Murder at the Spa (19 page)

Actually, Charlotte had no doubt that cell therapy worked. According to Sperry, its efficacy could be attested to by more than fifty thousand satisfied patients. If it didn’t work, they wouldn’t keep coming back. But so did the charms, prayers, and magic potions that humanity had relied on since the beginning of time. The placebo effect, modern science had dubbed it. The biochemical changes that produce the cure are triggered by simple confidence in the doctor’s prescription, even when that prescription is only a sugar tablet or placebo. And what builds confidence more effectively than posh surroundings and a walloping bill? The patient who pays thousands of dollars to be told he isn’t feeling up to par because his cells need rejuvenating is ninety percent cured before the injection. For Sperry’s patients, there was the added incentive of getting a bargain. Instead of traveling to Switzerland, they could get their treatments right at home. Sperry’s fee, which he wasn’t bashful about bringing up, was two thousand dollars—cash. As he put it: “No one ever said youth was inexpensive.”

Charlotte did some rough mental calculations. Figuring five patients a week, he was making ten thousand a week, or half a million a year. Quite a gold mine. The cells must cost something, but his office overhead was covered by Paulina (at least until Jack got around to carrying out her orders). With that rate of return, the risk was well worth taking. And what was the risk? Injecting sheep embryo cells into the rear ends of a few hundred wealthy youth seekers would hardly constitute the kind of threat to the public’s health that would merit a full-scale investigation by the Food and Drug Administration. Unless—unless someone tipped them off. If that were the case, the chance that the tipster was a patient was greater than not: a patient who had had an adverse reaction, a patient who was unhappy with the results, a patient in tough financial straits—“give me a cut of the action or I’ll turn you in.” Frannie’s idea that Adele had died of an adverse reaction was worth looking into, but this was better. When it came to a motive for murder, a threat to an income of half a million a year was a strong motive indeed.

She returned her attention to Sperry, who was now down to specifics. First she would undergo the preliminary treatment, in which she would be injected with a small amount of cells, the purpose being to accustom her immune system to the foreign protein. She would undergo the treatment itself two days later, on the last day of her spa visit. The treatment would consist of an injection of five or six different kinds of cells, depending on her needs. After the treatment, she would be required to rest for three days. Bed rest prevented the cells from being destroyed by muscle contraction. It also allowed the body to recover from side effects caused by the shock of the immune system, namely nausea and fatigue. She would also be asked to avoid alcohol and tobacco, which could damage the cells.

At this point, Sperry went over to a cabinet and withdrew a glass ampule containing about half a teaspoonful of white crystals. “This is what the cells look like,” he said, handing it to her. “This ampule contains brain cells, but it could just as well be kidney, lung, heart, pituitary, liver, thyroid, testes, and so on. We use about sixty varieties.”

Charlotte examined the ampule. She wondered briefly if brain cells were what M.J. was getting—if not, she could use some. She passed it back to Sperry, who asked if she had any questions.

“Yes. How it works.”

“Oh, quite right,” he said, wrinkling his nose in a smile. “How it works.” He cleared his throat. “As you know, we are all composed of cells.”

She could follow that much.

“Each of our cells has a genetically determined life span. When that life span is reached, the cell dies. As more and more of an organ’s cells die, the organ becomes less efficient. The heart becomes less strong, the skin becomes less elastic. In other words”—he smiled—“we age.”

His words were polished, but they didn’t tell her much. “I’m familiar with the aging process,” she said dryly.

“Indeed. Aren’t we all.” He smiled again, displaying his lupine teeth. He continued: “In cell therapy, we use sheep embryo cells to stimulate the regeneration of cells that have been weakened by age or disease. The patient is injected with cells that correspond to the organ whose performance has been compromised. We give kidney cells to patients with kidney trouble, heart cells to patients with heart disease, et cetera.”

“Like a transplant,” offered Charlotte, playing along.

“Quite right. A highly sophisticated form of transplant, actually. The cells migrate to the affected organ, where they produce a rejuvenating effect. In addition, there’s an overall rejuvenating effect. We call it the ‘fountain of youth’ effect. Senescent body functions are reinvigorated.”

At this stage in her life, thought Charlotte, she had no interest in reinvigorating her senescent body functions. The fact that they had become senescent—or at least partially so—was one consolation of her years, whatever M.J. might say about rolls in the hay to the contrary.

But she was curious nonetheless. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand how the cells cause regeneration,” Charlotte pressed. For all the pseudoscientific mumbo jumbo, she was none the wiser.

“On a biochemical level?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s a good question.” Sperry stared at her blankly for perhaps ten seconds. Hadn’t anyone ever asked how it worked before? Then he swiveled around in his chair and gazed thoughtfully out the window. On the wall to the side of the window Charlotte noticed an official-looking medical degree (“Honorable”) from the Madras Homeopathic College. After a moment, he swiveled back. “It has to do with DNA—deoxyribonucleic acid, the cell’s genetic blueprint.”

Yes, she had heard of Watson and Crick.

“I’m afraid it’s just too complicated for the layman to understand. Let’s just say it’s a secret of nature, shall we?”

Charlotte smiled. A secret of nature. Of course.

“Now,” he said impatiently, “are we ready or aren’t we?”

“Not quite.” She wasn’t going to let him off the hook yet. “One more question. I’m afraid I’m still a bit of a skeptic.”

“Of course,” he said solicitously. “That’s entirely natural. I wouldn’t want you to be anything other than completely comfortable with your decision.” He wrinkled his nose. “What else would you like to know?”

“What I’m wondering is this: if cell therapy is the miracle treatment you claim it is, why isn’t it accepted by the medical establishment?”

He looked exasperated. “Miss Graham,” he said patronizingly, “you are a highly intelligent woman.”

“You make that sound unusual,” she parried.

Ignoring her, he went on: “I needn’t tell you that some of the greatest achievements of science have taken place outside of the scientific establishment.” In tones of solemn reverence, he invoked the pantheon of modern science: Galileo, Darwin, Pasteur. It was clear he included himself in this august company. “Nothing’s changed,” he continued. “The real geniuses still have to buck the establishment. Look at Jonas Salk.” He leaned back, warming to his subject. “But when it comes to impeding scientific progress, the government is even worse than the scientific establishment, especially in this country. The U.S. Food and Drug Administration is the most backward drug regulatory agency in the world. Look at cell therapy: it’s been approved in six countries.” He ticked them off on the tips of his fingers. He leaned forward earnestly. “But not in the U.S. The tragedy is, when the FDA withholds approval of a treatment as valuable as cell therapy, they are compromising the health of the American public.”

Charlotte thought he was overstating his case. Cell therapy hardly lent itself to implementation on a mass scale. Each town would need its own flock of sheep and its own private abattoir.

“I know what I’m doing is against the law,” Sperry continued more calmly, “but that’s the price I pay for being a pioneer. But,” he added, “you didn’t come here to listen to my sermonizing. Any other questions?”

“Yes. Is there any danger associated with cell therapy? Side effects? Adverse reactions?”

“Good question. I’ve already mentioned the side effects: nausea, fatigue. As for danger, there’s very little. Whenever a foreign substance is injected into the body, there’s the risk of an allergic reaction. But that risk is very small. One in a million, if that.”

“What if that were to happen?”

“Oh, it usually happens immediately. We’d just give the patient a shot of adrenaline—it would fix them right up.”

“That’s reassuring,” she said. Scratch that idea.

“Well, are you ready to take the plunge?”

“I guess so.”

“Good. I can assure you that you won’t regret it.” He opened his desk drawer and pulled out an appointment book.

Charlotte’s eyes casually followed Sperry’s tanned hand to the imitation leather cover of the spiral-bound notebook, and then stopped. The appointment book might be a clue. If Adele or Art had threatened to turn Sperry in or had demanded a piece of the action (hadn’t Adele said she was hard up?), they must have been his cell therapy patients. And if that were the case, their names would be in his book. She knew she was grasping at straws. But at least there were straws to grasp at. If they had threatened his income, they probably did so in person. Adele had seen Sperry just before she died. But what about Art? If she could see the book, she could see if Art had had an appointment on the day he died. At the least, she could get an idea of how many cell therapy patients Sperry had and therefore how much money he was making.

Sperry opened the appointment book. “How long will you be staying?”

“Until Wednesday.”

“Good. Then I’ll schedule your preliminary treatment for Monday and your final treatment for Wednesday.”

As Sperry recorded her name in a small, neat handwriting, Charlotte wondered whether the book listed appointments for both spa and cell therapy patients or for cell therapy patients alone. If it listed appointments for both, it wouldn’t tell her much; there would be no way of distinguishing one from the other. Maybe he had two appointment books, like the double books of white-collar criminals. But a scan of his desktop revealed nothing but a stack of the computer printouts that would tell the new inmates in which column their names were recorded in the giant ledger in the sky.

Having finished writing down her name, Sperry made out two appointment cards and passed them to her. Charlotte had no intention of keeping the appointments. She was only willing to go along with this up to a point.

“We can do the Reinhardt test today if you like,” Sperry said. “It’s a simple blood test: the Reinhardt Resistance Reaction Ferment Test. It determines which organs are malfunctioning.”

“Yes, that would be fine,” she replied. The Reinhardt test sounded very useful: organ not functioning fully, test tells all. She wondered why modern medicine had never heard of it.

“The fee is five hundred dollars. If you would like, you can pay me on Monday. I usually require payment in advance, but most of my patients come here with the intention of undergoing cell therapy.”

In other words, with money in hand. “That’s okay. I have travelers’ checks. Will that be all right?”

“Fine.”

She withdrew a book of travelers’ checks from her handbag and proceeded to sign five one-hundred-dollar checks.

“As you know, cell therapy is illegal,” Sperry continued. “For this reason, I must ask you not to discuss your treatments unless you think the person with whom you’re speaking is interested in undergoing the treatments.”

“I understand.”

“Incidentally, if you refer a new patient to me, I’ll pay you a referral fee of two hundred dollars.”

“I see.” That sneaky M.J., she thought. Here she was feeling guilty about taking advantage of her, when all she was after was the two-hundred-dollar kickback. She handed him the checks, which he put away in a drawer.

“Excuse me while I get the Reinhardt test ready.” He stood up. “While you’re waiting, you might want to read these.” He handed her a file of clippings on “body servicing” and disappeared into the adjoining room.

As soon as the door closed, Charlotte started riffling through the papers on the desk. Under the stack of printouts she found another appointment book, which meant that the one in which he had noted her appointment was for cell therapy patients (which explained why he kept it in his drawer). She picked up the cell therapy book. Art had died on Thursday. She checked the entries for that date. There it was, Arthur Dykstra, one
P.M.
—one hour before he died. Heart, spleen, kidney, etc.—he was scheduled for the works. She turned back to Monday, the day Adele had died. She was there too, scheduled for liver, among other things. Next to each name, there was a notation indicating whether the patient was scheduled for the Reinhardt test, the preliminary treatment, or the cell injection. Turning back to the beginning of the week, she added up the Reinhardt tests. Her earlier estimate had been way off. For the week of June 10, there were seventeen Reinhardt tests, which meant seventeen new patients. Almost two million a year!

She put the book back and sat down. Leaning back, she leafed casually through the articles, which were illustrated with tantalizing picture layouts of the posh clinic on Lake Geneva.

In a moment, Sperry returned with a trayful of test tubes with colored tops. “I’m just going to draw some blood,” he said, pulling a rubber tourniquet out of his pocket. “It won’t hurt at all.”

As Charlotte headed back downstairs a few minutes later, she asked herself what to do. Should she go to the police on the vague grounds that Adele and Art had been Sperry’s patients? Or should she see what other evidence she could dig up? She decided on the latter course. She needed to know more. For instance, an Interpol check would reveal whether Sperry had ever been in trouble in England. Jerry could arrange that. At the desk, a receptionist directed her to Jerry’s office in the basement. At the foot of the stairs, she found herself in a brightly lit corridor lined with offices. The first office was occupied by Frannie, who sat with her back to the door, typing. She was wearing earphones over her monkey’s ears. The second office, she concluded, must be Jerry’s; it had a chin-up bar across the door. It was his office, but he wasn’t there. A secretary told her that he was repairing a toilet. She expected him back in an hour. Charlotte checked her watch: it was now two-thirty. She would have just enough time for a bath. Her muscles were tense, her nerves taut. Her fishing expedition in Sperry’s office had taken more out of her than she had thought.