Miracle Cure
He nodded. “In other words, patients who have been cured, right?”
“Right.”
“Bruce, Eric and I saw it the same way. The major part of our research is our patients, Sara. Obviously, if we can present to the world patients who are fully cured—patients who are no longer HIV positive—then we have the evidence needed to support our claim.”
“Understood.”
“The problem is that two of our best case studies—Bill Whitherson and Scott Trian—are now dead.”
“AIDS-related?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Murdered.”
The word hit Sara like a sharp slap. “What?”
“They both died of multiple stab wounds within two weeks of one another.”
“I didn’t read anything about this.”
“The murder of gays is hardly front-page stuff, Sara.”
“Did you talk to the police?”
He nodded. “They thought it was an interesting coincidence but nothing more. They pointed out other similarities between the two men—both were gay, lived in Greenwich Village, had brown hair, et cetera, et cetera.”
“They could be right,” she said. “It could be just a coincidence.”
“I know,” he agreed. “I thought that too.”
“But?”
“But now Bruce is dead.”
“And you think his suicide is related to this?”
He paused and let out a deep breath. “I don’t think Bruce committed suicide, Sara. I think he was murdered.”
Sara felt her mouth go dry. “But how can that be? Wasn’t a note found?”
“Yes.”
“And wasn’t it in Bruce’s handwriting?”
“Yes.”
“So how—”
“I’m not sure how it worked. It could have been a clever forgery or something—I don’t know.”
Sara’s face twisted into a look of puzzlement. “Then you’re saying that Bruce was thrown through the window?”
“I’m saying that it’s worth looking into. Bruce was supposed to be in Cancún on vacation. What kind of man flies home early from a vacation to kill himself? And something else.”
“Yes?”
“A few minutes before Bruce died, he called me on the phone. He sounded scared shitless. He said he needed to talk to me in private about something important. I’m sure it was about the murders. We only spoke for a minute or two before he suddenly hung up.”
“Did Bruce tell you where he was?”
“No.”
“Let me ask you something else,” she continued, her mind racing now. “Are there other good case studies you could present besides the two murder victims?”
“Yes. At least four others. I know this whole thing sounds crazy, Sara, and yes, I know there are a million more rational solutions to all of this. There could be a psychotic gay-basher hanging around the clinic who followed Whitherson and Trian home and killed them. It could even be another patient or a staff member. But, Sara, this is so big, so important. If—and I admit it’s a big if—if someone murdered them because of their affiliation to the clinic and if that someone does the same to the others, it could mean a delay in proving that the treatment works. That delay could cost thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of lives.”
“I see your point,” she said, “but why are you telling me?”
Harvey smiled, though his face still looked weary. “I don’t have much, Sara. I’m divorced. I have no kids. My only brother died of AIDS. My father died years ago and my mother has Alzheimer’s. I work all the time, so I don’t have a lot of friends.” He stopped now as if trying to summon up some additional strength. “Michael has always been like a son to me. That makes you, well, the best kind of daughter-in-law. Whether you like it or not, you and Michael are my family.”
“We like it,” she said softly. She took hold of his hand. “Have you told anyone else about this?”
“I’m going to tell Michael, but I wanted to speak to you first. Eric, of course, knows. He’s been wonderful since joining the clinic last year. I depend on him for everything.”
“I’m glad he worked out so well.”
“Yeah, well, Eric and I are both starting to question our sanity over this whole murder mess. We’re not sure if we’re complete lunatics or just a pair of paranoid conspiracy nuts. Working on a disease like this one can make you a little batty after a while. Will you help me investigate this?”
“I’ll get on it right away,” she said. “I have a friend in homicide, a Detective Max Bernstein. I’ll speak to him about it. But I have another suggestion.”
“What?”
She hesitated. “Let me do a story on the clinic.”
“Huh?”
“We’ll run it live on NewsFlash. The positive publicity will force the government to refinance the clinic.”
“I don’t know, Sara,” he said. “It might piss off Washington.”
“So what?” she countered. “You’ll have all of America on your side after this report. The politicians wouldn’t dare close you down.”
Harvey looked down and said nothing for a few minutes.
“Harv?”
“Can you keep our location and identity a secret?” he asked. “No names of doctors, no names of patients, nothing like that? I won’t risk a patient’s confidentiality.”
“No problem.”
He looked around, his eyes misty and afraid. “If you think it will work . . .”
“It has to,” Sara urged. “Like you said before, it’s time to let the world know.”
Harvey nodded. “Okay, then. Do it.” He shook his head, in some vain attempt to clear it. His face fought to look cheerful. “Now let’s change subjects for a while. How are you doing?”
“Actually,” Sara said with a hint of a smile, “I need a small favor.”
“Name it.”
“I need you to find me a good obstetrician.”
Now it was Harvey’s turn to look surprised. “Jesus, Sara, are you . . . ?”
She shrugged, trying to contain her excitement. She wanted so damn much to say yes, to see Michael’s face after a positive test result came back. “Right now, I’m just late.”
“Maybe this is an insensitive question, but what about your career?”