The Color of Wounds Read online

  He saw the center back door open slightly, just enough to allow Byron Losiewicz and a tall, thin black man to squeeze through. The black man held his head high, his jaw was set—defiant. Losiewicz literally had his hat in hand. His face reminded Kent of a trapped rabbit.

  CHAPTER 7

  By the time Bonita Lipton declared a recess for lunch, things were looking bad for the OCO camp. By three o’clock, the Burman machine was on a juggernaut.

  Kent and Loren had both testified—for what it was worth. Kent felt that Huddleston had avoided the pointed questions that would have allowed them to really paint a graphic picture for Lipton. He never mentioned the military. Jimmy the janitor was surprisingly convincing in his anger, but could not hold up against the Burman lawyer’s bombardment. Losiewicz was pitiful.

  Reverend Dunlap’s testimony was a pack of carefully worded half-truths that bordered on out-and-out lies and varied in the extreme from what she had said when Kent interviewed her. He kept hoping a bolt of lightning would crash through the ceiling and fry her on the spot. He noticed she glanced skyward a time or two when she made particularly deceitful statements.

  Kent knew they were in trouble when Bonita Lipton’s head began to nod in unconscious agreement with each point the Burman lawyer made. But the coup de grâce came when Dean Slater gave Moderator Lipton just the kind of everybody-gets-a-little-something easy out that all moderators hope for.

  “Grad students at the Burman A&M University Medical School are encouraged to work independently,” the dean said, in the pompous tone of an academic. “We are very proud of that fact. Unfortunately,” he paused here with a sad and sober look that no doubt was the envy of Reverend Dunlap. “Unfortunately, sometimes the system breaks down. That, I’m sorry to say, is what happened in this case. Although I believe in my heart that the OCO examiners, while working in good faith, have greatly exaggerated the degree of noncompliance in our psychiatry lab, I am willing to admit there were some…” He paused again, this time seeming to search for the right word, though it was obvious to Kent that he had rehearsed it. “… shortcomings. Our graduate students are required to take a solemn pledge that they will abide by the highest ethical standards while at Burman. It saddens me to say, the students who set up and carried out the experiments in question violated that pledge.”

  Kent watched Lipton’s head bob as it had before, then he looked over and saw Huddleston’s doing the same.

  Minutes later both sides had concluded their closing statements, Moderator Lipton had taken a depressingly short recess to contemplate, and then reconvened the hearing.

  She returned to the bench and cast a stern look to opposing tables. “My opinion, which I remind you both parties agreed would be binding, is as follows.” She slipped a single sheet from a manila folder and began to read. “Burman A&M University Medical School has violated its Public Health Service assurance statement regarding the humane care and treatment of animals used in federally funded experiments.”

  Kent’s spirits buoyed slightly.

  “However,” Lipton continued, “it seems to me that the infractions stem mainly from inappropriate and overzealous research techniques by lower-level personnel. In fact, it appears that the university’s involvement is unintentional and resulted from an honorable attempt to extend a cherished principle of higher education to its students, an unfettered opportunity to grow and explore.”

  Lipton paused and looked toward both sides with eyebrows raised.

  Kent balled his fists under the table. The university was getting off with a token punishment. Bentley and his military buddies were going to get off scot-free, just like Bentley said they would. A moan of frustration slipped from his lips.

  Loren heard it and leaned toward him. “You all right?”

  “Yes,” he said reflexively, then reconsidered. “No. I’m not! They’re throwing the grad students under the bus, for Christ’s sake.”

  “You sound surprised,” Loren said. “I told you how it would go.”

  “I didn’t believe it until now.”

  Bonita Lipton began reading again. “My recommendation is that the university empower a panel to review its policy on supervision of graduate student research and take steps to prevent transgressions of the type now before us. Furthermore, I recommend that those graduate students who participated in the unethical experiments be expelled from the university immediately. Lastly, I recommend that for the next five years the medical school be sanctioned to submit a separate OCO assurance for each project for which it seeks funding.”

  Lipton studied both tables for one last time. “If there are no questions, this hearing is closed.” She began collecting papers as the rumble of conversation rose throughout the room.

  Kent leaned way back in his chair and stared at Loren. “Why did you bother to call me down here if you knew we were going belly-up?”

  “At the time, I didn’t know it would go this way.”

  Kent detected shame in her voice.

  He was considering what to say next when he felt a nudge at his shoulder and looked up to see Douglas Huddleston beaming a smile down on him.

  “Too bad we didn’t get everything we wanted,” Huddleston said. “But that’s the nature of our bureaucracy. Right, Loren? You’ve been at it long enough to know.”

  Loren returned a tight-lipped smile.

  “Hey. You did the best you could. We all did. And I honestly believe this one goes in the ‘win’ column for us. We got the sanctions. They’ll be walking a fine line at the Berman for a long time. We did some good.”

  Loren and Kent listened to his bluster with disbelief and said nothing.

  Huddleston extended a hand and Kent reluctantly shook it. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Dr. Stephenson.”

  Kent watched the man’s back as he proceeded to the Burman table. Huddleston greeted their lawyer, the dean, and everyone else at the table with his bright smile and a pumping handshake.

  “The son-of-a-bitch sold us down the river, Loren.”

  “That, he did.”

  They both turned when Byron Losiewicz’s voice came from behind them.

  The old man’s face was a network of engorged veins. His words were choked with anger. “I call you in for some help and you do nothing. Nothing! You make it worse. Jimmy lose his job and me, too. Thank you very much!”

  He wheeled around to Jimmy who nodded his agreement and the pair stormed out.

  Kent watched them go, wanting to apologize, wanting to thank them for coming forward, wanting to wish them well.

  “Well,” Loren said. “I’m going to get drunk. You want to tag along?”

  “Thanks anyway. The suggestion has a lot of appeal, but I’m going straight to the airport, and home.”

  “I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “No thanks. I’ll have to eat plane food tonight.”

  “Well, in that case,” she stepped to him and gave him a long kiss on the lips. “It has been a pleasure Kent. I’d love to see you again under better circumstances. Take care of yourself.”

  Heels tapping, she marched down the aisle and out of the courtroom.

  Kent’s gaze followed her, then caught the group of Burman grad students standing in the back. The hairs on his neck stood as he realized the whole dozen students were staring at him like wolves eyeing a wounded deer.

  He tried to avoid their stares, but they knew he recognized them and the gauntlet had been thrown. The tiny blond woman who he had confronted in the Torture Lab led the others toward him. “Here come your scapegoats,” she said. It was an ugly warning as they approached.

  He tried to think of something disarming to say but couldn’t. He smiled awkwardly.

  “You fucked us over,” the woman said.

  Other students chimed in. “That stuff about an ethics pledge and latitude for independent research is a total cr
ock of shit. We thought you ought to know that.”

  “The way it works at Burman, or any other university, is the professors call the shots and get the credit, the grad students do the grunt work.”

  “Or get hung out to dry when need be.”

  The woman pointed a finger in Kent’s face. “You single-handedly destroyed our careers before we even got started. We’ll be academic pariahs from here on out.”

  Still growling among themselves, they turned and left the courtroom. Kent watched them go, genuinely feeling their pain and hating himself for contributing to it.

  CHAPTER 8

  Summer 1997

  The village green, in the center of Jefferson, was a half-acre or so plot of lawn and shady old maples, crisscrossed with walking paths. Like a comfortable old sweater, the people of Jefferson were accustomed to it and tended to take it for granted. They gave little thought to the fact that it was the heart of the village. It was where townsfolk gathered for the weekly farmer’s market, where the garden club held its annual flower sale, and where Winterfest held its snow sculpture contest. Villagers crowded there to watch the Memorial Day parade and listen to the dignitaries make their speeches. It was where everyone jockeyed for the best spot to set their lawn chairs for the Fourth of July fireworks.

  At one end of the green was an ancient cannon covered in rust, except along the top of the barrel, where the kids polished it with their butts when they straddled it like a horse. Next to the cannon was a grouping of flagpoles and a plaque commemorating Jeffersonians who fell in the various wars. But, without a doubt, the main feature in the park was the statue of Jefferson’s founder, Willard Covington. Covington had stood in granite permanence at the center of the green for over a hundred years.

  The statue stood the height of three men and depicted Covington as a rawboned young soldier, dressed in a ragged mix of continental soldier garb and buckskin. Two saturnine Indians, naked except for loincloths and moccasins, squatted beside him. He leaned on his musket, tricorn hat in hand, and carried an expression that dared anyone to challenge him for this land. He was a man of vision, the protector of Jefferson.

  It was the statue of Willard Covington that the young woman studied as the sun rose. She was shivering, partly from nerves, of course, because of what was about to happen, and partly from the cold. She’d been sitting on a park bench on the green all night. Her olive drab Army fatigue jacket was pulled tight around her neck. Her knees were tucked up under her chin with her arms wrapped around them. She wore no hat, and her boyishly cropped blond hair was damp with dew. Later, when police put out a call for information, people would describe her as about five feet two inches tall, early thirties.

  Tears ran down her cheeks, and she occasionally wiped them away with the back of her hand. She let out a soft, sad sound. She kept her eyes on the statue.

  CHAPTER 9

  Kent’s office at the Compassion Veterinary Center was darn near as big as his whole hospital had been back in the dark days. Back then he didn’t need all the electronics like the ones that occupied his desk now. There had only been one person to communicate with. That was Sally Heffernan. And if he needed her, he just shouted to her in the next room—louder than the barking dogs.

  He leaned back into his button-tufted leather chair that swiveled and rocked, raised and lowered, rolled and locked every way imaginable. He tossed his pen onto the expanse of walnut desk before him.

  “There, girl,” he said, to Lucinda. “Finished signing checks. I’m surprised I didn’t run out of ink.”

  Lucinda lounged on an orthopedic canine cushion that was superfluous, given the depth of carpet beneath it. She flipped her tail in acknowledgment of her master’s voice.

  “I remember when desk work took me twenty minutes a day and patient care took the rest. Now it seems like the other way around.”

  He paused a moment, reminiscing. “Of course, back then, in our little shoebox clinic, we had plenty of ink for signing checks—we just never had enough money to cover them.”

  Lucinda pushed herself to her feet, stretched and shook, and then ambled over to Kent. She sensed he needed something to pet.

  He patted her head and ruffled her ears. “Sometimes I think Elizabeth, Stef, and Aubrey duped me into building this monstrosity of a place. Each of them got what they wanted: Elizabeth got a world-class equine center. Stef got a guarantee that the CVC would study research risks for animals. And Aubrey’s weirdo friends in Hollywood got someone to champion animal rights.”

  He raised Lucinda’s velvet muzzle with his palm so that he was looking her square in the eye. “But, I’m the one chained to the desk who hardly ever gets a chance to touch a living animal anymore.”

  Lucinda gave him a ‘What am I, chopped liver?’ look.

  “Except you, of course.”

  He thought for a minute more, then let out a laugh. “What? Are you nuts, Kent? Things are a thousand times better than the old days.”

  He stood, stretched his back the way Lucinda had done, didn’t shake, and stepped to the plate-glass bay window that took up most of the front wall of his office. He stared out into FOAM Park at the workmen putting the finishing touches on the base and landscaping for the park’s new centerpiece—a statue of Simpatico, the greatest New York Thoroughbred stallion of all time—life-size, standing on a rugged stone base. The sun’s slanted rays played off the horse’s bronze mane, and it was as if the magnificent stallion was alive again.

  Kent studied the statue—Simpatico, tacked with racing saddle and silks, legs bound with protective racing wraps, he struck the air with an outstretched hoof. His head was held high, ears pricked forward, piercing eyes fixed on some imaginary challenger.

  Kent agreed with the artist—there should be no rider; no human could dominate Simpatico.

  The great horse’s death had been tragic. A murder. Kent knew the term applied only to killing of human beings, but no other word fit. To Kent, Simpatico had been murdered. He had died a cruel, senseless death at the hands of a greedy maniac. Such a loss, such a waste.

  He shook off the terrible memory. Today was the day, he thought. Today they would dedicate the statue.

  “Come on, Lucinda. Let’s go check things out.”

  With Lucinda at his side and taking the stairs two at a time, Kent headed to the floor directly above his office, the Behavior Center, the newest division at the CVC. When the advisory board had proposed it, Kent had been skeptical. He was sure it would turn into a parade of eccentric cat ladies bringing in felines that preferred to urinate on oriental rugs rather than in their litter box or distraught young couples who wanted sedatives to control the unruly pup they left in a crate for hours at a time.

  But the board had been convincing, and reluctantly, Kent had proceeded with the new division. Then a wonderful thing happened: The search committee found Dr. Phyllis Muelick and wooed her into accepting the job as head of what was affectionately known as the Psycho Ward.

  Dr. Muelick was born in Germany and educated at the University of Zurich, where she had worked with W.R. Hess and Konrad Lorenz, two great pioneers in animal behavior.

  She had lofty ideas about research and, to Kent’s delight, set goals for research to benefit both man and animals, instead of cajoling cats into litter pans.

  As Kent approached the door to the Psycho Ward, he stopped.

  “If you please,” he said to Lucinda.

  On cue, the big hound rose up, flipped the handle, and pushed her way through the door.

  Phyllis Muelick looked up from the appointment book she was reviewing with a receptionist and laughed.

  “Good morning, Kent,” she said, with a thick German accent. “I want a dog that will do that for me.”

  “Lucy’s got the handicap-accessible door knobs all figured out. It gives her a chance to show off her good manners. Makes things easy for me, too.”
/>   Muelick’s small frame was bent slightly at the shoulders. Her gray hair was pulled back into a tight bun. Her large front teeth gave her sort of the look of a chipmunk with glasses. She was in her mid-fifties, and Kent hoped she would spend the rest of her career at the center.

  “Speaking of animal behavior,” Kent said, “what’s going on today?”

  Muelick tapped her page of appointments. “The world is full of maladjusted animals.”

  “That’s why they make blue juice,” Kent said.

  “Ya? Euthanasia. Who is the German here, you or me?”

  “Do I sound like a Nazi?”

  “I know you are not as hard-hearted as you would have me believe.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Besides,” Muelick said, “you will be happy to know that in between the nutsy dogs and cats I see here every day, we are making good progress on our mare-foal imprinting project.” She knew Kent had a particular interest in horses and followed that project closely.

  “Excellent.”

  “Another thing, too.” She motioned to a door to her right that led into the labs where their research was conducted. “The Animal Models of Human Psychoses project got the green light.

  Kent raised his eyebrows in pleasant surprise. “Really? The National Science Foundation came through? Nice.”

  “You’ll be getting a letter on it, I’m sure. They gave us the whole amount.”

  AMHP project was Dr. Muelick’s brainchild. She would never say so, but Kent sensed she wanted a blockbuster, a project that would make a major contribution to behavior science before she retired. She had requested permission to apply for a National Science Foundation Grant to fund a large project that, as Muelick put it, had Nobel Prize potential. How could he refuse such a lofty goal?

  After his encounter with Loren Summer in Texas a few years ago, Kent had decided it was time the CVC joined the elite institutions that received federal research money. They had filed the necessary mountains of paperwork, including the PHS Assurances that had been Burman A&M’s undoing, and the CVC was on its way.