Dead Air (Sammy Greene Thriller) Read online

  Dead Air

  Also by Deborah Shlian

  FICTION

  Rabbit in the Moon

  Nursery (Re-released as Double Illusion)

  Wednesday’s Child

  NONFICTION

  Self-Help Handbook of Symptoms and Treatments

  Women in Medicine and Management: A Mentoring Guide

  New Frontiers in Healthcare Management:

  MBAs Evolving in the Business of Medicine

  Also by Linda Reid

  FICTION

  Where Angels Fear to Tread (aka Yolanda Pascal)

  NONFICTION

  Collaboration Across the Disciplines in Health Care

  (aka Yolanda Reid Chassiakos, co-Editor)

  DEAD AIR

  A Novel

  DEBORAH SHLIAN

  &LINDA REID

  Copyright © 2009 by Deborah Shlian and Linda Reid

  FIRST EDITION

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN: 978-1-933515-50-2

  Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing,

  Ipswich, Massachusetts

  www.oceanviewpub.com

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  For our parents

  Joseph and Evelyn Matchar

  and

  E.G. and Effie Stassinopoulos

  Acknowledgments

  Dead Air is a work of fiction, but the setting is authentic, and the premise is frighteningly plausible. In addition to our own experiences as medical directors at university student health services and as principal investigators in medical research, we drew on the expertise of Dr. Warren Strauss, Dr. Jonathan Hayes, Dr. Joel Shlian, Dr. Steve Singer, and Steve Tiplitsky. Special appreciation to Alice Suna, Steve Manton and E.G. Stassinopoulos, avid thriller fans who tirelessly read and critiqued our manuscript.

  Thanks also go to Bob and Pat Gussin, Susan Greger, John Cheesman, Maryglenn McCombs, and Susan Hayes from Oceanview Publishing who all helped to launch this first of the Sammy Greene thriller series. And to George Foster for another beautiful cover.

  Finally, thanks to our spouses, Joel Shlian and Anastasios Chassiakos, for their unfailing love and support.

  Deborah Shlian and Linda Reid

  “If you really want to reform American higher education, start by burning the buildings and hanging the professors.”

  —H. L. Mencken

  “The greatest good to the greatest number is the measure of right and wrong.”

  — Jeremy Bentham: Volume X of Works (1830)

  “America’s research universities today rest on unstable and shifting ground.”

  — Sergio Vest, President of MIT, to a White House panel, May 1992

  Dead Air

  Prologue

  ELLSFORD UNIVERSITY, NITSHI INSTITUTE

  LOCKED LAB

  JULY 1995

  Cacophonous shrieks and squeals of ten pigtail macaques ricocheted off the walls of the soundproofed fourth-floor lab. One small, scanty-haired monkey rocked back and forth, hitting the outer wire-mesh barrier of her enclosure, her silver neck collar clanging against metal like a prisoner’s cowbell. The animal peeled back its gums in a yellow-toothed grimace and reached out its paw as if pleading for help.

  “Damn near human, huh?” Lila Raymond had just wheeled her housekeeping cart into the room. The “Danger, Infected Animals” sign kept her at a cautious distance, but as she moved alongside an empty cage, she asked the handler, “Where’s the big guy?”

  “Didn’t make it.”

  The plump cleaning lady shook her head. Night after night for the past eighteen months she’d seen the macaques grow thinner and weaker until most were gone.

  The handler shrugged. Not his responsibility. Lila knew he was just hired help. Though if rumors were true, not for much longer. A guy on the day shift claimed that with animal rights activists screaming bloody murder, the medical director planned to terminate the project.

  For a few moments the monkey struggled to squeeze its body through the bars, then with a small, pitiful yelp, withdrew, exhausted, against the back of the cage.

  “Poor creature. Guess she don’t like being here.” Who could blame her, Lila thought, noting the placard on the wire mesh marked “Placebo.” Lila didn’t know what the word meant, but she did know one thing: every one of the monkeys in that same group had long since died.

  ELLSFORD UNIVERSITY

  ORIENTATION WEEK

  JULY 1995

  The alarm roused her from a deep sleep. Lucy Peters reached for the snooze button, then, realizing she’d already squandered her nine bonus minutes, forced herself awake.

  Her eyes stung, assaulted by a ray of bright sunshine from a crack in the window blinds. Ten after eight.

  It didn’t seem possible. She’d crashed on the lumpy mattress only three hours before. Learning her way around the small New England campus, registering for classes, sorority rush, meeting new friends— especially one handsome sophomore who’d made her forget her old boyfriend in Sioux City— orientation week at Ellsford University left little time for sleep.

  She heard voices from the hallway just outside her dorm room. Better hurry or she’d lose the competition for the communal showers. She threw back the covers and stumbled to the closet for her floral print robe — her parents’ going away present. Not her style, but then parents are parents.

  As she tied the belt around her narrow waist and wiggled her feet into matching slippers, she flashed an image of her father’s furrowed brow and her mother’s forced smile when she’d announced her choice of a small New England campus over Iowa State. Lucy hoped they could hear her across the miles. “I’m eighteen now, making my own choices, and doing just fine.”

  In fact, she’d just made an important decision. Later that morning she’d tell the doctor in Student Health she’d join his study. Mom and Dad always preached that in this world you needed to give back. Energized by the sense of purpose, Lucy grabbed her towel and headed down the hallway.

  ELLSFORD UNIVERSITY

  FIRST OUARTER

  SEPTEMBER 21, 1995

  Sergio Pinez barely felt the steel point of the butterfly pierce the skin of his forearm. Less than a bee sting. Just like last time.

  He shut his eyes while the gloved doctor removed several vials of blood. Sergio despised needles, only agreeing to all this because they claimed he had no choice. Something about new requirements for freshmen. According to the doctor, college campuses were plagued by outbreaks of measles and mumps. Anyone who hadn’t received a booster since childhood had to be vaccinated. He’d gotten the shot two months ago during summer orientation, so now he was back for tests. Actually the second set in two weeks.

  “To make sure you’ve developed antibodies — that’s immunity — to these viruses. Otherwise we won’t know if the vaccine is working.”

  Sergio didn’t completely understand the doctor’s explanation, but if it was all part of college life, so be it. Ellsford University had been his dream school since he’d first heard about it from his high school band teacher. Nestled in the hills of Vermont, Ellsford’s two-hundred-and-fifty-wooded-acre campus boasted a top law sc
hool, a renowned medical center, and an impressive humanities program. A world away from 124th Street in Spanish Harlem.

  “Terrific music department. With your outstanding talent on the flute, you have a real shot.”

  A ticket to a future.

  Two years later, after a perfect audition, he’d won the coveted spot in the freshman class.

  “All right. One more and you’re all set.”

  Sergio closed his eyes even more tightly. “Good.”

  Pulling a syringe from his pocket, the doctor removed its plastic cap and injected clear fluid into the boy’s vein. “That’s it.”

  Sergio exhaled. By the time he’d opened his eyes, the doctor had extracted the butterfly cannula and was placing a small Band-Aid over the site. “We’ll need you back in eight weeks for a blood test.”

  “More blood? Do you have to?”

  The doctor’s smile was reassuring. “Absolutely.”

  “I don’t know my practice schedule yet.” Unlike his family physician who’d performed a few cursory taps on his chest and knees, filled out the form, and sent him on his way, this doctor probed his history and prodded his body for almost an hour. But then Dr. Ortiz had delivered Sergio. There was nothing he didn’t know about him. Especially after his last visit.

  “Six p.m.” The doctor checked his pocket calendar, then wrote the date on a blank prescription. “November sixteenth. Here in Student Health. The clinic will be closed, but I’ll meet you at the entrance and let you in.”

  “I’m just a freshman. How come I rate special service?” Sergio asked as he sat up on the exam table.

  The doctor patted the boy on his shoulder. “Students are our number one priority here at EU.”

  Sergio hopped off the table. “Thanks.” He extended his hand. “I’m glad I came here.”

  Ten minutes later, headed off toward the music building, Sergio Pinez had no idea how truly wrong that decision had been.

  The doctor reviewed the entries for S.P., Patient #14, before closing the file and shutting down his PC.

  7/1/95 Viral culture: negative; Anti-HIV antibodies: negative; Polymerase chain reaction assay: negative

  7/5/95 Vaccination administered. Batch #25497

  9/7/95 Anti-HIV antibodies: positive (ELISA and confirmatory Western blot), T4 cell subsets: helper/suppressor ratio 1.2, Absolute helper cells 680, White blood cell count 8,700, 76% segs, 22% lymphs, Platelets adequate, Hemoglobin 14, Chem panel normal

  9/21/95 Intravenous challenge administered. Lab repeated. Return: 11/22/95.

  That next visit would be critical, the doctor knew. The difference between success and failure. Life or death.

  CHAPTER ONE

  NOVEMBER 16, 1995

  THURSDAY MORNING

  From the last row, Sammy Greene watched the professor pace the stage of the tiered lecture hall. He seemed mesmerized by the piece of chalk he tossed up and down in his left hand like a tennis ball. Though no science fan, the freckle-faced junior had to admit that Professor Barton Conrad possessed a true gift. For three months, he’d pushed and prodded the two-hundred-plus undergrads who packed his gateway class, until even Sammy, a communications major, had begun to appreciate the elegance of genetics.

  “Consider, for a moment, an amplifier powerful enough to convert the inaudible whir of butterfly wings into the roar of a seven forty-seven.” Conrad pointed to a plastic model of a double helix balanced on the edge of the demonstration lab bench. “That’s what a new tool called PCR routinely does to the tiniest piece of this DNA molecule.”

  Slouching against the blackboard, he looked up toward the back row. “What, by the way, is PCR?”

  Several hands rose, but most students remained hunched over open books, studiously avoiding eye contact. Sammy, fearing her bright red curly mop of hair — her best and worst feature — might be a target, kept her head up, but slid her five foot slender frame a little lower in her seat. If Conrad called on her today, she’d be ahf tzoris as her late Grandma Rose, who’d taught her Yiddish, would say. Last minute prepping for her campus radio show had trumped reading the assigned material.

  “Mr. Stanton, could you enlighten us?”

  The blond-haired sophomore was a mere three seats from Sammy. Better him than me, she thought. She breathed a sigh of relief as Stanton flashed his disingenuous smile. “Sorry, didn’t catch the question.”

  Embarrassed titters from his cohorts.

  “That’s ’cause it wasn’t a ball,” Conrad parried, aiming a look of disdain at the young man he knew to be one of the university’s star hoopsters and one of his least promising science students. “The answer is polymerase chain reaction. PCR. You might be surprised to know a jock like you discovered it.”

  “Cool. Did he play basketball?”

  “No. Kary Mullis is a surfer — among his other hobbies.” Conrad resumed his pacing as he delivered a two-minute lecture on the eccentric inventor and the discovery that revolutionized biology.

  “While winding through the mountains of northern California in his Honda Civic, Mullis envisioned a way to copy a single fragment of DNA in a chain reaction so gracefully simple, it makes Mother Nature’s work seem tacky.”

  “Like a biological Xerox machine,” a girl in the middle of the class volunteered.

  “Probably a pre-med,” Sammy grumbled under her breath.

  “Not a bad analogy, Miss Novak, though slightly misleading. PCR cranks out copies of DNA, not one by one, but in an exponential fashion.”

  The young woman’s head bobbed up and down to show off her understanding. “Twice the genetic material each cycle?”

  Definitely a pre-med.

  “Exactly, and invaluable to researchers who require relatively large quantities of DNA,” Conrad responded, “or to someone who needs to know if a given gene sequence is present in a test sample of DNA.”

  “Haven’t they used that technique to find murderers?” Sammy interjected, her interest piqued.

  “And in some cases, convict them.” Conrad added with a hint of irony. “With PCR, law enforcement labs can make an identification from the DNA in dried saliva left on a cigarette butt, a licked envelope, even a single hair. Basically any bodily fluid or tissue can be analyzed — bone chips, bloodstains, or semen. Imagine if Sherlock Holmes —”

  “Is this on the midterm?” Bud Stanton interrupted.

  “Let’s just say this, Mr. Stanton. You’re going to need to know this material and then some to pass my class. You in the game?”

  Stanton favored Conrad with a polite smile and a barely perceptible nod. “Double or nothing,” the athlete mumbled just loudly enough for the few students nearby to hear.

  Conrad glanced at the overhead clock. “Then match game begins Monday, folks. Remember to bring two blue books and a couple of number two pencils for the exam. I’m afraid I’m late for a meeting,” he said, collecting his lecture notes from his desk and heading for the door. “Any last-minute questions, come by my office from three to four tomorrow. After that, you’re on your own.” At the door, he turned to the class, “Oh, and good luck,” his eyes focused on Stanton, “to all of you.”

  Conrad disappeared before Stanton’s smile slid into a menacing sneer.

  FRIDAY. NOVEMBER 17, 1995

  1:00P.M.

  “All I remember is the pain.” After a few moments, the tremulous voice choked back a sob. “I couldn’t tell anyone. Ever.”

  “Talking about it helps,” Sammy answered gently. “You’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.” She nodded and gave a thumbs up signal at the engineer’s window across from her rickety stool. For Sammy, these few hours hosting her own daily campus radio broadcast were a welcome respite from the challenge of required science and math courses. Sammy had worked the graveyard shift, midnight to six a.m., for six months to stir up buzz for her talk show The Hot Line and to finally land the prime afternoon spot. Now it was the most listened-to program on the Ellsford campus — if not St. Charlesbury itself.

  �
��We were friends,” the caller explained. “I never thought he’d do something like that.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Sammy reassured her again. “Tell us what happened.”

  “We had a couple beers, that’s all. He was going to crash at my place for a few hours, you know.”

  “Mmm.” Sammy encouraged vocally, as she scribbled notes on her station log, and cast a pleased eye at the bank of telephone lights blinking invitingly off to her side.

  “I thought he just wanted to sleep. And then. And then.” The caller could no longer hold back her tears. “He attacked me! I tried to fight, but he was so big. There was nothing I could do!” Her crying filled the cramped room.

  “I know,” came the soothing response. “It’s okay.” Sammy paused, “Did you call the police?”

  The voice sounded terrified. “I-I couldn’t. I c-can’t.”

  Sammy shook her head, but continued, “It’s hard, I understand. Maybe calling our campus support group at the Rape Crisis Center can help.” Reaching off to her left, she grabbed a scrap of paper. “Campus extension forty-eight twenty-four,” she read. “Forty-eight twenty-four, twenty-four hours a day. Thanks so much for sharing with us.” Before the woman could respond, Sammy clicked off the connection.

  “Sex, Lies, and Date Rape, today on The Hot Line, Ellsford station W-E-L-L.” She punched another of the blinking phone buttons. “Hello, you’re on the air.”

  “This is Jeff.”

  “Yeah, Jeff, go ahead.”

  “It’s all bullsh —”

  Sammy managed to hit the buzzer before her caller completed the word. “Keep it clean,” she warned.

  “Okay. How come it’s ‘yes’ until the morning? Then she changes her mind.”