A Thin Place

By Jack Peterson

While witnessing unprecedented increases in autism among young children, an internationally revered medical doctor finds his retirement troublesome. Dr. Jeremiah Trent is convinced that a mercury-based vaccine preservative, similar to one he helped create while a young university chemist, could be the catalyst behind a rampantly spreading malady that had no recorded history before 1945.

Trent moves forward quickly, forming an unlikely alliance with irascible former U.S. Congressman Samuel L. Crockett who has an autistic grandson. Together, they unearth hidden agendas in the nation's capital that they are convinced are being orchestrated by outsiders seeking profits before safety. When Trent uncovers an incriminating internal drug company memo that supports his theory, his unsolved murder forces Crockett to turn to his daughter Elena, an attorney and the mother of his autistic grandson, to help him find the missing memo and finish what Trent started.

As Elena develops a national grassroots autism awareness campaign, fueled in part by the heartwarming story of a young autistic savant with da Vinci-like skills, she witnesses a groundswell of support across the nation as her father continues his battles with the federal bureaucracy. With hidden barriers and roadblocks at every turn, father and daughter use the persistent setbacks as added fuel to continue their quest, battling inch by inch across a perpetual sea of heartbreak toward the bridge of justice. The world's children are waiting on the other side.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9780983153610

Book preview

Institute)

Prologue

August 21, 1995

University of California School of Art

Los Angeles, California

Completely mesmerized by a sketch unceremoniously placed on her desk only a moment earlier, Dr. Deborah McCoy could feel her heartbeat increasing by the second and she knew why. Today marked the eighty-fourth anniversary that every newspaper around the globe spread the shocking news that thieves had taken the world’s most famous painting. Two years later, authorities recovered Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa hidden in an apartment a few blocks away from its rightful home at the Louvre Museum in Paris, France. Despite the passing years, rumors persisted that a few of the master’s less significant works had been missing since the heist. While such speculations were never confirmed nor denied by the museum, McCoy was certain she may have just been handed a piece of history that could possibly validate the suspicions still held by many of the world’s art historians and scholars.

McCoy sat motionless, still staring at the sketch, but the drawing on her desk wasn’t her only distraction. Paying attention to business was never easy when Dr. James Lymburner was around. She looked up at her friend. Spending any amount of time with him was always a pleasant break from her professional life. They both shared the same passion for Leonardo da Vinci for over thirty years and, schedules permitting, they spent much of their leisure time together exploring a mutual fascination with the artist but this time it was different. What Lymburner just unceremoniously dropped on her desk had no precedent. The sketch looked eerily familiar. Her rational mind was telling her not to believe, but her heart was offering an opposing opinion. She had to be sure. She turned away from the sketch, finally breaking her prolonged silence. Where did you get this? she demanded.

Lymburner stopped his annoying pacing from one side of her office to the other and sat on a chair directly in front of her desk. McCoy felt her question was sufficiently straightforward but the look on Lymburner’s face told her there would be no simple answer. Lymburner took a deep breath and exhaled without answering. Patience having never been one her virtues, McCoy pounced, her voice even more emphatic. James?

Let’s just say you wouldn’t believe me if I told you and leave it at that, he acquiesced.

Temporarily resisting any response, McCoy shook of the comment. She pulled a magnifying glass from her desk and focused on the sketch. She didn’t have to look up to know Lymburner’s eyes were watching, admiring. Barely a month shy of fifty-two years old, her friends often reminded her that her classic beauty and carriage was the envy of every female half her age. Even though she was fifteen years Lymburner’s senior, she often entertained the thought of rekindling their brief affair but knew it was over long ago. She saw no harm in dreaming but her today’s temporary lust would have wait as her mind once again gave way to a far stronger passion. I have to know. Tell me where you got this! she demanded.

Lymburner offered no response, his pause testing McCoy’s patience even more. She pleaded again, but more politely this time. You can’t just drop this in my lap with no explanation. I won’t be able to sleep!

I’m sorry. A few hours ago it seemed like a good idea but I get the feeling that I may have just overstepped my boundaries.

So why did you bring it to me?

I just wanted your opinion of the work, not the third degree about where it came from.

"But you have to tell me where you got this!"

Why is the origin important?

Ignoring his question, McCoy turned her eyes back to the sketch but her mind failed to cooperate and quickly strayed. She thought how little Lymburner had changed since first enrolling in her undergraduate art history class twenty years earlier. A psychology major fulfilling an elective requirement, she had always found him polite but presumptuous. During one of their mid-semester student conferences, he once had the audacity to inform her that while he was personally fascinated with her sophistication and intellect, he wanted nothing more from their relationship than to enhance his understanding of fine art. Months later, mutual hormonal needs and a few glasses of wine overcame their casual cerebral friendship when an innocent excursion to an art gala near the Westwood campus turned into a very long and exciting night of sexual exploration. Many more romantic getaways soon followed but they eventually concluded that keeping their student-teacher relationship was more important than sex and put an end to their intimacies. Today, their pact remained intact, their bond growing stronger with each passing year.

Lymburner lost his patience, interrupting her digressions. Deborah?

McCoy quickly got back on point. Attempting a charade of indifference was not one of her strengths. OK that’s it! I have to know!

I can’t tell you. Cut me a little slack, at least for now.

If I give you my opinion of the work, will you tell me where you got this sketch?

Not today.

Offering her most seductive smile, McCoy softened slightly. "Not today. Is that the best you can do?"

Yes.

But you will eventually tell me?

It isn’t my decision.

Do you have the original?

Lymburner nodded. He looked confused. Why do you ask?

We’ll need the original so we can have the paper analyzed to help pinpoint the date it was drawn.

What the hell for?

Then I’ll know.

Know what?

McCoy took a moment, her mind still racing at breakneck speed. She took a deep breath and exhaled. That, if my initial analysis is correct, this could be a huge discovery.

I already know it’s a discovery, just not the same kind you appear to be visualizing.

McCoy ignored the comment, pulling a magnifying glass from her desk drawer to scan the sketch more closely. This is very rough, unfinished, and certainly not his best work. My guess is that it’s probably something he did in his teens but…

McCoy stopped mid-sentence and stepped away from her desk to view the sketch from another angle. She trusted her trained eyes but knew her mind was forging suppositions that her professional disciplines were fast contradicting. She wanted to believe but knew her excitement was likely clouding reality. Within seconds, her temporary sense of indecision disappeared. Her voice became animated, her tone urgent. I think this could be one of the missing da Vinci sketches rumored to have been stolen along with the Mona Lisa from the Louvre back in 1911. This could prove that those speculations were right all along!

Lymburner appeared stunned, as if in total disbelief. Deborah, I can’t begin to tell you how far off base you are on this!

McCoy shook her head and tuned out the comment. She wanted to be fair and give her friends’ arguments consideration but was certain her speculations were valid. Begrudgingly, she sat down again and threw Lymburner a bone. Well then, prove me wrong! she demanded.

This sketch has nothing to do with da Vinci! he retorted, I can assure you of that!

Finding it increasingly difficult to remain calm McCoy held her ground, still challenging. All I am trying to do is to establish its credibility. If the date checks out, we can take it one-step at a time. We have to start somewhere. We sure as hell can’t ignore it! This even smells like his work. The lines, the strokes, the magnificent proportions, they all point to da Vinci! We need to…

Lymburner interrupted. His voice was emphatic, final. Stop it! You have to believe me on this!

Softening her demeanor, McCoy backed off, forcing herself to sit quietly at her desk. She was used to winning. She could wait him out but her silence lasted only seconds before offering an obligatory smile. Then, please tell me where this came from, she asked softly.

Flinging his hands up in mock surrender, Lymburner offered a compromise. "Alright, but the artist’s name is not an option I have right now."

McCoy shrugged. An explanation, she thought. At least they were making progress. So let’s hear it.

McCoy suddenly found the transition from her unanswered questions to that of being on the receiving end of an honest answer from her friend to be a clear winner. She knew truth was frequently more bizarre than fiction but what followed was off the charts. Lymburner threw her a bone by acknowledging that her analysis about the origins of the sketch was understandable but it was only a moral victory. She found herself listening to what seemed like an old Paul Harvey broadcast where Harvey always threw out a teaser at the beginning of his broadcast before telling the rest of the story. She quietly acknowledged Lymburner’s explanation but only on face value. Accepting that an autistic girl one day away from her fifth birthday had drawn the sketch was something she would never believe.

Chapter 1

June 6th, 1898

Crown Hill Cemetery, Indianapolis, Indiana

It was late afternoon when Josiah Lilly decided it was time to begin the two-mile walk home. His father’s funeral had been over for hours but he had remained behind. Being alone in front of the family mausoleum brought him a welcomed calm because private time had been non-existent since his father’s death. It was familiar territory. He and his father had rarely spent time alone and now he deeply regretted that it was too late to recapture lost opportunities. As he walked, putting his past and future into perspective became more difficult with each step. Twenty years earlier, his father borrowed a thousand dollars and used his training as a pharmacist to open a small drug manufacturing company. That same company now claimed over 2000 prescription formulas and generated annual sales that dwarfed their largest competitor. For Josiah, the fact that the company’s successes had made the family very wealthy was nothing more than a perk, a simple byproduct of his father’s many successes.

A former Civil War officer, his father was affectionately known as Colonel to most, including close friends and family. The Colonel preferred it that way, but Josiah was keenly aware his father’s penchant for secrecy did not stop with his given name. The Colonel had many other secrets, including countless unwritten business agreements arranged behind closed doors with nothing more than a handshake. The Colonel had left him little to work with. Worse yet, he feared he would never know whom to trust. At the age of thirty-seven, he would honor his father, do as the Colonel had asked and carry the torch through to the next family generation. No matter the load, he would lead. For others, it seemed a normal and easy transition, but Josiah knew differently. The meeting he and his father always planned to have never happened. Now, it was too late. He was about to cross an ocean of uncertainty without a map.

When Josiah eventually arrived home, he paused a moment on the porch landing and turned around just in time to see the final rays of the sun settling below the horizon. Tomorrow would be a new day, a new beginning. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and walked inside. There was trouble ahead. He could feel it.

Chapter 2

Thursday, May 19, 1927

Long Island, New York

It was 7:52 AM, Eastern Standard Time. Still immersed in the giddy whirl of the 1920’s, the nation’s stock market remained strong but for Charles Lindbergh the status of the stock market meant nothing. He knew the United States was on the brink of an aviation revolution and he was determined to be part of it.

Paying no mind to the fact that six people died in three previous attempts to be the first to fly non-stop across the Atlantic, Lindbergh also ignored to the media’s claim that what he was about to do was suicidal. He sat calmly in the cockpit of his Ryan monoplane preparing to take off. To allow for more fuel, he had lightened his plane’s weight by opting to have no parachute, radio, brakes, or forward window. Pessimistic prognosticators, convinced he was sure to fail, claimed he was attempting to fly an oversized gas tank with wings into history. Lindbergh disagreed. He trusted his nine-cylinder Wright Whirlwind radial engine, and he trusted himself. He turned his ride upwind. The only certainty was that he was just seconds away from takeoff. Where or when his journey would end was anybody’s guess.

Named the Spirit of St. Louis in honor of his hometown, Lindbergh’s plane bounced awkwardly down the runway of Long Island’s Roosevelt Field. Slowly accelerating, he could see the telephone lines precariously positioned just yards from the runway’s end. Hundreds of nervous onlookers watched as his plane took the full length of the field before finally becoming airborne. Barely missing the wired obstructions, Lindbergh disappeared into the fog. For the citizens of the world, time would stand still until Lindbergh reappeared. Thirty-three hours and 3500 miles later, a live radio broadcast announced that a commercial fishing boat radioed in that they had spotted Lindbergh’s plane above the southern tip of Ireland. Sighting was the easy part. Lindbergh still had to reach Paris and the experts knew that fuel remained a major problem. Those ready to embrace a new hero could only wait and hope. It was high drama.

The next day, as Lindbergh closed in on his destination, Jeremiah Trent walked briskly down a freezing and wind-blown sidewalk on Chicago’s north shore. An hour earlier, he too had been caught up in Lindbergh’s odyssey, gathering around a crowd listening to the radio in a coffee shop at Chicago’s Union Station. While he had marveled at Lindbergh’s effort, neither Lindbergh nor his own freezing nose could deter him from the business at hand. He angled his wiry six foot two inch frame a few degrees forward, maximizing his leverage against Lake Michigan’s chilling winds. He was focused, on a mission of his own, and had less than an hour to complete it. Minutes later, he turned the final corner. Like Lindbergh, his goal was in sight. His paced quickened.

John D. Rockefeller’s dream when he founded the University of Chicago in 1892 was to for the curriculum to eventually include a medical school. In the fall, Rockefeller’s vision would become reality when the maiden medical school classes would commence. Trent was minutes away from finding out if he would be included. Trent had two plans. The first was acceptance to medical school, his Plan A, but it did not come without complications. It would automatically trigger a far more difficult and personally unpleasant hill for him to climb than the application process. Plan B was paying for medical school. He had saved enough to pay for his first year of medical school, but the next three years remained a work in progress, but there was a problem. Plan B was not only uncertain and personally distasteful, it was dangerously flawed.

Trent mentally cursed his delayed train from Minneapolis. He knew acceptance and rejection notices were officially mailed the day before, but he was a man long on intellect and short on patience. Waiting until Monday for a letter to arrive was not going to happen. It was Saturday and the admissions office closed early. He had less than thirty minutes.

As Trent pushed on, nearly four thousand miles away, it was early evening in Paris. Dark, a blanketing fog began to creep in. The few that began gathering in the morning to witness Lindbergh’s descent to Le Bourget Aerodrome had swelled into a massive crowd. Each participant hoping to witness aviation history, they pushed and shoved, trying to secure a piece of soggy turf to call their own. As stars finally began to penetrate the diminishing cloud cover, a moist wind grew stronger. The crowd bunched even closer, seeking protection. Without warning, rows of runway landing lights glowed as huge searchlights flooded the sky when the roar of an airplane’s motor grew louder. The crowd stilled, listening. Slowly, rippling anticipatory cheers began to replace the silence. Then, without warning, the landing lights went dim and the searchlights were turned off as a plane passed overhead. It was not Captain Lindbergh. The crowd quieted, clearly content to wait through the night if necessary.

When Trent arrived, he hesitated at the base of the stairs and looked up. The sign above the door said it all, Admissions Office. He sucked in another breath of air and ran up. He placed his hand on the door but stopped in his tracks before pushing it open. A bolt of fear suddenly slammed through his body. The moment of truth, he said to himself.

Within seconds, he found himself standing at the threshold of a large counter. He knew that because of his thick moustache, faded jeans, and scuffed cowboy boots he could easily be mistaken for a hired cowhand rather than a prospective medical student, but he paid it no mind. A cold sweat broke across his forehead as a slim, middle-aged woman sitting at a desk behind the counter suddenly stood and walked forward. Flashing a comforting, soft smile, her voice was mellow, but firm. May I help you? she asked, peering over the top of her glasses.

Trent nodded. My name is Jeremiah Trent. I was told there would be an envelope here for me.

The woman nodded back. We were expecting you. Without a word, she turned around, and disappeared through a door a few feet behind her desk.

Trent was mildly impressed. His call to the admissions office the day before requesting they not mail his notice had obviously worked. In his business, customer service was a nonentity. Trying to mask his anxiety, he turned away, fidgeting with his moustache while looking aimlessly around the office. His mind was blank. Nothing was registering. He was scared. He had no other word to describe it.

Seconds passed. For Trent, it was an eternity. A voice came from behind. Doctor Trent?

Trent turned back. Pardon me?

The woman was nearly nose-to-nose, clutching a large white envelope, peering ominously over the top of her glasses. "This envelope says ‘Doctor Jeremiah Trent’. Are you Doctor Trent?" she demanded.

Trent nodded, meekly. The woman reminded him of his mother who had always been brutal when it came to details. Never impressed with his Ph.D., people frequently mistook the Dr. in front of his name to mean he was a medical doctor. Correcting the misinterpretations became annoying. He found it simpler just to eliminate the credential whenever possible. "Most people just call me Trent," he answered.

The woman ignored his explanation. "Well then, Doctor Trent, good luck!" she said, placing the envelope on the counter with one hand while silently offering a mock salute with the other. In an instant, she was gone.

Trent froze, staring at the counter. A neatly sealed white envelope, possibly outlining his entire future, was within reach, and all he could do was look at it. A minute passed before he gathered the courage to pick it up and walk outside. He stood on the landing, his back to the gusting winds, the envelope clutched to his chest. His bare hands trembled, but not from the cold. Tearing open the envelope, the sick feeling he had in his stomach suddenly went away. We are pleased to inform you….

Trent yelled to the sky. I’m in!

Twenty minutes after the false alarm in Paris, a gray-white airplane finally slipped gradually out of the darkness at Le Bourget field. An estimated 50,000 pairs of eyes strained upwards. At 10:22 P.M. Paris time, the Spirit of St. Louis finally touched down completing the first ever-Atlantic crossing by an aircraft. Lines of soldiers, ranks of police officers, and stout steel fences were no match for the gang-like assemblage of people as all fell before the crowd’s frenzied rush that was a force equal to the ocean at high tide. His aircraft engulfed by a sea of humanity, Lindbergh had won. What began as a humble quest to win a $25,000 prize for the first crossing of the Atlantic, had instantly blossomed far beyond anyone’s most optimistic expectations. Like a match to a bonfire, the voyage had lit up the world. Tonight, the world was temporarily Lindbergh’s kingdom.

As Lindbergh sought temporary refuge from the frenzied crowd in a nearby hangar, Trent’s euphoria had already succumbed to reality. Frantically, he made his way back to Union Station to catch the last train to Minneapolis with just minutes to spare. Four hours out, resting his legs on the empty seat in front of him, his relaxed outward appearance defied the turmoil he felt burning inside. His mind was still racing, listening to his heart. While his brief career as a chemist had paid the bills and helped supplement his aging parent’s finances, he never considered his employment permanent. His fascination with medical school always lingered like an open wound, unreachable, and financially impossible. It was on New Year’s Day that his years of unhappiness finally escalated from mildly unacceptable to unbearable. Time was not on his side. He had to move on. Now, he had a letter in his pocket that confirming his chance for a new beginning. His agonizing uncertainties about medical school were finally over but there was one more on the horizon.

It was already Sunday morning in Paris when Trent finally disembarked in Minneapolis and Lindbergh was already on his way to yet another celebratory event to honor his amazing feat. While Lindbergh’s odyssey was over, Trent knew his was just beginning. Plan B was suddenly staring him in the face, but it was not without risks. Like Lindbergh, he too had to take a chance, but there was a difference. Lindbergh didn’t have to fly across the Atlantic. It was his choice. Trent knew he had no such option. He had to pay for medical school.

Chapter 3

May 28, 1927

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Jeremiah Trent’s office mates were gone for the weekend and he welcomed the privacy. He took a deep breath and unlocked his center desk drawer, exhaling only when he saw the backside of a small piece of well-worn paper slide slowly into view. Two days before, his project finally complete, he had penned his new formula on the reverse side. On the surface, it didn’t look like much, nothing but a series of letters, numbers, and a few symbols for some chemicals along with his initials scribbled to one side. As simplistic as the symbols appeared, everything added up. The formula could potentially change his life forever. He was looking at his future. Closing his eyes, Trent retraced the genesis of the paper resting in the center drawer.

It was last January when it all started. He was on the final day of his winter holiday in Toronto. The Canadian snowstorms were refusing to cooperate so he decided not to brave the elements and stay in. He bought a cheap mystery novel from the hotel’s newsstand along with a copy of the Toronto Daily Star.

The novel didn’t last past the first page. He dumped it in favor of the newspaper because the newspaper’s headline, Canada’s Polio Epidemic Intensifies, wouldn’t go away. His undergraduate years taught him that epidemics were as old as history, but methods to limit the damage the diseases caused were relatively new. It was in the second half of the eighteenth century when Edward Jenner, an Englishman, observed that milkmaids, unlike everyone else in the population, miraculously escaped the ravages of smallpox epidemics. Smallpox survivors were usually easy to recognize because of their hideous facial pockmarks, a lingering reminder of the effects of smallpox. When Jenner discovered that many milkmaids boasted blemish-free complexions, he theorized that their protection from catching smallpox could have been because they had previously contracted another disease. Jenner was convinced that cowpox, a much milder and less damaging version of smallpox, had produced sufficient antibodies in the milkmaids that helped them fight off smallpox during the epidemic. Jenner put his observation to the test in 1796 when he inoculated a young boy with cowpox pustules and waited. After a few days, he purposely infected the boy with smallpox. The experiment was a success. The boy didn’t get sick, and it ushered in the current era of immunization. Jenner’s experiment was considered by most historians to be the first vaccine in the history of medicine. Jenner’s success was only a start. While his theory was quickly adapted to develop vaccines to stem epidemics for many other diseases, the method of distribution was excruciating. The vaccines frequently spoiled before arrival.

Using the Canadian epidemic as his inspiration, Trent spent the entire train ride home from Toronto letting his mind go free. He knew that the problem with most epidemics was always a case of too few vaccines too late. When sufficient quantities were available, they often arrived too late because all vaccines required refrigeration to prevent the antibodies from spoiling. There simply weren’t enough properly equipped trucks or rail cars available to fill the need. There had to be a better way, he was sure of it. He saw an opportunity and took the bait.

Trent allowed himself a subtle smile as he carefully pulled the paper from the drawer. He turned it over, revealing the recipe for his creation. It was his future. He was proud.

An alkyl mercuric sulphur compound, he mumbled to himself. As innocuous as the formula appeared, the physical product was even less impressive, nothing more than a pale yellow powder. Appearance aside, the potential was impressive. The preservative could change the way vaccines were produced and help stem epidemics through mass production of vaccines. It could be his way to pay for medical school, but one hurdle remained. He harbored a shallow trust for the man that assured him that he could quietly facilitate the sale of his formula. There was also a more, one-sided, personal problem Trent knew he could never resolve. The man that potentially held the key to his future terrified him. In exactly seven days, they would meet again. Richard Gurzi was coming to Minneapolis.

Chapter 4

June 4, 1927

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Allowing himself an infrequent personal luxury, Trent was determined to take a taxi to his meeting with Richard Gurzi. Standing curbside outside his apartment, he repeatedly waved off the older taxis. He had a newer model in mind and would wait.

Ten minutes passed before a brand new 1927 Ford Model T finally pulled curbside. He had never owned a car but, if his plan worked, a little window-shopping seemed appropriate. The taxi’s seats were spacious, the fabric more supple than anything he had ever seen as he marveled at the technology. All steel, the car had a dual crank, automatic starter, and bright red wooden spoke wheels. With crystal-clear mirror-like jet-black paint and a speedometer, it was a luxury that, until now, he could only dream of having. Just eight years old when the first T hit the streets in ‘08, an untamed excitement about his chances of owning such a vehicle continued to infest his mind, but he remained cautious. The ride across town to St. Paul could be a turning point in his life. All he needed was a little cooperation, and luck.

Outside, the dark evening sky slowly engulfed the rest of what had been a seamlessly sunny day. Without warning, the light rain succumbed to a typical mid-western downpour that began pelting the taxi’s windshield, but Trent’s mind was elsewhere. His capricious decision in early April to attend the annual American Chemical Society convention in Washington DC was about to pay off. He rarely gave the organization the time of day but, when he found that over eight thousand members would be attending, he saw an opportunity. While most attendees were chemists, they were there more to socialize rather than for the business at hand. They would eat, drink a few beers, and go home. Trent was there because most major drug company representatives would be there looking for new talent and ideas. He did not want a job, he had one. Swapping employers would not solve his dissatisfaction for his career choice, but he did have an idea that, if he could sell it, could help expedite a change in lifestyle.

The taxi made a sharp turn onto Market Street toward the Rice Park District. Just as the towering St. Paul Hotel came into view, a loud jolt of thunder slammed a shockwave through the taxi and only heightened Trent’s nervousness. Since meeting Gurzi at April’s convention, they had maintained regular communications by phone but, in a few minutes, they would meet one-on-one for only the second time. If there were any other way to finance medical school, Trent was certain he would have favored a different road. While they were both twenty-seven years old, he held little in common with Gurzi. The man made him very uncomfortable, but he had no other options. For the next sixty minutes, Gurzi held his future in his hands.

Chapter 5

June 6, 1927

Indianapolis, Indiana

It was high noon. At Josiah’s age, the heat was always a welcome friend to his sixty-six year old frame. He sat quietly on the smaller of two ornate sun-warmed benches next to the family mausoleum. Today marked the twenty-ninth anniversary of his father’s burial, a day he always set aside to visit. One of the first lessons he received from his father was the importance of learning from the past. Reflection and projection, he repeated to himself, as if the Colonel could hear. Today would be all about business. New ideas and strategies frequently came to him during these one-sided reflections. He had no reason to believe this day would be any different.

Leaning back, Josiah closed his eyes. The sun warmed his face as his mind wandered. He knew the majority of the company’s recent successes could be traced to what he considered to be the two most important decisions he had made since the Colonel’s death. The first was eight years earlier when he decided to hire a director of biochemical research to explore new opportunities in pharmaceuticals. The second was hiring his son, Eli. Being careful to ensure that being the son of the president and grandson of the company’s founder did not grease Eli’s slide, Eli was treated the same as any non-professional hire. He started in the warehouse. An eager student, Eli soon justified his movement up the corporate ladder. His progress had always been rewarded based on merit, not his birthright.

Josiah flashed back to 1922, when two scientists from the University of Toronto developed a new experimental pancreatic extract and gave it to a diabetic teenager who became the first person ever to receive an injection of insulin. The extract quickly induced dramatic curing effects on the lad, and other diabetic patients were soon treated with similar results. The news about insulin spread throughout the country like an untamed wildfire. While the scientists were awarded the Nobel Prize in Medicine for their efforts, their contribution was not perfect. Insulin could only be produced in small quantities, a problematic opportunity he quickly turned over to Eli.

Because of Eli’s keen insight, he was able to convince management to allow him to establish a trial relationship with other university research scientists and turn the insulin production problem over to them. Within two years, the scientists developed a new formula that created a method allowing for the large production of insulin. Eli’s program had orchestrated a very profitable university-industry partnership that led to the development of even more medicines. Even though frictions soon surfaced regarding patent and licensing rights, Eli was able to streamline the entire process to everyone’s satisfaction. The days of folk medicine were over. The search for even more new drugs and ways to manufacture them was on, and Eli had the company leading the pack.

The temperature was climbing rapidly, but Josiah ignored the physical discomfort. Sitting at his father’s side always gave him a sense of pride, and he was enjoying every second of it. The Colonel’s company was now the third largest pharmaceutical manufacturing company in the world. The insulin program enabled the company to attract the attention of well-respected scientists and help them develop even more medical advances. Eli was directly involved in every significant decision related to product development. It was he who made the decision to establish fellowships at various colleges and universities. While it was perceived by the public as a magnanimous gesture, Josiah fretted that Eli’s real intentions were less than philanthropic. While he would never embarrass his son, he knew Eli’s main purpose for the fellowships was to increase the friendliness of the faculties of the various universities toward the company, perhaps gaining an upper hand over the competition with privileged information about the progress and development of new formulas. While not illegal, Josiah was certain the Colonel would not have approved of Eli’s tactics.

A soft breeze blew across Josiah’s face, temporarily breaking his wanderings but, when it came to his son, he was never in a hurry to shorten his reflections. In many ways, they were both alike, six feet tall, auburn hair with the seemingly mandatory freckles, and similar voices, but the similarities did not end there. In his early days, when the Colonel started the company, Josiah’s patience did not match the Colonel’s, frequently putting him at odds with his father. The Colonel usually won, but not without leaving a valuable lesson for his son behind. The Colonel called it a learning experience. Josiah felt he and Eli shared a similar father-son relationship as his own with the Colonel, but there was a difference. While Eli was named after his grandfather, he shared little else in common with the Colonel. Their most obvious difference was patience. Eli had none.

The minutes quickly turned to hours and, as if by magic, the sun began to disappear behind a block-long bank of massive oak trees that lined the west side of the cemetery.

Josiah finally stood, stretching his legs. Time well spent, he said to himself.

That night, Josiah lay in bed, unable to sleep. His aching bones reminded him that he was nearing the inevitable. He would retire soon, naming Eli as his successor. During the last twenty-nine years, he had made many decisions but only a few that dramatically changed the direction of the company. In the pharmaceutical business there was a fine line between sound business practices and moral integrity. The Colonel had never crossed it. Always loyal to his father’s credo, Josiah sensed the industry was changing. It had become common practice for some competitors to base their manufacturing decisions solely on profits, pushing some products ahead by shortcutting the research and testing process. It wasn’t right, but it was a well-kept industry secret that morality was frequently trumped by the lure of quick profits. While he had been steadfast in never crossing that line, he felt Eli may have difficulty comprehending some of the moral legacies the Colonel passed on. With his own retirement only two years away, Eli had earned the right to succeed him, but he had serious reservations that his son’s maverick management style could eventually lead to trouble.

Chapter 6

June 11th, 1927

Minneapolis, Minnesota

A majestic convoy of warships escorted the USS Memphis along with its celebrated passenger on a ride up the Chesapeake and Potomac Rivers to Washington where President Coolidge was waiting. Charles Lindbergh was triumphantly returning home to America. Newscasters reported that tears were running down Lindbergh’s cheeks.

As Lindbergh disembarked for his ride to the White House, eleven hundred miles to the west, it was already 7:40 A.M. in Minnesota. After catching bits and pieces of the radio broadcast of Lindbergh’s return celebration at a local diner, Jeremiah Trent headed to his office. Gusts of river-chilled wind from the east bank of the Mississippi river funneled up the stairs, slamming against Trent’s back as he scurried up the stairs to his office in the University of Minnesota’s Science Center. He was on a mission. For the moment, last night’s phone call from Richard Gurzi made everything else in his life insignificant.

Trent spent the entire day in his office preparing for any possible scenario Gurzi might throw at him. When he finally proclaimed himself ready, he leaned back in his chair and once again reviewed the precarious threshold he was about to cross and the opportunity it presented. His advancement in the field of chemistry had come quickly. Fellowship programs had financially helped him accelerate his studies, but grants came with invisible strings that he abhorred. Money from major drug companies came with an unspoken understanding there was an unspoken debt to be paid. Any scientific discoveries or breakthroughs that came on the drug company’s dollar, the sponsors expected to be given first right of refusal for any new commercial applications being released to competitors. It was simple. If the discovery or advancement had a monetary value, both the drug companies and the university would benefit monetarily. The scientists would get academic recognition for their resumes and, possibly, a salary increase, but little else.

Later, as the sun began to set, Trent was once again outside waving down another taxi for the twenty-minute ride from his office across the Mississippi to the St. Paul Hotel. While he was excited that Gurzi was interested in brokering his interest, he tempered his enthusiasm because he felt his development of a vaccine preservative was not particularly brilliant. He always believed that the simplest of inventions or accomplishments were usually born only because somebody thought of them first, not because what they invented or did was necessarily difficult or complicated. Somebody found a way to make a horse useful by inventing a bridle, followed by a harness for a plough, then a cart for the horse to pull. One just had to find a need or a goal and then create. If Lindbergh hadn’t flown across the Atlantic, someone else would have. He used the same analogy about his formula. If he hadn’t created a bacteria-free vaccine storage solution, one surely would have followed eventually. First was always rewarded or recognized. Second place was not. It was that simple.

For the first time in his life, Trent knew he had gotten there first. It was his formula, developed on his own time, and all related expenses personally paid. Medical school started in August. For now, it was Gurzi who held the key to his future. It was time to make the deal.

Chapter 7

June 11th, 1927

St. Paul, Minnesota

Jeremiah Trent stood outside, staring at the two huge brass entry doors that led to the St. Paul Hotel’s lobby. Instinct told him to abandon his plan, turn and run, but just walking had suddenly become a major challenge. The most important meeting of his life was just fifty yards away and he was afraid to go inside. He could still hear Richard Gurzi’s early morning telephone conversation… Come alone! Gurzi emphasized the word alone so ominously it caught him off guard. His words were cold, harsh, and remained imbedded in his mind eight hours later.

Shaking some life back into his legs, Trent tipped the door attendant and walked inside. His heartbeat kept pace with his racing mind as he took a booth in the dining room and waited. Even though Gurzi had always been affable and accommodating, Trent thought him an enigma. He could switch personalities as he saw the need, going from friendly to evasive, genuine to condescending. For Trent, it was clear that Gurzi was not a man one should cross. Whether or not he should be trusted wasn’t a sure thing either. For the moment, he could only accept the man for what he was. Where their relationship led was up to Gurzi. He had no other choice. The only certainty was that he had to be careful.

After being seated in the dining room, Trent looked around. Tuxedoed waiters and white tablecloths were not a common occurrence in his life, and the formality wasn’t helping his already fragile demeanor. He sat alone. Too nervous to think, each minute that passed seemed an hour. Then, a familiar voice came from behind. Dr. Trent, it’s good to see you again.

Trent stood, offering Gurzi his outstretched hand. Slightly built, Gurzi was from a world Trent did not recognize. Trent guessed he and Gurzi were about the same age, but the similarities ended there. Of Italian descent, the man was blessed with a pleasant accent complimented by a distinctively deep voice. He wore clothes with brand names usually only seen in magazines, and he guessed Gurzi’s imported loafers cost more than he made in a month at the university.

Avoiding any further pleasantries, Gurzi carefully placed a small leather briefcase on the table and sat down. He wasted no time and was blunt. Are you prepared to do business?

Caught off guard, Trent wasn’t exactly sure how to respond. He didn’t want to appear anxious, but he was certain Gurzi was well aware that he was desperate for money. The good news was that the only possible reason Gurzi had for requesting a meeting had to be that the sample preservative he delivered to him a week earlier had tested viable. Any chemist worth his salt could have used his sample to recreate a reasonable facsimile of the formula. It wouldn’t be exact, but it would be close enough to confirm the formula valid, and that it would perform as he claimed. Whether or not Gurzi knew he had already submitted a patent application was another matter. He wanted to be sure everyone understood his rules. He cautiously danced around Gurzi’s doing business question. Before we go on, I think you should know that I have already taken measures to protect my formula.

Expressionless, Gurzi offered no response, not even a blink. Trent was a giant of a man, physically far more intimidating than the man on the other side of the table, but Gurzi’s cool silence erased any thought that his own superior physique could give him any form of advantage. As a precautionary measure, he filed a patent application a few days earlier to legally prevent any pirating of his formula. Now, any similar formula submitted would be automatically rejected providing his original patent was approved. He didn’t want to offend Gurzi by explaining the process, but he had to know. Mr. Gurzi, do you understand what I just told you?

Gurzi nodded, still stone-faced. Trent waited. He had no idea where to take the conversation. A moment later, Gurzi smiled for the first time since he arrived. Dr. Trent, let’s dispense with the gamesmanship. Of course we know you filed your application. We expected as much. In fact, my client was pleased that you have already initiated the patent process. It will save them valuable time.

Trent knew Gurzi’s use of the word client was a euphemism for a drug company, but there was more to it than that. After their initial meeting a week earlier, he decided to do a little homework of his own. In addition to representing several drug companies as a sales representative, Gurzi also represented a pharmaceutical supply company that his father purchased three years earlier. The same company supplied excipients and other raw pharmaceutical materials to drug manufacturers.

Trent looked across the table at Gurzi who was still displaying an obsequious smile. Trent was tentative, but he had to know, Then you have run your tests? he asked

Gurzi nodded.

Trent hesitated before asking the obvious… And?

My client is satisfied with the preliminary results. They have an interest.

It was impossible for Trent to disguise his hard swallow, and he was certain Gurzi noticed. He was gathering the courage to ask a question he had rehearsed non-stop for two days. His voice cracked. Then, am I to presume that your clients are ready to negotiate a price?

Gurzi slowly leaned back in his chair, offering no response. Trent watched him closely. The man looked like a cat playing with its prey, toying with it before the kill. Trent thought it ironic he would risk his entire future on a man he met only months earlier while standing in line for a hot dog at the convention, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t heard the Gurzi name before. Gurzi had a reputation for knowing all the key movers and shakers in the drug industry so he took a chance and shared his idea about developing a vaccine preservative over a second hot dog. Gurzi quickly turned into more than just a casual listener. Now, the man on the other side of the table held the only key that could open the door to his future.

Several very long seconds passed before Trent gathered his courage to ask the most difficult question of his life. What’s the offer? he asked tentatively.

Gurzi pounced, emphatically slamming his fist on the table. One hundred thousand dollars! he announced.

Doing a poor job of disguising his surprise, Trent leaned back in his chair. He wanted to yell hallelujah but restrained himself. As a chemist, it was more money than he could earn in the next twenty years but the amount on the table was far less than what he could get if he proved his formula viable and opened it up to bid on the open market. The thought was nothing more than useless speculation. Time was not on his side. Medical school started in less than ninety days, and he had drained all his cash reserves to pay his first years tuition. He was hurting, and Gurzi knew it.

Gurzi pushed, I assume you agree with the price?

Still flushed, Trent could only nod his approval.

Gurzi took out a pen and scribbled a phone number on the back of his business card and pushed it across the table. "To complete the process, you will call this number tomorrow morning and tell the receptionist your name. She will transfer you to a man who will identify himself only as Mr. Cartwright. He will present the terms of the contract and arrange for you to sign the patent transfer application. I suggest you follow his instructions. There will be no changes to these terms."

Trent picked up the card and tucked it into his shirt pocket. Gurzi’s stoic face slowly turned to a smile. He opened the briefcase and pulled out a large white envelope nearly an inch thick and pushed in across the table. Here’s the first installment.

Installment?

"Yes, the