Page 65

Manufacturers intending to market a medical device must file the U.S. Food and Drug Administration’s so-called Premarket Notification 510(k) to gain approval.

The Securities and Exchange Commission stated that it has found no irregularities with NextGenRx.

Payne looked at Harris.

“You notice that even in talking about Han’s death Benson slipped in a promotion for the company’s ‘game-changing medical devices’?”

“Uh-huh. If nothing else, give the guy points for consistency,” Harris said.

“Well, hell,” Payne said, “if Benson’s company is a scam, that certainly opens up a whole new can of worms. If I was an investor, I’d want to whack him, too, just out of principle. Wonder if we’re about to see Brahman’s predicting its ‘absolute spectacular failure’ coming true.”

“But the SEC gives it, and him, what appears to be a clean pass,” Harris said.

“Yeah. That, and John Austin this morning raved that it’s the real deal, that it would make Benson wealthy. Interesting.” Payne paused, then said, “Anything on the widow? The suicide note could be insightful.”

“I’ve got calls in to her,” Harris said, “and that Detective Murray. And Brahman.”

“What was she telling the media before she clammed up?” Payne said.

“I’ve added those news articles to the file,” Krowczyk said. “It was essentially what’s mentioned in this piece. That this Dr. Han was sick to death—literally, now that I think of it—from having to falsify the findings. He took leave of the company, hoping he could go back to his job in academia—Benson had poached him from Stanford’s bioengineering department with the promise of fame and fortune. When getting back to academia didn’t pan out, he checked out.”

Payne shook his head, and said, “Damn shame. Can’t imagine what the pressure is like that makes someone feel their only option is to off themselves. I guess, at least, it wasn’t a messy way out . . .”

“I also did some drilling down on Han. He got spanked at Stanford—more like a slap on the hand, actually, since we’re talking academia—for questionable practices with other clinical trials. Essentially, got caught taking shortcuts that, while not exactly unethical, were frowned upon by the scientific community.”

“So we have a pattern. Smoke and mirrors at school and at the start-up.”

“Maybe,” Krowczyk said, and shrugged. “Maybe not.”

Payne felt his phone vibrate again. He glanced at the screen and saw that this time it was a text message from Peter Wohl: “Meeting an old colleague for a beer. Come join. You might learn something. McGillin’s in an hour.”

What the hell is that about? he thought. Sounds like an order.

I guess that once a rabbi—“Yessir, Inspector Wohl, sir. McGillin’s. One hour”—always a rabbi.

Must be more of Amy’s meddling.

“Think you can spare me for a bit?” Payne said. “His Highness, Inspector Peter Frederick Wohl, has summoned me to his presence.”

Harris snorted. “What’s up with that?”

“Hell if I know, but I have my suspicions. Would you check in with the M.E. and see when he’s scheduling the autopsies? Maybe we’ll draw straws to determine who gets the thrill of being there. And can you see about that suicide note again, if you can?”

Harris pulled out a chair and slipped into it.

“I’ll let you know,” he said, reaching for the receiver of the multiline phone beside the computer.

“If you need me, I’ll be with Peter at McGillin’s, then headed over to The Rittenhouse. See if I can get that Joy Abrams to talk to me, with or without a lawyer. Or Johnny Austin.”

“Good luck with that,” Harris said without looking up.

[ THREE ]

McGillin’s Olde Ale House

Center City East

Philadelphia