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

found no problems, issues, or irregularities, apart from the occasional slip. Indeed, she reflected, the data were heartening. Of those randomized to vaccine, and who stuck with the trial long enough for their histories to be meaningful, none seroconverted with HIV.

But she tempted fate. No sooner did she feel that flush of satisfaction than just such a case turned up. Here was WV006974: Helen Glinski, a retail manager from Corona Heights, and the second underlined on the list. She was aged thirty-three at the time she signed the consent—initially as a client of Dr. Mohammed Shah—and was signed off as lost to follow-up by Frank. Both shots given. Virology… biochemistry… immunology… microbiology… clinical. Nothing there you’d want to hold your breath over.

Trudy leaned back, stung with regret. At a population level, WernerVac was remarkable. It might hobble the virus for good. But the trial confirmed efficacy at only sixty percent, within statistically significant parameters. That meant splendid performance at disrupting viral transmission, without guaranteeing individual protection.

She switched to Google, summoned the San Francisco Chronicle, and located a paid-for obituary.

GLINSKI, Helen Allison… born San Luis Obispo… Survived by husband Peter… Popular manager of Glinski Home & Hardware… active supporter of Bay Area Breast Cancer Awareness…

Trudy straightened her back and rubbed her neck. The center’s plastic chairs were unbearable. SPIRE dialogue. Txt sent? Yes. Outcome? No response… Another case where the printed form was returned.

The above-named volunteer has been participating in a research project associated with the hospital. Recently however s/he has failed to attend…

A scan of the standard letter. Trudy studied the ticked boxes:

Husband…

Gone away…

Forwarding address unknown…

Signature:

Peter Glinski

The volunteer’s address was unknown to her husband? This sounded like a divorce with no children. But Helen died months after she missed her last appointment, so any explanation hardly mattered.

Next: Mellon; thirty-one; Honda client; one shot; vaccine arm. Nothing… Li; thirty-four; Dutta client; one shot; vaccine arm. Nothing.

Trudy set off to suck another Doral before completing this morning’s torture. Just a handful more, and this session would be over. She’d finish up the rest this afternoon.

Passing Dr. Honda’s door, she put her head in and waved. Sumiko smiled and rattled at her keyboard. But if there was one thing the complainant wasn’t doing this morning it was any more meddling in the database. On the Washington Mall, Saturday, Trudy phoned security in Atlanta and (aligned with the company’s operational procedures) the trial network was locked down for investigation. Only Trudy, Doctorjee, or approved center managers could log in until this task was complete.

With the cigarette smoked, she was back at the workstation with the next of Dr. Honda’s fifty-six. WV008010: Rafael Ramirez, a convenience store clerk of Clementina Street, in the city. Aged twenty years at enrollment. This was the volunteer Frank threw off the trial. Randomized to the placebo arm. HIV-negative. He complained of fever, later an eczema rash, a torn cartilage, and a suspected SARS-CoV-2 infection. Virology… biochemistry… immunology… microbiology… clinical. Nothing of interest.

“Dear God.”

Trudy clicked through to SPIRE, expecting to find nothing, since Frank had withdrawn the client. But the dialogue was completed, nevertheless, and a printed form returned to SPIRE. She clicked on “Reply form,” and a scan of the standard letter appeared on the screen with Q&A boxes, like the others.

Sister…

No information…

Forwarding address unknown…

The sister’s signature:

Gabriella Ramirez

“This is so tedious. Ben, I’m thinking…”

But she stopped mid-thought, blinked twice, looked again, and tapped keys like a hen pecks corn. The form for Helen Glinski reappeared on the screen. Then back to Ramirez, and again to Glinski. Then back to Ramirez once more.

“No,” Trudy gasped, under her breath. Then she whispered, “Ben, close the door.”

Nineteen

TWENTY MINUTES south, in Brisbane, California, Dr. Frank V. Wilson gripped the wheels of his chair and stared at the sloping street. He felt like garbage. This was no life for anyone: rolled out each morning like beer cans or plastics to be hauled to the municipal dump. He found no consolations or unexpected dimensions. He found only deficiency and defeat.

His wife, Dr. Nancy Wilson, made today’s third attempt to maneuver their Dodge Grand Caravan into position. What with the narrow concrete ramp on their hillside home, and the powered steel ramp on the royal blue minivan, the two must be reconciled at precisely the right angle if he was to board without Nancy getting out.

At last, task accomplished. He anchored himself. Then his life’s other torment resumed. “You’ve got to be positive,” she chirped from the driver’s seat. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

At the time of his accident, Nancy hadn’t a clue he was a week from announcing their divorce. But then came disaster, and all hope became a memory. The “other woman” turned off like a lightbulb. All that survived were wedding vows and other lies to get his cooking, cleaning, and driving done for free.

“Don’t be so negative,” Nancy spoke into a silence left vacant by his failure to reply. “Chief Ironside was never negative, was he?”

“Honey, Chief Ironside was a fictional character. He got out of the chair and walked off the set.”

“You did take a shower, now didn’t you?”

As they descended to the freeway, he grunted compliance while searching for his name in the news. He hadn’t taken a shower. He wore yesterday’s shorts. What the heck, was he having an affair?

Next on the calendar, the gruesome twosome: Trudy Mayr and the module man. They would be waiting at the center to pry, so superior. Source data verification. Ha.

But if they wanted to waste time, he could show them how to do it. He’d squandered half the morning already. Atlanta locked the database, so what was the hurry? He could get nothing done if he wanted. And the vaccine would be licensed in five days’ time, so screw you Dr. Honda. End of story. No Washington administration would let FDA revoke. After Monday, she’d be pissing in the wind.

He didn’t even think they’d find much of interest. He’d run the trial cleaner than most. A few tickles and