W is for Wasted

“My father,” Pete said. He felt an instant dislike for the young man, who apparently thought his being a doctor entitled him to probe Pete’s genetic history when the two had only just been introduced. Marfan was an autosomal dominant condition, which meant that a defective gene from only one parent was needed to pass the disease on. It also meant that each child of an affected parent has a 50-50 chance of inheriting the defective gene. It annoyed Pete that in his “doctor” role, Linton Reed had adopted a deeper tone of voice. This was meant to underscore his authority, conveying the rights vested in him as a medical wizard entitled to pry into everybody else’s private business.

The good doctor probably hoped to open up a whole discussion of Pete’s condition, but Pete had something else on his mind. Linton Reed was a charmer and fully accustomed to exercising his personal magnetism. He was a sheepdog at heart. He looked harmless, but he couldn’t resist herding his fellow man. He’d been born with an unerring instinct for bending others to his will. Pete had had a dog like that once, a border collie named Shep who just couldn’t help himself. Take a walk in the woods with friends and Shep would dash ahead and behind, keeping everyone together whether they wanted that or not. The urge was inbred and the implication was always that the dog knew better than you did.

Pete loathed the man sitting across the desk from him. He remembered prigs like him in grade school, smart, but soft from sitting on their big fat superior white asses while kids like Pete rose to the challenge of the bullies. Linton—shit, even his name was prissy—would dissolve in tears while Pete fought down to the bitter end. His nose might be bloody and his shirt torn, the back of his pants streaked with dirt and grass stains, but the other guy always backed off first. His opponents took to coming after him with chains and stones, at which point he was sometimes forced to concede. Anything short of that, Pete was fearless.

Dr. Reed adjusted his watchband, not checking the face, which would have been rude, but making his point nonetheless.

“Ms. Sobel mentioned you had a personal matter to discuss.”

“I’m here to do you a favor.”

The set smile appeared. “And what might that be?”

Pete opened the folder he’d brought with him and placed it on the desk. He wet his index finger and turned a page or two. “It’s come to my attention that you’re in a bit of a sticky situation.”

“Oh?”

“This is in regard to the Phase II clinical trials involving a drug called Glucotace. I confess I don’t understand all the nitty-gritty details, but according to my sources, the drug was originally intended for diabetics until it was taken off the market for what turned out to be, in some instances, fatal side effects. Your current hypothesis is that in combination with Acamprosate and another drug . . .”

“Naltrexone, which is in common use. Studies have shown it mitigates the craving for alcohol.”

Pete held up a piece of paper. “I’m aware of that. It says so right here. Your theory is those two drugs plus Glucotace might prove effective in the treatment of nicotine and alcohol addiction.”

“Statistics show alcoholic smokers are more prone to severe nicotine dependence than are nonalcoholics with higher smoking rates.” Dr. Reed’s tone was bemused and slightly professorial, as though Pete might benefit from enlightenment. “We’re just beginning to address the relationship.”

“And we appreciate your attention to the matter,” Pete said. “With regard to Glucotace, your observation was that patients in treatment for alcohol dependence often develop a craving for sweets, which naturally plays havoc with their insulin levels. Your idea was to control glucose as a means of minimizing the peaks and valleys. Use of Glucotace, in this instance, would be classified as off-label.”

The doctor smiled. “And you know this how? I’m just curious.”

“Get an NIH grant and much of this is public record. The rest I picked up on my own. Success here would go a long way toward boosting your career. Comes to publishing, you’re already ahead of the curve. How many papers in this year alone? Forty-seven by my count. You’re a busy boy.”

“Some of those were coauthored.”

“Duly noted. I made a copy of the list.”

Linton Reed’s face remained blank. No herding behavior here. “I don’t understand where you’re going with this.”

“You want the long version or the short?”

Dr. Reed’s eyes were dead. “Keep it short.”

“There’s been some suggestion you’re cooking your data.”