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Berger screamed.
“I think you’re hurting him,” Elizabeth said meekly.
Oliver was dripping rivers from his face. “Got it?”
“Just…about…damn!” Water rolled off Marge’s forehead. She jerked up Berger’s left hand. “I swear I’m go
“Easy, Detective.”
Berger let out another shriek.
Again, Elizabeth said, “I think you’re really hurting him.”
Oliver jammed Berger against the wall. “Got it?”
“I…” Marge heard the double lock click into place. “Got it.”
“Oh God!” Berger moaned out. “I swear I didn’t kill anyone. I swear, I swear, I-”
“I’m go
“Oh God, oh God, oh God! Liz, I swear I never killed anyone-”
“Will you kindly shut up?” Oliver said.
“Don’t talk, Myron,” Elizabeth said. “Don’t say anything until you’ve talked to a lawyer.”
“You believe me?”
“Of course. Scientific pilfering is one thing. But murder?”
“Will you both shut up so I can Mirandize him?” Oliver yelled.
“I want my lawyer,” Berger blurted out.
“If you don’t let me get this out, you ain’t go
Finally, Berger fell quiet. Oliver took a deep breath, then read the doctor his rights. At the conclusion, Berger again requested a lawyer.
“No problemo, Doc,” Oliver said. “You can have your lawyer. Let’s go.”
But Berger resisted walking. “Elizabeth, please help me!”
“Let’s go,” Oliver said, pushing him forward.
“Myron, who should I call?” Elizabeth asked.
“Gold and Brown,” he shouted out.
“You can tell them we’re going to book their client at the Devonshire Substation,” Marge said.
Oliver shoved him forward. “He’ll probably be transferred to Van Nuys jail for arraignment-”
“Oh God!” Berger moaned. “Stop. I’ll tell you everything. Just please don’t book me for murder.”
Oliver stopped walking. “You’ll tell us everything?”
“Yes, yes.” Berger nodded rapidly. “I’ll tell you everything.”
“So suddenly you know what I’m talking about,” Oliver said.
“Yes. Yes, I do know. And I’ll tell you. Just please don’t book me.”
“He asked for a lawyer,” Elizabeth pointed out. “You can’t talk to him now.”
Oliver glared at her. “One minute you’re spitting in the guy’s face, the next you’re his advocate?”
“He’s my colleague!” Elizabeth said. “We have our own ways of censuring. I’m not about to let him drown in your hands.”
“Oh please!” Marge said wearily. “C’mon! Let’s go.”
“Wait!” Berger yelled out. “Yes, I’ll talk to my lawyer. But I guarantee you, if you wait, you won’t be sorry. You’ll like what I have to tell you. Just…please…hold off…with the…murder charges. Because bottom line, I swear I didn’t do it.”
Oliver and Marge exchanged glances. “Are you willing to take a polygraph?”
“Yes, of course. Right away. Just don’t book me.”
Oliver shrugged. “What exactly do you have in mind, Doc?”
“Let me talk to my lawyer. I know what you want, Detective Oliver. I know you’re after the big guys. Please. Be patient. I promise you won’t be sorry.”
Oliver looked at Marge. “What do you think?”
“We should ask the Loo.”
“So we’ll ask the Loo.” Oliver paused. “Should we hold off on booking him?”
Berger looked at Marge with hopeful eyes. She shrugged. “He gave us a rough time with the arrest-”
“I’m very sorry about that,” Berger said. “Very sorry. Please. Let me talk to my lawyer. Then I’ll talk to you.”
Again, Marge shrugged. “Okay. You bought yourself some time. You’d better come through.”
Berger smiled. “I will. I swear I’ll make you happy.”
Oliver said, “Last time someone said those words to me, I wound up with crabs. C’mon. Let’s go.”
27
Great to be on the other side of the one-way mirror. Decker leaned against the wall, watching Myron Berger and his lawyer confer. Not that there was much to talk about. The deal had been cut hours ago. The doctor had been guaranteed immunity from prosecution by the FBI on charges of computer tampering, theft, and fraud in exchange for becoming a material witness. And though Berger hadn’t been formally booked, the police had retained the right if future information and/or evidence warranted an arrest.
Marge sipped coffee. “Is my watch fast or is it already seven?”
“Your watch isn’t fast.”
“Where does the time go?”
“I don’t know.” Decker rubbed his neck. “Tomorrow night is the Sabbath. I can’t wait.”
Marge said, “Are we still on for Sunday?”
“Absolutely.”
“I know Rina’s strict with her kitchen, so I don’t want to bring any food. How about if I bring flowers?”
“Great. Thanks.”
Decker drank from a thermos, regarded the action on the other side of the looking glass. Berger had chosen Justin Dorman as his counsel, a man in his late thirties with styled wheat-colored hair and deep-set brown eyes. His regular features bore a nondescript expression. In his herringbone suit, he looked about as menacing as a model in GQ. But he had cut Berger a good plea. Decker had been impressed.
The doctor, on the other hand, was anything but Perma-Prest. His clothes were wrinkled and he needed a shave. More than anything, Berger was tired. Yes, he’d withstood fourteen-hour surgeries, but no endurance test could have prepared him for this.
Decker said, “You didn’t want a piece of the action?”
“Nah.” Marge threw away her plastic cup. “The deal’s been cut. Nothing to do but listen. Might as well do it here where I can make wisecracks.” She observed the scene on the other side, the door opening…“And on with the show.”
Oliver came in the interview room. With him was Mitch Saugust, the deputy DA. Also young-in his thirties-but not as well coiffed nor as well dressed. Saugust was tall but not muscular. His shoulders sloped, his gut spilled over his belt. He shook hands with Dorman, then sat down. Oliver took the chair to his left.
Saugust looked at Oliver. Scott said, “We’re ready whenever you are, Doctor.”
Berger was draped in fatigue. “Oh my.” He hung his head. “Where to begin.”
The room was quiet.
“I’ve been with Azor Sparks for nearly twenty-five years. A few of our colleagues considered us a team. But most didn’t. More important, I didn’t. I had always looked to Azor as a boss, even though we were in the same graduating class at Harvard Medical School.”
He took a deep breath.
“About ten-plus years ago, Azor went back and got a Ph.D. in biochemistry. I always felt he was a bit…intimidated by my own master’s in chemistry. Because when we used to talk about drug structure-specifically Cyclosporin-A analogs-he often would be forced to cede to my knowledge, sometimes graciously, sometimes begrudgingly. Not that I was smarter, but I had been more educated in this one particular area.”
Marge said, “I’ve found the perfect superhero for Berger.”
“What’s that?”
“MIGHTY EGO.”
Decker smiled. “Yeah, egos are something else. They make us able to live with ourselves.”
Marge laughed. “Otherwise, we’d all curl up and die from embarrassment.”
Berger kept talking. “Finally, Azor did go back to UCLA and he did receive a Ph.D. Which again gave him the formal educational advantage-at least on paper. Being involved in biochemistry years before Azor, I felt I still had the practical edge. I would have liked to further my interest in chemistry, but when Azor went back, I had to pick up the slack around the hospital. Which meant I worked long, long hours-”
Dorman tapped Berger’s shoulder, whispered in his ear. Berger sighed and nodded. He went on.
“Admittedly so, Curedon was Azor’s brainchild-a highly modified cyclophillin binder which seemed to be a very potent T-cell inhibitor. In theory.”