No Hope for Gomez! (15 page)

36.

Blog entry: The layout of Warren’s apartment was the mirror opposite of mine. Would’ve felt weird being there if his place wasn’t decorated so differently.

Where I had the cheap IKEA furniture, he’d opted for heavy oak. Where I’d taken great liberties leaving my stuff around the apartment, Warren kept his place neat and tidy. In fact, there wasn’t a single flat surface that sported so much as a plant or a magazine or a photo. All his stuff was tucked away somewhere, out of sight. His place almost looked like a model home. Something generic that had been designed specifically not to look empty while at the same time not appearing lived in.

Kept my stuff tucked in my bag, and my bag tucked under the sofa.

Only removed my laptop to do some work.

Blog entry: Hid out at Warren’s place the entire day. Got my blog entries up to date (without sending them in) and tried to figure out my next move. Nothing came to mind. 

Warren milled around, looking lost. I told him not to think of me as a guest. He didn’t have to wait on me or keep me entertained. He should, in fact, pretend I wasn’t there. Keep to his usual routine, that’d be safest for me.  

Warren told me he wasn’t sure how to do that.

“Don’t you have a job to go to?” I asked.

Warren shrugged. “Not in the traditional sense, no.”

“Don’t tell me you’re actually a writer?”

“Well,” he said, “not exactly. I have some income, but I don’t have a boss and I don’t have a fixed schedule.” He made some vague gestures.

“Okay then, what would you be doing right now if I wasn’t here?”

“I’m not sure.” He shrugged apologetically. “It’s difficult to think about that. I mean, you’re here so anything I come up with, I do with you here. And I can’t think of anything with you here.”

“Right, well, let’s try something different then. What did you do yesterday at this time?”

Warren pointed at the sofa. “I was sitting right there, where you’re sitting.”

Blog entry: Warren balked at my suggestions of reading a book or watching TV. I decided to tell him about my predicament. It might help me to get the facts straight in my mind so I could come up with my next move. 

“The thing is, Warren,” I said, “a while ago I entered a drug trial for some extra cash but then one of the other participants went into a coma and wasn’t discovered for days and I didn’t drop out of the trial because I liked one of the research assistants, a Dr. Hargrove, and because the trial might not be the cause of the coma, but then the coma guy died and the detective investigating his death disappeared and when he finally reappeared he was dead but by that time I was already dating Dr. Hargrove and I didn’t think it was all connected until yet another trial participant, whom I thought was named Tommy, turned out to be named Mr. Ferguson, and also turned out to be dead, which was even worse, and, being my girlfriend, Dr. Hargrove should’ve been worried but for some reason she didn’t show the slightest bit of concern for my well being which made me realize it was time to run and find out for myself what was going on.”

Blog entry: Warren stared at me. Frowned. Scratched his head. “You know,” he said, “there is one thing we
could
do…”

“There is?”

“Yeah. Wait here…” He got up and disappeared into his bedroom.

I didn’t expect much. Warren’s track record for coming up with logical or interesting things to do, say, or even write, was nonexistent. So far, all his ideas had either made me angry or tired or, more often, both. For all I knew, he was in his bedroom doing something weird like finding stockings so we could play dress-up.

Warren returned with a triumphant look on his face. He also carried two pairs of stockings.

“I’m not playing dress-up,” I growled. “You might as well put those away. It’s never gonna happen.”

“These?” Warren swung the stockings in the air. “These are our disguises, man,” he said. “They’ll hide our faces when we break into the clinic and get you your evidence.”

Blog entry: It was one for the books! I was actually beginning to appreciate Warren. A little. Not only had he put me up, not only did his manuscripts put me to sleep in troubled times, he was about to help me solve this dangerous puzzle!

We prepared as well as we could; donned black clothing, cut holes in the stockings, rehearsed some secret signals, and, just to be on the safe side, I also gave Warren Detective Moran’s number. He stored it in his cell and then we were ready to go. Under the cover of darkness we made our way to the clinic. We pulled the stockings over our heads and broke in.

That was to say, we circled the building looking for easy access points like windows or air vents (which there weren’t; all the windows were barred). Then we looked for a back door or a service entrance (which, sadly, were also heavily barred). Then we went to the front thinking to get past the guard in the foyer with a ruse (but there was no guard, the foyer was locked up tight, and we didn’t actually have a ruse, not even a little one).

Things weren’t going well.

Dejected, I kicked at the front entrance. It didn’t budge. It was made of thick layers of glass that I had no hope of breaking.

I turned to Warren. “Now what?”

He thought it over. “I’m not really sure,” he said, “I’ve never broken in before. Maybe we should go round the building again, look for a more unconventional entry?”

We did. We circled the building, found nothing, just some debris round the back under a security lamp – some discarded building materials and assorted trash that looked utterly useless. It gave Warren an idea, though. He pulled a piece of metal wire from a broken office chair and said, “How about we pick the lock with this?” His grin was wide.

I’d already begun to lose hope, some of it came back. “That’s brilliant,” I said. “Let’s do that!”

Blog entry: We hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight. Amateurs.

It took Warren a while to locate the lock on the back entrance, longer still to get the wire in, but he did it. We were on our way. He jimmied the lock like a true professional, listened carefully to the mechanism while making small, deliberate adjustments to the wire. After only five minutes, he looked up and said, “Gomez, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“It’s not working?”

He shrugged. “Let me put it this way, the lock didn’t budge and the wire just broke off inside.”

I knelt beside him. “Let me have a go.”

My hope was sinking again. If this thing came down to just me, we were in trouble.

I located the sharp nub of wire jutting from the lock and pushed and prodded it. My reasoning was that sustained random movement might just do the trick. It was all I could come up with. With every sharp stab of pain that shot up my thumb and fingers, I got closer to giving up, then, finally, I gave up.

Blog entry: “You know, there might be another way,” Warren said on the way back to his apartment. “I know a much easier building to get into. Also, you’re more likely to find the proof you need there.”

I looked at him. “There’s another clinic building?”

Warren grinned. “Not exactly,” he said, “but close enough.”

37.

Blog entry: “
Take your shoes off,” I told Warren.

He glared at me.

“I’m serious,” I said. “Take them off and leave them by the door. You don’t want the kind of trouble we’ll be in if we get caught tracking something on the carpet.”

“Dude,” Warren said, “we’re
breaking in
. If we get caught we’re in major trouble. Never mind the carpet.”

“We’re not breaking in.” I showed him the key I’d just used. “We’re on a friendly visit, just checking if my black, unpatterned socks are still here.”

Warren shrugged. “I’ll check the bedroom,” he said.

I didn’t like the look in his eye, so I told him, “You’ll do no such thing. In fact, you’ll be in charge of watching the door and finding ways to stay as far away from Dr. Hargrove’s bedroom as possible.”

Warren harrumphed. He sulked back to the door and took off his shoes.

“We’re here on serious business,” I reminded him. “My life may be at stake!”

Blog entry: Switched on a small light in the living room, scanned round to get my bearings. Dr. Hargrove’s place looked different, strange. Like I was seeing it for the first time. Maybe it was the different lighting, maybe it was the fact I shouldn’t be there, doing what I was about to do.

Put my feelings aside and went into Dr. Hargrove’s office. It was small, barely large enough to accommodate what little furniture it housed – a little oak desk with a swivel chair, three small bookcases, and a large, standing lamp. In between there was only just enough space to move around.

Turned on a desk lamp and checked that the blinds were closed tight. Didn’t want people noticing someone was in the house. For all I knew, Dr. Hargrove had told a neighbor she’d be out. Or asked someone to keep a look out for her boyfriend (‘he’s missing you know, we’re all out looking for him.’)

Blog entry: Turned the office inside out, found nothing. Moved on to the bedroom. Was quite familiar with the bedroom, of course, as I had been sleeping there several nights a week for almost a month. Had to admit, though, I’d never subjected it to a thorough inspection. Besides the double bed and its side tables, there were two large closets. I’d only ever opened the one on the left. That’s where I kept my black, unpatterned socks (together with the rest of my overnight stuff).

Blog entry: Checked the left closet first. Perhaps to quickly tick it off the list, perhaps to see if my stuff was still there. I wasn’t kidding about wanting to find my socks. If they weren’t there, if Dr. Hargrove had cleared them out already, it’d mean something significant. Something I didn’t want to think about just yet.

(Had she noticed I’d gone? Had she been looking for me? If so, who was helping her and why?)

My socks were there.

Relief.

Not only were they there, they looked untouched. No one had moved them, looking for clues or hints as to where I might’ve gone.

Good.

I quickly checked the rest of the closet. Clothes mostly; shirts, jumpers, pants, some sexy underwear I hadn’t seen before (should ask her about that sometime), and, at the bottom, in the back, a box of photos. I took a few moments to check it out. The photos appeared to be snaps from her childhood; vacations, Christmases, birthdays. A young Dr. Hargrove with assorted family members (no one looked like an ex-boyfriend, thankfully). Put everything back and made sure it looked the way it did before I touched it. Moved on to the second closet.

Blog entry: Pay dirt!

Among more clothes, and quite an extraordinary number of shoes, I found two more boxes. The first was filled with administrative papers (insurance policies, stocks, utility contracts), the second contained clinic folders. This was what I’d come for.

I Rock!

I Rule!

I Rock ’n Rule!

Blog entry: Took the folders from the box and turned on Dr. Hargrove’s reading light. The folders were marked ‘copy’. Apparently she kept a backup of her research at home, which was what I’d expected (what Warren had expected).

Opened the folders and browsed through the documents. It wasn’t easy going. Not only were they highly technical in nature, containing many large and unusual words, they also didn’t appear to be in any clearly discernable order. When I delved into the second folder, however, I came across an outline of a proposal that was mostly in English. It started with a list of substances which Dr. Hargrove wanted to use in her trial. They were written up in a two-column table; one column giving the substance name, the other a short description:

Niacin (vit. B3):
Gives subject a flushed feeling. Skin turns red.

Caffeine:
Gives subject a jittery feeling.

GABA (gamma-aminobutyric acid):
Induces temporary shortness of breath.

Vitamin cocktail:
Turns subjects’ urine dark yellow.

The list went on, describing every single side effect I’d experienced during the trial.

It made no sense. Not until I read the accompanying summary. Apparently the substances were harmless, everyday substances that one might find in their normal diet. The reason they were mentioned was the fact that, when taken in the right dosages, they caused small but noticeable psychical reactions. And the reactions were what Dr. Hargrove was after.

According to the summary, she wanted to study something called the placebo effect.

Years ago it was discovered that people who thought they were receiving drugs for an ailment recovered much faster than people who didn’t. Even if they were given nothing but common sugar pills (the placebos). This curious effect was never fully explained medically.

Dr. Hargrove, apparently, wanted to quantify the placebo effect to a point where it could be put to use. She called it:
Using the placebo effect to activate natural healing
.

The physical reactions brought on by the various placebos she was using should enhance the subjects’ belief that they were on real drug, which should then activate and heighten their body’s own healing abilities. This would open the door for the development of medications with fewer negative side effects.

Dr. Hargrove had split her subjects into three groups. The first group had a specific ailment for which they thought they were testing a new drug – migraines, irritable bowels, hay fever. The second group had no ailments and weren’t told what they were taking (this was my group). The third group received the same placebos, but were told they were receiving placebos.

Blog entry: A noble cause. And it explained perfectly why Dr. Hargrove had been so adamant that her study couldn’t cause harm.

My relief was great. So great, in fact, that it was difficult to tell whether I felt more relieved than stupid or more stupid than relieved. I also felt guilty. Guilty about not trusting her and guilty about ransacking her place.

I was so overwhelmed by this cocktail of emotions that I didn’t even hear her come in.

She was just there, suddenly, standing beside me.