Gene Therapy to Die For

Prologue

David Witherspoon was a twenty-eight year old epidemiologist who worked at the National Institutes of Health. He had moved to Washington, D.C. just seven weeks earlier to take a position analyzing health statistics. It was an honor to have landed such a highly sought job.

His sandy brown locks of hair hung down and swept across his forehead as he read from one side of his report to the other, hunched over two markedly abnormal findings and studying them for a mistake in his calculations. He had redone his calculations repeatedly. He had called the people who had collected the data that was sent to him. As far as he could tell, everything was in order. Even in school, such severe outliers were invariably explained away by uncovering a mistake somewhere in the process. That was the point of such training; findings that made absolutely no sense had to be caused by human error.

It was five in the evening and time to leave for the day. Lost in thought… David stood up, walked out of his department, and strode to the elevators. He heard an elevator stop on the floor above him. He stepped in front of the elevator but then heard it stop down a floor at six.

What the hell? he asked himself.

He noticed that he hadn’t hit the elevator call button. He knew it was because he was so distracted by the abnormal findings that continued to swirl around in his mind. Grumbling at himself, David nearly crushed the plastic call button with his thumb. Soon, another elevator arrived. As he rode it to ground level, he wondered what could have caused such grotesque results. Too much iodine in table salt? Too many mammograms being ordered by women’s physicians?

He never considered that such lethal malignancies could have been intentionally caused.

In America

Chapter I

Five weeks after reporting abnormal spikes in anaplastic thyroid and inflammatory breast cancers, David looked up at the black clock on the beige colored wall in the somewhat dull Epidemiology Department to see that it was five in the evening. Normally, he wasn’t punctual about leaving work because he had yet to establish a social life for himself in the nation’s capital. However, this was his birthday; and his one friend, Bud Murphy, was supposed to meet him for a drink or two at Jimmy’s Jigger, an upscale bar a few blocks away. It was also on their way to the parking garage where they kept their cars for the day. Bud worked in administration and had helped David get oriented to the building as well as to that part of the city.

An oncoming downpour chased David down the sidewalk. After scurrying inside Jimmy’s, he scanned across the sparkling brass and plush leather accoutrements where multimillion-dollar deals were hashed out over martinis. He didn’t spot Bud, so he took a seat at the bar to wait. He had never been there before but liked the ambience from what he had seen so far. It seemed to be a peaceful respite from the realities of life outside of there.

The smartly dressed, tall and handsome bartender walked over to David to take his order.

Haven’t seen you in here before, the bartender offered. What’s your name?

David. David Witherspoon.

David waited for the man to then introduce himself. A glistening delight in the man’s eyes told David that something was up.

Okay, so what’s your name? David asked.

Buster Hymen, the bartender rejoined in with a wry grin

David chuckled, knowing he’d been set up just for the play on words. Then, David ordered a Cutty Shark on the rocks.

On the stool next to David lay the day’s newspaper that someone had discarded, and he picked it up. He quickly ran a finger from one article to the next before noticing one about Ebola on page eight. A tragic outbreak had occurred in Kenya, and two dozen Bantu villagers had died as a result. The Ebola outbreak crawled right up David’s arm and neck to absorb his mind, just as it had murdered its victims. He imagined epidemiologists halfway around the world working to determine exactly how the outbreak had occurred. Probably someone handling – or eating – a monkey, David presumed. An epidemiologist over there would try to determine exactly where the first few victims had traveled. The researchers would try to establish what, precisely, the very first victim had handled or traded or eaten or drunk or inhaled. Every possibility would be considered.

Such articles were fascinating to David. Events such as the Kenyan tragedy were what David lived for – to come across some bizarre occurrence, report the findings, and get his name placed in an obscure journal that only a handful of people ever read.

Just as he looked up from setting the newspaper down, he heard a familiar voice.

David! Bud shouted to get David’s attention.

David immediately spotted Bud but then noticed two men trailing him. The trio walked up and stopped in front of David’s barstool. Bud’s shirt was wet. The other two shook out umbrellas and slipped out of trench coats that dripped rainwater. The men looked like people cut out of a gangster poster and brought to life.

Bud studied David a moment as he prepared to introduce David to the newcomers.

There was something about the way Bud stared at him. It was a moment too long, a bit too strained, and obviously rehearsed.

David, Bud boomed in a self-conscious way, these two men are from the FBI.

Chapter II

David was introduced to Supervisory Special Agent Hawkins, the older and also more senior man with the agency. Hawkins had a crew-cut and early graying at the temples. His piercing steel-blue eyes were hoisted over square jaws that clenched rhythmically when he wasn’t talking. His trapezius muscles were large, even as seen under his dress coat, and ran down from his ears such that he hardly had a neck at all. Hawkins shook out his umbrella. He was perspiring heavily from the heat and humidity, and sweat ran down his sharp sideburns. Dark, prickly, evening stubble rode down across his face from there.

Trailing Hawkins was Agent Warner, David then learned. Warner was plainer, with a high, slanted nose pointing slightly to his right, apparently from a punch he hadn’t ducked. David’s vision went straight from Warner’s crooked nose to his twitching hazel eyes. Warner slipped out of his trench and dress coats also, and then dabbed at the wet sides of his short, brown hair with a shirt sleeve. His eyes were questioning but rather dull compared to Hawkins’ eagle-like gaze. Hawkins’ curious stare drew David’s attention right back to him.

Both agents worked at the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, D.C., Bud explained. After handshakes were exchanged and methodical pleasantries concluded, the three newcomers stood facing David, who felt as if he were on display, as the two agents gathered their initial impressions of him.

It’s David’s birthday, Bud crowed, in order to break the solemnity.

Bud nodded and smiled at David, but David simply stared back. David was already unnerved from wondering what the FBI might possibly want with him. Counterfeiting? No, that’s Secret Service. Terrorism? Buying too many Sudafed? Planning to rob the NIH? What?

Sorry to interrupt like this, Hawkins then said, rather amiably.

What’s it about? David asked, cracking an awkward grin from all the attention he was receiving.

It relates--even through us--to foreign counterintelligence, in addition to a domestic threat. Did you know Ernie Schmaltz? Hawkins asked, squinting already to study David for his reply.

Yes, sure, David replied. His right upper eyelid began twitching. If ever there was a bad time for that to happen… Sort of. He latched onto Bud and me in the basement cafeteria at work one day, a couple months back. Since then, he sort of stuck to the two of us like a slug on the bottom of our shoes. Not that I meant that in a derogatory… Never mind.

Warner cracked a subdued smile, flattening out the dimple in his chin.

What about him? David asked, glancing back and forth between the two agents.

He’s dead, for one thing, Warner interjected.

Hawkins turned to look oddly at him.

He was murdered over in Ukraine, Warner added.

Going through his house here in Washington, Hawkins explained, we found your name and phone number on a slip of paper.

Maybe he was just trying to remember my name, David hypothesized.

You just said he already knew you pretty well, Hawkins reminded him. He already knew your name well enough, and Bud’s.

Maybe it was an old message.

It was the only scrap of paper on his coffee table, Hawkins elaborated, still studying David for effect. It was put there and held with a toothpick holder just on the corner of the note--real particular like. It was pretty clear that your name was one of the last things he was thinking about.

David was at a loss for an explanation, even to himself. He didn’t care much for Ernie, but he had never wished the goosey creature an early demise. Maybe a different cafeteria, but certainly not a vacation from life.

Well, whatever the odd duck did, David half grumbled in self-defense, I didn’t help him. I barely knew him and didn’t particularly like him, but he just sort of latched onto me. David looked at Bud. Onto us. Back to Hawkins, What was he involved in?

We think he fled America because he got wrapped up in some sort of domestic bioterrorism.

Bioterrorism! David shouted, jumping off his barstool and causing nearby heads to turn. Ernie? You gotta be kidding!

He had almost everything he needed at the NCI to delve into it, Warner said.

What’s the NCI? the drunken bartender crowed. He was standing—swaying--just a few feet away, having crowded back in to listen.

The National Cancer Institute, Bud explained, then looking back at Hawkins. Ernie occasionally had to come over to our building, and pretty soon he was pestering us to have lunch with him just about every day.

David nodded in agreement.

Have you noticed anything unusual at work? Hawkins asked David. Anything out of place? Odd notes? Funny phone calls? Strange behavior of any sort from your cohorts?

David could see himself cracking from the interrogation, and the four of them had barely taken their seats on adjacent barstools. The tension already had him all corked up.

Nothing funny other than Bud standing over Carolyn’s shoulder and looking down at her magnificent work, David chuckled, glancing over with a smile at Bud. No one laughed. Nothing out of the ordinary, he offered apologetically.

Hawkins asked the two bartenders if either of them knew Ernie. Both shook their heads that they didn’t. He and Warner glanced around the bar at the few people there, so early yet in the evening. Nothing seemed amiss. In an hour, the place would be packed.

Agents Hawkins and Warner excused themselves and left.

Chapter III

Three days later, David was on his way to work. It was crisp cool morning, a sharp downturn in temperature from the day before. Even so early, the morning shadows had begun to recede to their point of origin. After a stinging winter of snowstorms, the onset of summer had him feeling chipper and light.

A cubbyhole of a place had just opened for business, and there was a neon advertising sign in the front window. A pastry shop had replaced the tiny shoe repair store where Guy Bateman had resoled shoes for, what seemed to David, half the city. David would miss seeing Guy, he thought, until he looked through the front glass doors into the cramped little nook. A girl in her early twenties was behind the counter, ringing up a customer. She had the cutest face and the sweetest little smile to ever mesmerize David, especially in only an instant.

The ringing of a bell over the door announced David as he stepped in to check her out. He would order coffee and a donut just to have an excuse for walking in. The aroma of dark Colombian coffee and high LDL foodstuffs was thick, but he wasn’t due a medical exam anytime soon.

A latté, he said, once the last customer left. He and the girl were now alone; he couldn’t have timed it any better had he tried.

Just that and the frosted donut? she asked, looking down at the pastry he’d selected.

David stared at her, having hardly heard what she said. Her eyes were shiny blue pearls; the black eyeliner and blue eye shadow had clearly been painted on by a master--surely Rembrandt himself.

She smiled and stared, waiting for David to speak. Just the latté and the donut, sir? This is our first day of business.

Did anyone ever tell you you’re as cute as the Pillsbury Dough Girl? he gushed, as she fixed a lid onto his coffee cup.

Are you saying I’m fat? she asked in a subtle tease—one which he didn’t immediately catch.

David jolted awake, thinking he had just offended her. No, no! I just meant…cute. He gathered his senses. But you’ve got fingers and presumably toes.

Yes. Ten of each, I think.

What’s your name? he asked.

Karette. She smiled coyly, knowing he was already taken with her. My daddy was a jeweler and my grandfather came here from France.

After David paid, she wiped off the countertop and then looked up at him expectantly. It was obvious he didn’t want to leave.

I’m David. David Witherspoon. I’m an epidemiologist.

A what?

I analyze health statistics.

You don’t mean temperatures and blood pressures, do you?

No. Things that could be linked to diseases, like smoking causing lung cancer. It was a better example than tomatoes conceivably causing diabetes.

Oh.

The bell over the door jingled at another customer who entered. The newcomer was a sharp looking man in his late twenties and wearing an expensive suit, hurrying to get in and get out with a cup of rich black coffee and a length of glazed over chocolate calories. David had to work fast.

How about meeting me for a cup of coffee? David whispered, leaning in toward Karette.

Karette looked down at the coffee she had just handed him. He followed her gaze.

Somewhere else, he added, then looking back up into her transfixing eyes.

A curl of blond hair bounced around on her forehead as she leaned over the counter—and toward David--to look at the other customer.

I don’t know, she whispered back. How old are you?

Twenty-eight.

I’m only twenty-two.

That’s close enough, David said, trying to sound casual, yet persuasive.

She appeared skeptical. The new customer walked up with a steaming cup of coffee, and he nibbled on his Martha Stewart chocolate-almond square.

David felt as though he was standing before God, awaiting the Ten Commandments—Karette’s pronouncement. Such moments could be life-changers. Two more customers walked in together, and David’s heart began to race. He couldn’t think of hurrying off to work. He could only think of her. Screw punctuality—for the first time in his life.

Well? David asked.

Karette glanced uncomfortably at the customer waiting behind David and then at the other two who were bent over and pointing at the pastries under glass. She leaned forward again to whisper. Let me think it over. Can you come back tomorrow?

David nodded somewhat sadly, paid, and left. Even though she hadn’t said yes, neither had she said no. His destiny was perhaps at hand, but he wasn’t encouraged.

Just as David exited the shop, the glass door at his hand exploded. Chards of glass burst all around him and landed in tinkling little musical notes on the sidewalk. He suddenly realized he’d heard a shot and then, quickly, two more in rapid succession. He was too stunned to realize what was happening until he heard Karette screaming inside the store. There were cars whizzing past buildings across the street, parked cars on the curbs, and people walking to work. David dropped down to the sidewalk and looked out at the street, thinking there must have been a drive-by shooting in progress, maybe over drugs or over some other score to settle. He had no idea who had shot and nearly hit him. He glanced around to try and see who the target must have been. Everyone in the immediate vicinity was lying flat or hiding behind a car. Then, David noticed that there was no one else even close to him. Either the shooter was terrible at aiming or…or he was the target.

A black Chevy Tahoe went flying by in the far lane, headed in the direction of the NIH. A man in the back seat, head out the window, had his eyes glued to David’s and a pistol in his hand. He was aiming for yet another shot while a second man drove. David barely got a glimpse of the shooter. He was white and had dark hair, but that was all David could tell because cars came along in the opposite direction and blocked his view. His view, and that of the shooter. David watched the gunman’s car for another fifty yards, unable to do anything but stare for a moment. It suddenly dawned on him that it was time to leave.

He didn’t think it wise to go back into the store where the gunmen had obviously waited for him and might have him trapped inside--where Karette was. He glanced into the store to be sure she and the others hadn’t been hit and then he jumped to his feet, running in the direction opposite that of the shooter’s car. David had to find someplace to hide before the Tahoe got turned around and came back after him.

Something hot burned David’s chest. Maybe he’d been hit after all, he surmised. He’d heard plenty of stories of people being shot and not knowing it at first. Getting limbs blown off and then wondering whose leg or arm they were looking at. David glanced down as he ran. There were light brown splotches all over his starched dress shirt and expensive silk tie. He noticed the crumpled cup of coffee still in his hand, lid now gone, cup empty. He threw down the cup and squashed donut and then sprinted for his parking garage. It was only a block and a half away. His slip-ons noisily slapped the sidewalk as fleeting possibilities swept through his head.

Who would want to kill me? Me, of all people? Surely, not some jealous boyfriend.

David and his last girlfriend had broken up almost three months earlier, and he was still on the prowl for a new one. They had squabbled endlessly over a multitude of insignificant issues and hadn’t made it. Now, another romantic possibility at hand, how would Karette do with nearly getting shot?

They looked too professional for the shooting to have been a drug related drive-by, David mused to himself. Someone with careful planning and a cool demeanor had nearly shot him. Fortunately, pistols were not good for targets more than fifty or a hundred feet away, especially out of a moving vehicle.

David turned right at the parking garage entrance and flew toward the space on the ground level where he kept his Toyota parked for an unreasonable eighty-five dollars a month. Even at a time like that, he was pissed about what he had to pay each month. He slid to a stop behind his champagne colored car and started to hop inside.

No, I can’t use my car! They may know what it looks like. They could be waiting right outside for me to drive off in it. The NIH is less than three blocks away. Down the alley at the rear of the parking garage for a little more than two blocks. Out in the open for another fifty yards. Then, I’ll be back at the building. Go inside where there is security. Call the cops if someone hasn’t by then.

In the alley, he hurtled collapsed cardboard boxes, and he avoided stepping on a discarded Zippo lighter.

To twist an ankle right now could be my death. End of the alley coming up. Don’t forget to look both ways for the shooters and only then cross the street. They could be waiting anywhere.

David came to a halt behind a large, dark green trash container at the corner of the alley and the street across from the NIH. He could see the front glass doors to the NIH building, just an eternity away. If he could make it there, he’d probably live. Maybe, anyhow.

Better a moving target.

He dashed from behind the safety of the metal container and the narrow alley, and flew out onto the busy street as cars whizzed past.

He heard a whining noise, now an all too familiar sound. The bullet smashed into the front bumper of someone’s car. A shooter had only missed by five feet or less, and David couldn’t spot the black SUV. Damned good shot from a moving car. Maybe from that dark green sedan, half a block away.

David stopped worrying so much about traffic as he galloped through it to gain the far sidewalk. He ran up the front steps of the building, leaping them three at a time. As he got to the glass front doors to the NIH office building, the pane from one of the doors suddenly shattered. A second bullet from the black Tahoe ricocheted off the metal doorframe to his left. He threw open the good door and rushed inside. The security guard was already on his feet--eyes wide open, mouth ajar, and his never used pistol drawn.

Help me, Harold! David screamed. Someone’s trying to kill me!

Who?

Chapter IV

Harold was so old he had retired from retirement. White haired and with a deeply worn face, he would have been hunched over even when standing at attention—not that he ever did. He laid his pistol on the reception desk where it would be close at hand. It was pointed at the front door. He and David sat behind the reception desk as David explained in rapid-fire fragments of speech what had just happened. Harold’s eyes rolled left and right, watching David and the front door almost simultaneously. Finally, a woman at the police station answered David’s phone call.

That took long enough! he bellowed into the receiver. There’s been a shooting here at the NIH, but what if it was a real emergency?

Why don’t you go up to your office and wait for the police? Harold suggested, once the call had been completed and the police were headed his way. I doubt the assailants know you work on seven.

I hate to leave you alone down here, David said.

What could you do if they walked in right now?

Mess my pants, David conceded. You’re right. I’ll be upstairs, waiting in my office.

David took the elevator up. There was a short hallway leading from the elevators to the Epidemiology Department. He opened the frosted glass door to his area of the department and went inside, walked down a couple of carpeted aisles, and stopped at his familiar, hollow-eyed desk. He plopped down in his familiar armchair from where he normally studied statistics and Carolyn, although he didn’t get paid for watching her taut behind and luscious chest. That’s what’s call a Benny he told himself, since there was no one else in the office yet with which to joke about her. If it came to a choice of benefits, he might choose watching her bust line over establishing a 401 (k).

An idea crossed his mind. As he thought about it, something at work had seemed unusual. The whine of bullets and the noise of exploding glass had sharpened his focus. This wasn’t a police matter, he realized; it was one for the FBI. He wondered if the shooting was related to the reason Hawkins and his associate had contacted him at the bar, but it seemed so improbable.

David picked up the phone to call the front desk. Harold, tell the cops what happened; but I’m going to call the FBI. I think this may be related to something that happened here recently.

Can I ask what?

No, sorry. I don’t think I should say.

Well, the building is secure now. I can see cops walking up the front steps, and another squad car just pulled up.

Tell them to wait down there. I’m fine for now. I’m going to call the FBI and see if they don’t think this is something for them.

David grabbed a phone book and slashed at the pages with his index finger. FBI, FBI. Where the hell…? There! He crammed his finger onto the page next to the phone number and dialed.

God! If they’d hit Karette…

Some woman answered, apparently at the FBI’s switchboard. David asked to speak to Agent Hawkins whose name he still remembered. He couldn’t think of the other guy’s name. Watkins, Wilhoite? Something like that. Hawkins was the big cheese, with focused, almost angry looking eyes like a hawk’s; and he was far more straight-forward and even more comfortable to talk to than the other guy, Wilson or Woodrow, who seemed stand-offish.

The telephone operator told David to wait a moment. Years seemed to tick by as he did.

Agent Hawkins.

This is David Witherspoon. Someone just tried to shoot me, David said, panting into the phone. He just then realized how hyped he still was.

Witherspoon? Oh! We met at the bar!

Yeah. As I walked out of a pastry shop about ten minutes ago, someone took several shots at me. Then again as I ran back here into the NIH building.

You’re okay?

Yes. The cops are downstairs. I just remembered something--from them shooting at me. It happened at work about two weeks ago. It was right before I met you. Some data were really bizarre, but I didn’t know what to make of it at the time. It seemed harmless enough. My boss can usually find the problem in no time, but he always tells me when he’s got it fixed. This time, he didn’t.

What kind of data?

Cancer statistics.

Cancer?

Yeah. I didn’t see it as anything criminal. But when you think about it, it really was--if it’s true. If the data were actually…intentionally…altered.

I don’t know, Hawkins stammered as he mulled it over. But, oh… Well… I guess we’d better pick you up and look into it.

When?

Right now. We can be there in half an hour.

Chapter V

The doors to Epidemiology squeaked open, and David’s heart leapt into his throat. It was early still, and the building was relatively empty. He knew he was basically on his own, there on the seventh floor, if one of the shooters had somehow gotten in.

He smiled in relief when he recognized the two faces.

Warner and Hawkins, thank God!

He realized he had suddenly remembered Warner’s name.

Let’s go back to my office to talk, Hawkins suggested.

David could immediately tell that nothing Hawkins said was just a suggestion.

I want those cops to follow us, David insisted.

No problem, Warner agreed, clucking under his breath at David’s timidity about nearly getting shot.

David found himself surrounded in blue as he left the building and hurried to Hawkins’ car which was parked right out front. Then, the police took their positions. One car led and two followed. They passed the vans of two TV crews that were hurrying to the scene.

Soon, the threesome arrived at the Hoover Building. Two police detectives accompanied them into the building so they could get the necessary information to make a report of the incident.

The building looked cold and formidable to David as they entered. The security guard at the front lobby checked them in. Then, the group of five snaked their way through an endless maze of aloof, threatening hallways until they reached the debriefing room where David would spend the next several hours.

My God, David said as he scanned the room. I sure never expected to find myself inside this building. The real J. Edgar…

Hawkins took David by a shirtsleeve and guided him to a chair.

Have a seat, Hawkins offered. You’re going to be here quite a while. Coffee or a soda? We can round up a sandwich if you’re hungry?

No thanks, I just… David remembered how his morning had started. "Yes, actually. Coffee and a donut would be great.

*****

After getting David situated in a debriefing room, Hawkins had to leave the building. He told David to write down everything he could remember in the minutest detail. Warner coached David with his recollections and then, after three hours that passed like minutes, took David to lunch.

As Warner bit into a hamburger big enough for three men, David watched ketchup ooze out the back; and he was reminded of his blood almost spilled.

Warner seemed more agreeable to David, once he had the leading role. Still, there were twinges of condescension.

You must get tired reading numbers all day. Your eyeballs must be really tired by the end of the day, Warner joked.

David could tell by the tone that Warner certainly wasn’t passing out compliments. He wanted to tell Warner to drop dead, but didn’t. Warner might just be the agent that would end up saving David’s life.

Late that afternoon, Hawkins returned and sent for David who was still in the debriefing room. Soon, David sat in an upholstered chair in Hawkins’ ground floor office and began relating what he remembered about the abnormal cancer statistics, occasionally referring to his notes.

Over the next fifteen minutes, a small stream of straggler agents congregated around Hawkins’ open office door to listen in. Hawkins didn’t seem to mind; in fact, he rather encouraged them. Rumors of potential American bioterrorism had quickly spread throughout the building, and curiosity was soaring, even at quitting time.

About two weeks ago, David said, I found spikes in two rare types of cancer. I mean, they really shot up—right off the chart! My boss, Kermit Nance, called a physician consultant. The doc said they were about the two most aggressive cancers out there. One was… David referred to his notes to jog his memory. ‘Anaplastic thyroid carcinoma’ and the other was ‘inflammatory breast carcinoma.’ I had to call back to the NIH to get the exact names of the two types of cancer. You know—they were just names to me. Also, I told them what happened—about the shooting this morning.

At first, I remember we all thought ‘inflammatory’ meant an infection. But the physician consultant said no. Rather, the cancer spread so fast it made women’s breasts red and hard and painful. It just looked like an infection, it spread so fast. The thyroid cancers were just as deadly. The consultant looked into some of the specific cases I had reviewed. He said the patients died incredibly fast, even for horribly aggressive cancers. A few within a month.

So how is cancer a form of bioterrorism? Warner asked impatiently.

David glanced over at him, irritated at the sarcastic tone; and then he returned his attention to Hawkins and willfully avoided looking at Warner.

I bumped into Brooke Sanders who was walking out of the Surgeon General’s office, David explained. She works for him. David broke into a broad smile. She’s really cute. Long legs, tight ass, firm…"

Can you get on with it? Warner interrupted.

What I meant was that I wanted to ask her out. So, in order to get her to stop and talk to me, I asked her about the unusual cancer stats we sent her. I figured we’d soon see the Surgeon General on TV telling people to stop eating iodine or something. I mean, those stats were really wild. Not up ten percent or even a whopping fifty, but hundreds of percent!

Warner stared suspiciously at David for his improbable and somewhat meandering story, yet Hawkins remained fixated on David’s story.

So, she asks me, David continued, ‘what stats? We didn’t get anything unusual.’ I said, ‘How could that be? They were sky high.’ And she says, ‘No, they weren’t. There was nothing unusual. I would have noticed something like that.’

Hawkins rocked forward on his elbows to study David as he spoke. The senior agent then swayed his back to stretch it and cracked his knuckles. It appeared he wanted David to get to the punch line.

‘And what about the breasts? I asked her. Shit! Then, I looked down at her blouse. I was so embarrassed. ‘Come with me,’ she says. So, I followed her back to the Surgeon General’s office where her office is. She pulls a folder out of a file cabinet and wham! Slams down the figures we sent her and says, ‘There! Those are the numbers you gave us. Where’s the uptick…?’ ‘David’, I said, wanting her to remember