The Suicide Effect (21 page)

Sula tried to forget, for a moment, why she was here and soaked in the scenery like a tourist. Román occasionally played the part of tour guide, pointing out things of interest like two mountain peaks that looked like breasts, which the locals called, “Mt. Pechos.”

Many of the homes that dotted the green hillsides were large and new with pink-painted stucco and red tile roofs. Mixed in were dilapidated shacks surrounded by broken down washing machines, car parts, and smaller shacks. In one yard, it looked as if the occupants were digging up the grass to bury their garbage. Sula wondered about the water supply. They were clearly outside the city limits. Were those people drinking from a well on their property?

After thirty minutes or so, they turned off the well-maintained four-lane highway onto a narrow two-lane road. They were headed toward Bayamon to see Miguel Rios’ widow. Here, the houses were more tightly clustered and many had chickens in the front yard. After a few miles, Román pulled the paper Felisa had given him out of his shirt pocket.

“We’re looking for 4940. See if you can spot an address.”

She didn’t see numerals near any of the front doors so she tried to eyeball the mailboxes, but they were moving too fast. Suddenly Román slammed his breaks and shouted in Spanish. Sula looked up to see a black-and-white goat in the road. While the car was stopped, she took the opportunity to read a mail box.

“This is 4752, so we must be close.”

Román grunted and took off. “Hard to say.”

Two minutes later, he made a sudden turn down a long dirt driveway. They passed the small home near the road and bumped their way back to a larger home, a pale blue two-story with a long balcony wrapping around the second floor. A boy of around five played with a dog in the front yard. He looked up and waved as they stopped in front of the carport.

Román hopped out and spoke to the boy in Spanish. Sula thought she heard the word for
mother.
The boy grinned and ran inside, using both hands to push open the heavy wooden door. Sula reluctantly stepped out of the Volkswagen, her heart suddenly pounding with anxiety. A warm breeze played on her skin and instantly soothed her.

A heavy-set woman in her late forties came out into the yard. Her black hair was streaked with grey and pulled back into a short ponytail. She wore cutoff jeans, a white man’s t-shirt, and worn out sandals.

“Hola,” Román called out cheerfully. He obviously had no intention of sitting in the car as Felisa had directed.

“Hola.” The woman glanced at Sula and raised an eyebrow.

“Are you Lucia Rios?” Román asked.

“Si.” Now she looked skeptical.

“We’re from the Fernández Juncos Clinica.”

Her face closed up. “Why do you come here?”

Román turned to Sula. It was her turn. “I’m Sula Moreno. I used to work for Prolabs. I want to find out what happened to your husband Miguel.”

“He killed himself. You know that already.” Her English was quite good.

“I think the drug he was taking in the trial may have helped cause his death, but I can’t prove it without your help. Can I ask you some questions?”

Lucia hesitated for a full minute. Finally she shrugged. “Come in.” The widow went back through the heavy door and held it open for Sula. She looked back to see if Román was coming. He waved and leaned against the hood of his car. She was on her own.

Lucia led her to the dining room table. Sula found herself staring at the walls, which were painted in varying shades of burnt orange. One wall was lined with family photos, another had a large painting of Jesus on the cross. Through an open window, she could see plantains growing on a tree in the back yard. She vowed to come back to the island some day when she had time to explore.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She was over her caffeine limit, but Sula wanted to be polite.

She watched Lucia pour from a thermos, then add some kind of syrup and maybe cream. She wasn’t fond of sweet coffee, but she would be open-minded. Lucia brought the beverages in heavy white mugs, then sat across from her.

“If you work for Prolabs, why do you want to prove the drug is bad? It’s called Nexapra, is that right?”

“Yes. That’s right.” The way Lucia said it gave the word a whole new sound. “I don’t work for the company anymore. I’m here on my own. I don’t think Nexapra is bad for everybody, just some people who share a genetic mutation.”

“Mutation?” Lucia frowned. “You’re saying something was wrong with my Miguel?”

“Oh no. I just mean he had a certain genetic characteristic that made him react badly to the drug.” Sula pulled her recorder out of her big shoulder bag. “I would like to tape parts of our interview, as documentation. Is that all right?”

Lucia shrugged. Sula took a sip of the coffee. It was surprisingly good, not too sweet, but with a peculiar flavor she didn’t recognize. She turned on the recorder and pushed it to the middle of the table. “Please state your name and your relationship to the deceased, Miguel Rios.”

Lucia leaned forward. “I am Lucia Maria Sanchez Rios. Miguel Rios was my husband of twenty-three years.”

“Before taking Nexapra, did Miguel ever talk about suicide? Or attempt to commit suicide?”

“Never.” Lucia shook her head emphatically. “He loved his family. I know he was depressed and life was hard for him sometimes, but he never wanted to die.”

“Did he receive any counseling for his depression?”

“He went to a special doctor.” She tapped her head. “What’s the word?”

“Psychiatrist.”

“Yes. For a while, when the kids were young. The doctor gave him Prozac. It made Miguel feel better, so he stopped going.”

“What year was that?”

“1990.”

“Was he still taking Prozac before he entered the Nexapra trial?”

“No. He switched drugs many times. I think he was taking Zoloft before joining the study.”

“Why did he enter the trial?”

“The Zoloft wasn’t so good any more. Dr. Hernandez said the new drug was very good.”

“Was he more depressed than usual?”

“A little, but he had been like that many times before. He always tried to get better. That’s why he entered the study. He never talked about suicide.” Lucia’s eyes started to get watery. Sula felt bad for dwelling on such a painful subject.

“Did you notice a change in his behavior after he started taking the Nexapra?”

“Right away. At first, he had more energy. He was more like his old self.” Lucia’s dark eyes caught Sula’s and held them. She was trying to say something without saying it. Was she talking about sex?

“Then what?”

“Then he got irritable like he does sometimes when he drinks too much coffee.” She lifted her cup for emphasis. “He stayed that way for weeks. I asked him what was wrong. He didn’t know. I asked him if thought it was the new drug. He didn’t know.” She paused and took a long slug of coffee.

“Then one Sunday, I came home from the market and he was dead on the floor of our bedroom. Part of his head was blown off.” Tears filled her eyes. “It tore my heart in a way that will never heal.”

Sula knew. “I’m very sorry for your loss, and I’m sorry to put you through this. I won’t take up much more of your time.” She took another sip of coffee to be polite. “Do you have something that has Miguel’s DNA?”

“What do you mean?”

“A lock of his hair, or a toothbrush. Something like that?”

Lucia gave her an odd look. “This will help you find out if the drug made him kill himself?”

“Yes.”

Lucia shrugged again. “Okay.”

Sula clicked off the recorder as Lucia padded down the hallway. In a minute she came back with a small wooden box inlaid with colored glass. Lucia set the box on the table and opened it. Against red velour padding lay a thick lock of dark curly hair.

“I only need part of it. Do you have a Ziplock baggie?”

Miguel’s widow rummaged through a kitchen drawer and came back with a good-sized freezer bag with a sealing mechanism. “This is okay?”

“It’s fine. How about some masking tape and a pen?”

Another longer trip to the kitchen produced both.

“Please write your husband’s name on a piece of tape and stick it on the bag, then transfer some of the hair to the bag and seal it. I’ll turn on the recorder, and I want you to say what you’re doing as you do it.”

Lucia did as she’d been asked and tried not to smile at the silliness of it. Sula shut off the recorder and put the hair package into her shoulder bag. She hoped she didn’t get searched on her flights home.

“Would you like me to contact you later and let you know what I found out?”

“Please. It would be nice to know.”

Lucia wrote down her phone number and address on Sula’s yellow tablet.

“Thank you. Do you know Luis’ wife?”

“Si. Are you going to see her?”

“We’re going there next. Do you think she’ll talk to me?”

“I don’t know. She’s moody. Marta’s at work now and doesn’t get off until three. I’ll call her and let her know you’re coming, so she’ll go straight home.” Lucia made a face. “Sometimes she stops at the taberna.”

Sula wandered into the living room while Lucia made her call. The conversation was in Spanish, and although she didn’t understand the words, she could tell it became intense at one point. She stared at the patterns in a wall tapestry and worried that Luis’ widow didn’t want to cooperate. One set of DNA wouldn’t do any good. The FDA needed a pattern to show the link between the mutation and the behavior. She hoped the agency’s researchers would get samples from the young woman in the Portland trial who killed herself, the one named James who looked Hispanic.

Lucia hung up and joined her near the door. “Marta will meet you at her home at 3:15. Do you have the address? It’s in San Juan.”

“Is she still at 55 Cristo St.?”

“Si.”

“Thanks again. I’ll be in touch.”

The sun’s brightness almost blinded her after the dark interior, and the day was starting to heat up. Sula checked her watch: 12:13. Román chatted with the young boy in the shade of a tree. She thought he must be a grandchild or neighbor. She smiled and waved at the two and climbed in the car. In a moment, her driver joined her. Román had smoked a cigarette and worked up a light sweat while waiting, but the combination of smells was strangely masculine and pleasant. Almost sexy.

“Did you get what you need?”

“Yes. Thanks. Lucia called Marta and we’re meeting her at 3: 15.”

“Good. We have time to stop for lunch then.”

Román took off with his usual foot to the floor. Sula buckled herself in.

They ate lunch at a little roadside stand just outside of San Juan. The asopao de pollo was the best on the island Román assured her. Sula loved the zesty combination of oregano, garlic, cilantro, and chili peppers. Garden fresh green peas cooled the fire and kept the dish from being too hot. Despite her hearty breakfast, she ate with gusto, sitting at a picnic table under a tattered sun umbrella. It was the best meal she’d had in a long time, and it had cost only two dollars and seventy-five cents.

Marta lived on the sixth floor of an apartment building in an area of San Juan called Hato Rey Central. They parked in a garage under the building and took the elevator up. Sula normally avoided both parking garages and elevators, but after surviving the flights to get here, finding Lucia,
and
getting a DNA sample, she felt too optimistic to give either much thought. Although on the way up, it occurred to her that the building was quite old, and she wondered if the elevator was regularly maintained.

No one answered their knock. Sula checked her watch: 3:07.

“We’re a little early.”

“So we wait.” Román took a seat on the floor and leaned back against the wall. Sula joined him.

“I really appreciate your help today. This would have been so much more difficult without you.”

“You don’t have to keep saying that. It’s nothing, really.”

Marta didn’t show up until 3:47, and when she did, she told them to get lost.

Chapter 26

“But you told Lucia you would talk to me.” Sula smelled rum on Marta’s breath and felt a little desperate.

“I don’t feel like it now.”

“It will only take a minute.”

“I said, ‘get lost.’” Marta was a short sturdy woman with long reddish blond hair. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but Sula thought men would find her attractive. Maybe not at the moment, though.

Still hoping to win her over, she held out her hand. “I’m Sula Moreno, and this is Román from the clinic.”

Marta turned away. “And you know who I am.” She unlocked her apartment door, stepped through, and slammed it shut. Román made an unpleasant gesture.

Damn.
Without the second set of DNA, there was no theory to test. Sula struggled to be optimistic. Maybe Marta would feel differently later this evening. Or tomorrow morning when she was sober. Sula couldn’t make herself walk away. She stepped up to the door and knocked timidly.

There was no response. She knocked louder. After a minute, the door jerked open and Marta swore at her in Spanish.

Sula didn’t back down. “I know how you feel. My father killed himself, and I was angry for a long time. But if you don’t help me, many more people may commit suicide. Nexapra has a genetic flaw that seems to affect Hispanic people.”

She had Marta’s attention. “Why Hispanic people?”

“I don’t know. And we might never know if you don’t give me Luis’ DNA.”

Marta bit her lip and mulled it over. Finally, she said, “I’ll give you the stuff Lucia said to, but I don’t want to talk.”

“That’s fine. Thank you.”

Marta turned and gestured for Sula to follow.

The small space reeked of stale cigarette smoke and perfume, but the view of the harbor was lovely. Marta didn’t invite her to sit.

“Wait here.” She stalked out of the room through a tapestry covered arch. A moment later she came back with a hairbrush and a pipe. “These belonged to Luis.” She thrust the items at Sula. “It’s all I have left of him.” Under the anger, she was still grieving.

“Thank you for making this sacrifice. This is important research.”