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 FERRIS DIXON INSTITUTE FOR CHEMICAL REsEARCH NORFOLK,
VIRGINIA The institute had funded only two projects for the current
academic year: #~~959: Ashmote, Laurence Allan. Western Pediatric
Medical Center, Los Angeles, CA. Soil toxicity as a factor in the
etioligy of pediatric neoplasms.ø a fol’owup study. ‘s973’ 6~ 2.75,
three years.
#3~9co: Zimberg, Walter William. University of Maryland, Baltimore,
MD. Nonparametric statistics versus Pearson correlations in
scient’fcprediction. the investigative, heuristic, andpredic’I’ve
value of a priori aeter’nination ofsainple distribution. ‘s
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 theJones 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.”