I searched through a decade of the Index Medicus for articles by Ashmore and Herbert and came up with four by him, all published during the last ten years.
The earliest appeared in the World Health Organization’s public-health bulletin — Ashmore’s summary of his work on infectious diseases in the southern Sudan, emphasizing the difficulty of conducting research in a war-torn environment. His writing style was cool, but the anger leaked through.
The other three pieces had been published in biomathematics journals. The first, funded by a grant from the National Institutes of Health, was Ashmore’s take on the Love Canal disaster. The second was a federally funded review of mathematical applications to the life sciences. Ashmore’s final sentence: “There are lies, damn lies, and statistics.”
The last report was the work Mrs. Ashmore had described: analyzing the relationship between soil-concentration of pesticides and rates of leukemia, brain tumors, and lymphatic and liver cancers in children. The results were less than dramatic — a small numerical link between chemicals and disease, but one that wasn’t statistically significant. But Ashmore said if even one life was saved, the study had justified itself.
A little strident and self-serving for scientific writing. I checked the funding on the study: The Ferris Dixon Institute for Chemical Research, Norfolk, Virginia. Grant #37958.
It sounded like an industry front, though Ashmore’s point of view wouldn’t have made him a likely candidate for the chemical industry’s largesse. I wondered if the absence of any more publications meant the institute had cut off his grant money.
If so, who paid his bills at Western Peds?
I went over to the librarian and asked her if there was a compilation of scientific grants issued by private agencies.
“Sure,” she said. “Life science or physical?”
Not sure how Ashmore’s work would be categorized, I said, “Both.”
She got up and walked briskly back to the reference shelves. Heading straight for a case in the center of the section, she pulled down two thick soft-cover books.
“Here you go — these are the most recent. Anything prior to this year is bound, over there. If you want federally funded research, that’s over there to the right.”
I thanked her, took the books to a table, and read their covers.
CATALOGUE OF PRIVATELY FUNDED RESEARCH: VOLUME I: THE BIOMEDICAL AND LIFE SCIENCES.
Ditto, VOLUME II: ENGINEERING, MATHEMATICS, AND THE PHYSICAL SCIENCES.
I opened the first one and turned to the “Grantee” section at the back. Laurence Ashmore’s name popped out at me midway through the As, cross-referenced to a page number in the “Grantor” section. I flipped to it:
The institute had funded only two projects for the current academic year:
#37959: Ashmore, Laurence Allan. Western
Pediatric Medical Center, Los Angeles, CA. Soil
toxicity as a factor in the etiology of pediatric
neoplasms: a follow-up study. $973,652.75, three
years. #37960: Zimberg, Walter William.
University of Maryland, Baltimore, MD.
Non-parametric statistics versus Pearson
correlations in scientific prediction: the
investigative, heuristic, and predictive value of a
priori determination of sample distribution.
$124,731.00, three years.
The second study was quite a mouthful, but Ferris Dixon obviously wasn’t paying by the word. Ashmore had received nearly 90 percent of its total funding.
Nearly a million dollars for three years.
Very big bucks for a one-man project that was basically a rehash. I was curious about what it took to impress the folks at Ferris Dixon. But it was Sunday and even those with deep pockets rested.
I returned home, changed into soft clothes, and puttered, pretending the fact that it was the weekend meant something to me. At six o’clock, no longer able to fake it, I called the Jones house. As the phone rang, the front door opened and Robin stepped in. She waved, stopped in the kitchen to kiss my cheek, then kept going toward the bedroom. Just as she disappeared from view Cindy’s voice came on the line.
“Hello.”
“Hi. It’s Alex Delaware.”
“Oh, hi. How are you, Dr. Delaware?”
“Fine. And you?”
“Oh... pretty good.” She sounded edgy.
“Something the matter, Cindy?”
“No... Um, could you hold for just one second?”
She covered the receiver and the next time I heard her voice it was muffled and her words were unintelligible. But I made out another voice answering — from the low tones, Chip.
“Sorry,” she said. “We’re just getting settled. I thought I heard Cassie — she’s taking a nap.”
Definitely edgy.
“Tired from the ride?” I said.
“Um... that and just getting readjusted. She had a great big dinner, plus dessert, then just dropped off. I’m across the hall from her right now. Keeping my ears open... you know.”
“Sure,” I said.
“I keep her door open to our bathroom — it connects to our room — and a night light on inside. So I can look in on her regularly.”
“How do you get any sleep that way?”
“Oh, I manage. If I’m tired, I nap when she does. Being together so much, we’ve kind of gotten on to the same schedule.”
“Do you and Chip ever take shifts?”
“No, I couldn’t do that — his course load’s really heavy this semester. Are you coming out to visit us, soon?”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? Sure. Um... how about in the afternoon — around four?”
Thinking of the 101 freeway snarl, I said, “Would earlier be possible?”
“Um, okay — three-thirty?”
“I was thinking even earlier, Cindy, like two?”
“Oh, sure... I’ve got some things to do — would two-thirty be okay?”
“Fine.”
“Great, Dr. Delaware. We’re looking forward to seeing you.”
I walked to the bedroom, thinking how much more nervous she sounded at home than in the hospital. Something about home setting her off — raising her anxiety and leading to Munchausen manipulation?
Though, even if she was virgin-innocent, I supposed it made sense for her house to spook her. For her, home was where the harm was.
Robin was slipping into a little black dress I’d never seen before. I zipped her up, pressed my cheek to the warmth between her shoulder blades, and finally managed to complete the process. We drove to the top of the Glen, to an Italian place in the shopping center just below Mulholland. No reservation, and we had to wait at a cold onyx bar. Frantic singles scene tonight, lots of tanned flesh and triple entendres. We enjoyed not being part of it, reveled in silence. I started to have real faith in our reunion — something pleasant to think about.
A half hour later we were seated at a corner table and ordering before the waiter could escape. We ate veal and drank wine for a peaceful hour, drove back home, got out of our clothes and straight into bed. Despite the wine, our union was quick, limber, almost jovial. Afterward, Robin ran a bath, got in, and called for me to join her. Just as I was about to, the phone rang.
“Dr. Delaware, this is Janie at your service. I’ve got a call from a Chip Jones.”