BLIND TRIAL by Brian Deer (good books to read for adults .txt) 📕

“No.”

“You didn’t.”

“Nope.”

“It’s an awfully specific form of words. Not easy to get wrong.”

“Never said it.”

“So, Dr. Honda, what, simply made it up?”

“Exactly. She’s lying. Some of my best friends are gay. I’d never say anything like that.”

Doc Mayr looked again at the tablet. “Alright. I hear what you say. I’ve asked, and you’ve answered.”

“So there.”

“On a more general matter, then. How do you explain the very high lost to follow-up figures here? The highest of all our centers.”

“Can’t.”

“You haven’t looked into this? Not even when Doctorjee was out here?”

“It’s an anomaly. Random anomaly.” Wilson scooted to the table. “And this is San Francisco. Half our volunteers are so cranked out on methamphetamine they can’t find their way home without calling 911. The other half spends what we pay ’em on drugs.”

“Yes, I can see it’s an anomaly. Have you any hypothesis?”

“If I had a hypothesis, it wouldn’t be an anomaly, would it? It would be a potentially explained phenomenon.”

“What I’m getting at is, do you think there might be a reason for your figures being twice everybody else’s?”

“What the heck. I’m sure that trial’s all light and loveliness seen from the ninth floor on Tenth Street. But out here, where the real work’s done, they’re all fags and junkies heading straight to hell.”

“You’re not helping yourself.”

“They’re unreliable. That’s what I’m saying. And here’s the joke in this randomized, placebo controlled, double-blind study of yours. Half of them come through here say they know when they’re getting placebo. So why keep coming back if you know you’re not getting the vaccine?”

“Perhaps there’s the financial incentive. And, of course, the science.”

“Peanuts and monkeys.”

“Thank you. So, the lost to follow-ups were mostly on the placebo arm, were they? Dr. Honda never told us that.”

“Possibly. How would I know? You folks won’t send me the unblinding. I’ve asked Doctorjee for it about two hundred times.”

“It’s in the database.”

“Individually for the clients, yes. If I go through all our 1,603 volunteers’ files, one-by-one. I need our results tabulated.”

“You’ve had the full dataset for all ninety-five sites.”

“Riddled with Chinese and Africans. I need our results, not theirs.”

“Table 12.” Doc Mayr returned to the iPad. “And did you say… Let me see now… Did you by any chance tell a volunteer… actually a Latina volunteer, ‘See you in three months, if you haven’t been deported’?”

“I did not.”

“Is Dr. Honda lying about that?”

“Course she is. Bitch.”

“This was in reception, apparently. We’re given to understand Ardelia Chambers was present.”

Wilson backed from the table and returned to his desk. His nose scrunched. Broken veins swelled. “She misheard.”

“Dr. Honda too. Both misheard?”

“Must have.”

“And then…” Doc Mayr tapped the iPad. “Did you say to Nurse Aderonke in respect of an IV drug user, and, again, I quote the allegation, ‘Can you do her bloods, if she’s got any left?’”

“Course, I didn’t. What you take me for?”

“Is Nurse Aderonke making it up as well?”

“How do I know? Let’s just say her English is suboptimal, shall we? But we don’t have to get so personal.”

“I see. As I say, I’ve asked, and you’ve given your answers.”

Doc Mayr checked her phone was still recording, then tapped the tablet screen twice. Ben glimpsed a letter: formal, with a signature, like the one he’d gotten from Crampton.

“Think carefully about this.” She held the device further from her face. “Did you tell a volunteer not to come back?”

“Another damn lie. One after another. This is getting ridiculous. She’s plain got it in for me. From the day she came here. I’m getting to regret agreeing to this conversation, dignifying that woman’s lies. I can see I made a mistake in being open and honest.”

“Rafael Juan Ramirez?”

“What? Who?” Wilson whirled, rolled across the office to a wall of bookshelves, and pulled a bound volume of Scientific American.

Doc Mayr peered at the iPad. “WV008010. Rafael Ramirez. Clementina Street.

“We now find we are in the fortunate position of being somewhat oversubscribed… I am therefore glad to tell you that we will no longer require you to attend the center for further sessions.”

Wilson threw down the volume and made for the door. “Hell, I’m not taking any more of this crap. Think what you want. I’ve had enough of this. Ha.”

Sixteen

SUMIKO HONDA clicked and scrolled through the latest issue of the Lancet medical journal but felt too angry to read it. She switched to her calendar, where holes loomed in her schedule. Tomorrow: short sessions. Thursday: two clients. She’d no full list for a week.

She closed the calendar and gazed at her workspace: more evidence of Wilson’s malevolence. Through two open doors, she saw into consultation suite 7: a big, well-furnished room, with natural light. But what passed for her office was a windowless closet, with scratched steel furniture, a flickering fluorescent tube, and greasy brown carpet squares. The wall behind her desk was shared with a restroom. All day she heard toilets flush.

So far, Tuesday had been a right royal bummer: a washout from the minute it started. She’d woken at seven, checked her aquarium, and found one of her favorite fishes was dead. Driving to the hospital, soon after eight-thirty, the transmission failed on her Volkswagen Beetle. And at ten, when she asked about the visitors from Atlanta, Ardelia said “for sure” Dr. Mayr was expected, but “no” Sumiko’s input wasn’t required.

That latter development took her aback. Why would the company people snub her? Who was it who reported Wilson’s conduct? Who did the right thing and spoke up? They ought, at least, to hear her concerns. And now it was time to go home.

Thirty minutes back, she’d listened at Wilson’s door. Through the wood, Trudy Mayr was unmistakable. Then a cough and a mumble. Yes, a man was there too. That could only be Ben Louviere. It must be. He’d told her he was the vaccine chief’s special assistant. He might at least have stopped by.

He’d seemed so unlike the other BerneWerner staffers. In his DePaul & Furbeck