dearborn to get the samples. “We have two new cases. Can you get administrative subpoenas for UCSF and CPMC?”

“I can have them in ten minutes.”

“Can we go there tonight and collect them?”

“Sure. You do know what time it is, right?” He sounded less than thrilled. Carrie was sure this wasn’t how he was planning on spending what was left of his Thursday night.

“Of course, I know what time it is. I’ll bring Anne since we’re going to UCSF; she has clout there. I can either meet you at UCSF, or pick you up to avoid having two cars.”

“I don’t live too far away from UCSF’s Parnassus location; why don’t you pick me up here,” Dearborn suggested.

“Super. What’s your address?” Dearborn gave her his address. “I’ll be there in . . .” Carrie entered the address into her phone, “. . . thirty minutes.”

In her car, Carrie called Anne and briefed her.

“I’ll meet you in the main lobby in twenty-five minutes,” Anne said.

Carrie was relieved that Anne understood the urgency and the importance of her presence. She drove into San Francisco and crossed the city to the grass beltway descriptively named the panhandle of Golden Gate Park. This eight-block strip of grass was made famous in the sixties as the site of numerous free concerts. Jerry Garcia and the Grateful Dead had lived there then. Carrie was surprised that Dearborn lived there now. She stopped in front of a blue four-story Queen Anne Victorian with faded white trim. She parked in front of the garage and texted him. Two minutes later he hopped in the passenger side of her Prius hybrid.

“Why did you choose to live here?” she asked.

“I love the older houses,” Dearborn said as he fastened his seatbelt. “They remind me of the Midwest where I grew up. It’s also close to Golden Gate Park and Ocean Beach.”

“It’s a great neighborhood,” Carrie agreed. “My parents heard Big Brother and the Holding Company here in the panhandle when Janis Joplin was starting out back in the day.”

Dearborn nodded tentatively, as if he weren’t familiar with either of those names.

Carrie started driving toward the hospital, a route she knew well.

“It was such a crazy time,” Carrie continued. “Psychedelic rock, free love, streets filled with teenage runaways, protests against the war . . .”

“Were your parents activists?” Dearborn asked.

“My mom used to say she experienced the sixties through a contact high,” Carrie said. “My parents were dating during the Summer of Love, so they came down here. They always maintained that their Baby Boomer generation destroyed the norms of the Greatest Generation . . . and I guess they did.”

Carrie was uncomfortable talking politics with Jay. She figured he was a conservative, Second Amendment Republican.

“I’ve certainly benefited from it in my career, and from the opportunities open to me,” Carrie added, almost apologetically. “Were your parents activists?”

“Hardly,” Dearborn said. “My folks were more affected by the race riots that torched parts of the Midwest. It was a scary time for them—more like the Summer of Hate. But they all survived. Most likely, we’re living in a more tolerant world because of the sixties.”

Carrie nodded in agreement.

“Park in front of the entrance,” Dearborn said as they approached the hospital complex.

Carrie took his advice.

“It never hurts to travel with one of these,” he said, placing an FBI placard on the dashboard so her car wouldn’t be towed or cited.

“Nice. It sure beats parking. Thank you. Let’s go and get the sample,” Carrie said as she clicked the car lock button.

Anne was waiting for Carrie in the lobby. She nodded approvingly when she saw Agent Dearborn in tow.

“Hello, Jay,” Anne said. “Good to see you again. Thank you for helping us on this.”

“Good to see you again, Anne. It’s an interesting case and I want to see where it leads,” Jay said.

Anne led the way as the threesome walked through the maze to the Laboratory. As they entered, Carrie was shocked to find Eunice working late on a Thursday night. Eunice looked annoyed as they entered. When she saw the trio, she gave them an exasperated frown. She obviously remembered their prior dealings.

“I’m Special Agent Dearborn. We met a while ago. I have another administrative subpoena for a blood sample.” Dearborn was polite, soft-spoken, and deadly serious.

“I remember,” Eunice said. “You had this one with you as well.” She pointed at Carrie.

“Yes,” Dearborn said, handing her the patient identification number. “I need you to get me this sample.”

Eunice shuffled to the computer and entered the patient’s number. She checked—and rechecked and rechecked again—the record number and sauntered to the walk-in refrigerator.

Without being asked, Anne and Carrie followed her and watched as Eunice searched shelves of test tube racks. Each rack held either five- or ten-milliliter tubes. The rainbow-colored stoppers resembled a close-up from a Seurat painting.

Eunice selected a single lavender-stoppered tube. She sighed, as if retrieving this sample was putting a major crimp in her evening. She planted the sample in a bucket of ice chips, sauntered to the desk, and leisurely began to fill out the paperwork.

“How many patient samples did you request?” Anne whispered to Dearborn under her breath.

He held up one finger.

“Does the subpoena allow you to look at the patient’s record?” Anne said.

“Yes,” Dearborn said.

“I suggest we look at that record,” Anne said, still muting her voice.

“Why?” he asked.

“The sample she brought out is good only for tests on whole blood,” Anne said.

“How do you know that?” Dearborn asked.

“The lavender cap on the test tube means it’s treated with a chemical to stop the blood from clotting,” Anne explained. “It’s used to run basic clinical chemistries like hemoglobin and platelets. What we need is a serum sample—a red-stoppered tube.”

“How is a red test tube different?” Dearborn asked.

“Red-stoppered tubes contain no additives, so the blood can clot,” Anne explained. “The serum is the golden liquid that’s left after the clot forms. It’s the only fraction of the blood we can use to test for the MAOIs.”

“Thank you,” Dearborn said.

He walked over to the crone, who was now filling out the paperwork—letter by letter, it seemed.

“Excuse me, I’ll also need you to print out a copy of the record for this patient,” Dearborn said.

“Now? I’m filling out other paperwork,” Eunice said, clearly agitated.

“Yes. Now.”

She stopped in mid-sentence and threw her pencil down on her desk. She turned her chair to face her computer. She checked the patient’s name against the subpoena and printed off the three pages containing the admission’s data.

“Here,” Eunice said. She reluctantly handed the papers to Dearborn, who then passed them to Anne.

“Can you step in, now?” Carrie nudged Anne.

“We haven’t been introduced,” Anne said, holding out a hand. “I’m Professor Lorenzen, chair of the Pharmacology Department here.”

Eunice reluctantly shook Anne’s hand. Carrie watched as Anne established direct eye contact with her.

“We’re going to need all the patient’s samples,” Anne said. “Not only the whole blood. Shall we go back and get the serum and urine samples?”

Eunice shrugged then shuffled back into the walk-in refrigerator. Anne and Carrie followed, grabbing a random lab coat from the back of the door.

Under Anne’s watchful eye, the old woman searched the racks again. She collected five tubes and one plastic specimen container. Two of the test tubes had mottled red stoppers.

Anne pulled up the two tubes to confirm that the samples had been centrifuged and that there was serum in the tubes. She picked up the patient record and checked each tube against the patient’s name and number. She checked the timing of the blood draws during the patient’s twelve-hour hospitalization to ensure they had every relevant sample.

“These look good,” Anne said, moving two test tubes from the rack into the black rubber ice bucket. She asked for a Styrofoam container filled with wet ice.

Eunice said nothing and disappeared again into the back. She returned ten minutes later with the requested container.

“Watch as I pack and seal the specimens. I want to ensure no questions are raised about chain of custody,” Anne said to Dearborn. “We have to do this with clinical trial samples all the time.”

When Anne finished sealing the Styrofoam, she handed the precious package back to Dearborn. “If it helps,” she said, “we can both sign across the tape to prove the package wasn’t opened until it reached the FBI.”

Anne signed the package. Dearborn did the same.

“You’re good to go,” Anne said.

“Thank you,” Dearborn and Carrie said in unison.

Anne looked at Eunice. “Thank you for your help,” she said.

Eunice grunted and went back to sorting papers.

The three of them left the lab.

“It was helpful to have you here,” Carrie told Anne. “Without you, we would have left with the wrong sample and lost our opportunity.”

“Yes, thank you,” Dearborn agreed.

“On that note,” Carrie said, “would you mind accompanying us to California Pacific? We have one more sample to collect.”

“If I’m not a third wheel,” Anne said with a smile. Dearborn and Carrie blushed as Anne followed them to Carrie’s car.

“That administrative subpoena carries serious firepower,” Anne said as they drove to California Pacific. “What alerted you to these patients?”

Carrie explained her review of video footage from a gala Tuesday night in San Francisco and how two of the suspect waters were being served. Her search of the database revealed two new SSRI cases the following day.

“What were the outcomes for these patients?” Anne asked.

“The UCSF patient was tested for presumed serotonin syndrome, and I guess she’s fine. The CPMC patient died. It was recorded as possible suicide, but we’ll see,” Carrie said.

“I assume the FBI is testing these samples?” Anne asked Dearborn.

“Yes,” Dearborn said. “And we’re taking responsibility for custody.”

“I also assume it would make your case convincing if we found that one or both of these people attended that party,” Anne said. “It would be compelling evidence if either patient was positive for isocarboxazid and nialamide and if Carrie can identify the brand of water.”

“That would be convincing,” Dearborn said. “Then all that would be left is figuring out who’s responsible.”

“You think that should be easier? We’ll have access to the FBI’s resources, won’t we?” Carrie said.

“Theoretically . . .” Dearborn hesitated. “. . . yes.”

Carrie thought he sounded distant and detached—and noncommittal.

Together, Dearborn and Anne worked the same magic at California Pacific as they had at UCSF. Twenty minutes after they arrived, they walked out with two well-marked and securely packed samples from the patient. Carrie drove them back to UCSF and dropped Anne at her car. Both Carrie and Dearborn thanked her profusely.

“No problem,” Anne said with a grin. “Carrie, Jay, let me know what you find. Have a good rest of the evening.”

Carrie and Dearborn drove in the direction of the FBI office.

“I know its late, but did you have a chance to eat?” he asked.

“Not really. I grabbed a snack and nibbled on it while I drove here. I’m not hungry, but I’d love a glass of wine to wind down a bit. What about you?”

“That sounds perfect. There’s a place near my house. Let’s drop off the samples and then get a drink.”

He directed her to the FBI’s employee entrance. She waited in the car while he went in with the samples. When he returned, they drove to his place a couple of miles back toward UCSF. She found a parking space on Clayton Street.

“Do you like rum drinks or atmosphere?” he asked as they walked down Haight Street.

“That’s tough. An old-fashioned Mai Tai with a 151 floater is hard to beat. But it is lethal. What’s the atmosphere at the bar like?”

“It’s been in the neighborhood forever. It’s not trendy but it is comfortable.”

“Let’s do that.”

They continued down Haight for two blocks and went into Trax. The place was mostly empty since it was close to midnight. And, there was a pool table.

“What’ll you have?” Dearborn asked.

“What do you recommend?”

“Their aged Manhattan is great,” he said.

“Done.”

He ordered two drinks and some appetizers. He carried the drinks to a booth near the back of the room near the pool table. Conversation began with the safest subject: business.

“Having Anne there was a good idea,” Dearborn said. “I put a rush on these samples. We should have answers by the end of the week. If one of them is positive, we’ll be able to increase our resources and get to the bottom of this.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed. Thank you for getting the subpoena so quickly,” Carrie said, starting to toy with a sweet potato fry.

“You’re welcome. Enough business. What do you like to do when you’re not working?”

“I used to do a lot of horseback riding in the parks of East Bay, and I like to get on a pick-up crew and sail. The Bay is great for sailing,” Carrie said, staring at his green eyes. “Except for the time we sank the boat.”

“That sounds exciting,” Dearborn said. “I love to sail, too. What happened?”

“It wasn’t all that dramatic. We were sailing a J-24 keelboat before the wind when the gudgeons broke and the pintles came out so we couldn’t steer,” Carrie said. “We pitched and took on so much water that it sank. The scary part was some of the crew weren’t wearing their life vests and diving below to get the vests was scary. We froze during the time it took for another boat to rescue us. Have you ever had a sailing scare?”

“Well . . .” Dearborn paused. “I was in a class race in heavy winds and made a quick course change to avoid hitting another boat. In our case the mast broke and pinned one of the crew. His leg was badly broken, but we were lucky it hit only his leg. Anywhere else, it could have been fatal.”

The drink was a generous pour. Carrie felt herself relaxing and becoming chatty. Dearborn, too, was loosening up and they covered many topics easily and comfortably—then they got to wine.

“It’s funny,” Carrie said. “I rarely drink wine and never talk about wine, but somehow I have over two hundred bottles in my wine cellar.”

“That’s a nice problem to have,” Jay said.

“I have an idea,” Carrie said. “How about we celebrate at my house after we solve this case. You can choose any wine from my cellar that you want to try, and I’ll prepare an appropriate meal. How does that sound?”

“You have a deal,” Dearborn said. He offered his hand across the table. They shook on it—a long, firm shake. Carrie smiled, hoping the case would be solved quickly.

“How about a quick game of pool? Bet you dinner I can beat you,” Carrie suggested playfully.

“How about a rain check? Tomorrow is still a workday. Besides, you’ll need the time to practice,” Dearborn countered.

“Fair enough on the workday but no way on the practice!” Carrie beamed.

As they left, she noticed he looked her up and down, not unlike what she did to him.

Carrie smiled warmly. As they walked back to the car, she stopped in front of his house. “Thanks for the drink and for the help,” she said, wishing he’d offer her to come up for a nightcap, but knowing she’d have to decline.

“Happy to help. I’ll let you know when I know more. Good night.” He walked up the steps.

She lingered until the door closed.

---

CARRIE GOT TO THE OFFICE early the next morning, despite the late night. She needed to confirm whether the women whose samples they retrieved had attended the Head Shrinkers Gala.

She called Director Schneider, who connected her with LouAnn Partridge, the gala’s events coordinator.

“Doctor Hediger, it’s a pleasure to talk with you,” LouAnn said. “What can I do for you?”

“Can you tell me if either Victoria Evans or Deborah Steinberg attended your event?” Carrie asked. She wasn’t sure whether this violated a privacy statute.

If it did, LouAnn didn’t let on. “Vickie was most certainly there,” LouAnn gushed. “John and Vickie Evans are among our most consistent donors. She’s always dressed to kill—she was wearing the most amazing turquoise silk Prada gown. Vickie is always such a showstopper . . .”

“What about Deborah Steinberg?” Carrie said.

“I’m pretty sure Deborah was there too,” LouAnn said. Carrie could hear the tapping of a keyboard over the phone. “Yes, she was there. Her husband stayed home. They’re getting divorced, and rumor has it she’s the one having the affair. And with a younger man. Can you imagine, divorcing Aaron Steinberg for some boy toy? And it’s not as if they’ve been married that long . . . I bet she doesn’t get much.”

Remind me not to tell this lady any of my secrets, Carrie thought.

“Do you remember offhand what Deborah was wearing?” Carrie asked. She hoped that she and her team would be able to identify the victims by their clothes.

“Something black,” LouAnn said, with a note of disapproval in her voice. “I have a good eye for high-end couture, and she wasn’t wearing anything from a top designer . . . or anything close to it. Her date, though, was very high-end.”

“How so?” Carrie asked. Maybe she could identify Deborah by her date.

“He was so hot, he sizzled,” LouAnn said. “He must have been ten, maybe fifteen years younger than she is. I don’t usually like blond men, but this one was amazing, with his big doe eyes and . . .”

“Thank you, LouAnn,” Carrie said. “You’ve been extremely helpful. Unfortunately, I’ve got a meeting to go to in five minutes.”

“The pleasure has been mine,” LouAnn said.

As she waited for her post-docs to arrive, Carrie wondered whether Victoria Evans and Deborah Steinberg drank the water . . . and whether it was with or without bubbles.

Amber and Kim arrived. Carrie called them into her office and said, “I want you to scan the photos for a woman in a turquoise Prada gown. And for another woman wearing nondescript black, but who was with a much younger, much hotter man.”

“Are you talking about the blond stud-muffin who was totally ripped?” Amber said.

Carrie assured her that was the woman they should be looking for.

---

“WHO DID THE HOT GUY come with?” Amber said about ten minutes later. “His mother?”

Amber pulled up an image on her computer of a movie star–handsome young man sitting next to an older but passably attractive woman whose taut face bore the hallmarks of numerous plastic surgeries. Carrie didn’t think the age difference was as horrific as Amber did—she reflected maybe it was because she was closer to forty than thirty and had greater appreciation and empathy for the aging process.

“Can you look up Deborah Steinberg on the internet?” Carrie asked Kim. “It must be a common name.”

Kim’s computer screen instantly filled with hundreds of pictures of different women. “There are scads of Deborah Steinbergs,” she said.

“Search for ‘Aaron and Deborah,’” Carrie suggested.

Kim soon found what she was looking for—a thin, well-dressed brunette with shiny cheek-length hair. She was standing in front of a shorter, distinguished-looking man whose features had aged softly and naturally.

“That’s got to be our Deborah Steinberg, albeit a younger version,” Carrie said. She turned to Amber. “Can you pull up . . .” she asked.

“I’m on it,” Amber said, clicking rhythmically. “Looks like she’s an Au de l’Eau girl. Or was.”

“That would be sparkling water,” Carrie said, stating the obvious.

“I’ve got her down for an entire bottle of water at the dinner table and two glasses during the cocktail hour,” Amber said. “At least twenty ounces of Au de l’Eau. No wonder she died.”

“Did she have any of the still water?” Carrie asked.

“Oops, it looks like the two glasses she drank during the cocktail hour were AguaTique,” Amber said. “Eight to ten ounces of still. She switched to Au de l’Eau at dinner—she had the entire twelve-ounce bottle of that and wine with dinner.”

“Damn,” Carrie said. “That means we can’t rule out either Au de l’Eau or AguaTique.”

“I’ll pull up the other woman,” Kim offered.

A search on “Victoria Evans” resulted in hundreds more images. By adding her husband, Amber was able to find a single photograph of a perky, voluptuous young woman with clavicle-length brown hair and center-split bangs. Her head was resting against the shoulder of a taller, older, and heftier—but still handsome—man.

“Trophy wife . . . midlife crisis . . . probably both,” Kim said.

Before Carrie could comment, Amber pulled up a picture from the gala—the same vivacious face appeared.

“Stunning dress,” Amber said. “Is she . . .?”

“She’s sick,” Carrie answered, “but not dead. Did she have sparkling or still?”

Amber scanned her spreadsheet, biting one lip and concentrating hard.

“Looks like Victoria’s not a big water drinker,” Amber said. “She had a glass of wine at the reception. She then had maybe a glass of Au de l’Eau during dinner . . . about four to six ounces. She had a couple of glasses of the red wine at dinner.”

“Are you certain she didn’t have any AguaTique?” Carrie asked.

“Positive,” Amber said. “Not a drop.”

With Kim looking over their shoulders, Amber and Carrie flipped through every picture of Vickie Evans—never did she touch a drop of AguaTique.

“My bet’s on the Au de l’Eau,” Amber said. She leaned back in her chair with a victorious smile.

“It’s looking good,” Carrie agreed. “But we still have to rule out AguaTique.”

Carrie walked over to the whiteboard and summarized what they’d found. She drew a table with the victims’ names on the side. Across the top she labeled the columns as Weight, Au de l’Eau, AguaTique, Red Wine, Saturation, and Percent Poisoned.

“I’d guess that Vickie Evans weighs about 145 pounds,” Carrie said, writing the weight on the board. “Deborah Steinberg is closer to 120.”

Carrie’s post-docs watched her closely—a collective feeling filled the room that they were getting closer to solving the mystery.

“Vickie drank about six ounces of Au de l’Eau. Deborah had at least twelve ounces. She enjoyed it so much she drank some of her date’s water. Deborah also drank between six and ten ounces of AguaTique,” Carrie continued.

Carrie wrote the numbers in the water columns. She checked the wine column with a note that Vickie drank about three glasses of red wine, while Deborah drank half a glass.

“Here’s the tricky bit,” Carrie said. “We now have to estimate how much MAOI was contained in the water.” She consulted the previous figures Anne had given her. “The solubility of nialamide is 2.27 grams per liter. Isocarboxazid is 1.6 grams per liter. Kim, can you do the math while I talk?”

“Spreadsheet’s ready to go,” Kim confirmed.

“Make a crude sensitivity table for drug concentrations of 100 percent, 75 percent, and 50 percent,” Carrie instructed her. “And for the concentration of MAOI for the amount of water each woman consumed. Let’s calculate using the metric system. How many milligrams of MAOI per kilogram of body weight did each woman consume?”

“Vickie weighs sixty-six kilograms and consumed 180 milliliters of Au de l’Eau,” Amber said. Deborah weighed fifty-five kilograms and consumed at least 360 milliliters of the water. At 100 percent concentration, Vickie would be at 8.8 milligrams per kilogram, while Deborah would be at 25 milligrams per kilogram.”

“Both should be dead, but Vickie isn’t,” Carrie said. “Let’s look at 75 percent concentration.”

“Deborah is well into the lethal zone at eighteen milligrams per kilogram, but Vickie moves into the hospitalization zone at 6.6 milligrams per kilogram. At 50 percent, Deborah is still dead, and Vickie is still sick but probably not hospitalized,” Amber summarized. She paused and then asked Carrie, “If Deborah’s MAOI levels were so high, wouldn’t she have died at the gala?”

“That’s interesting . . . and a fair point,” Carrie said, trying to think through the ramifications.

“Maybe there’s another variable we’re missing,” Amber said.

“Go on,” Carrie encouraged her.

“Remember when we did the first analysis?” Amber asked. “You thought that only a fraction of the water bottles was poisoned.”

“I remember,” Carrie said.

“Look at the data,” Amber said. “There are several people who drank water but didn’t get sick.”

“Yes but remember that only 30 percent of the guests are expected to be taking an SSRI to treat depression,” Carrie countered. “Since women are two-thirds more likely to take an SSRI, and they generally weigh less than men, it favors women as victims.”

Amber frowned at her but persisted. “What if only one of the bottles Deborah drank was contaminated?” she asked.

“Good point,” Carrie said and glanced at Amber, who looked like she was about to throw out more numbers.

“Since Deborah weighs about twenty-five pounds less than Vickie, she’s dead if she consumes six ounces of water with 75 percent saturation or more,” Amber said.

“Definitely dead,” Kim agreed.

“And that’s from one six-ounce glass of water?” Carrie asked. “It looks like the killer saturated the water so a twelve-ounce bottle could kill a person weighing 140 pounds or less.”

“Yup,” Kim confirmed. “One bottle of water.”

“How many glasses did she have, and from how many different bottles?” Carrie asked.

“Debbie had two glasses of AguaTique from different bottles at the reception,” Amber said. “She had glasses of Au de l’Eau from two separate bottles during dinner.”

“Could she have had more than six ounces from a single bottle?” Carrie asked.

“Definitely. Even though she and her date shared their water, she drank about three quarters of the bottle,” Kim said. “See, one bottle is opened but her glass is filled and his isn’t.”

Amber showed Carrie the picture and then went to a later clip. “Watch, they’re sharing the second bottle,” she said, shuffling through pictures that showed the placement of water bottles and the volume changes in the glass.

“We’re certain that Vickie did not have any AguaTique?” Carrie asked.

“Beyond certain,” Kim said. She ran through the photos of Vickie Evans again. The only ones of her holding water were with Au de l’Eau during dessert.

“Does this mean we can eliminate AguaTique?” Amber asked.

“Most likely,” Carrie said. “But to be on the safe side, we should probably test the water nonetheless.”

Carrie quivered with excitement. This was epidemiology at its finest, and she felt like they were moments away from finding the smoking gun.