“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.”

Berger stopped, regarded his lawyer, Oliver, and the deputy DA. They were staring at him. He cleared his throat and continued.

“The point is Azor had developed a potentially wonderful drug in his lab, but he lacked the practical experience to refine it.”

“And that was where you came in,” Oliver stated.

Berger eyed him with suspicion. “Yes, as a matter of fact, that was where I came in. He developed a very raw analog, I refined it into something more workable, albeit not perfect. Later on, Dr. Decameron and Dr. Fulton were brought into our club. Reggie fine-tuned the drug. Then Elizabeth set up the protocol for Curedon’s animal experimentation.”

The doctor smacked his lips.

“Azor had the reputation…and Azor got the funding.”

“From the hospital?” Oliver asked.

“From the hospital, from NIH grants, from private donations…from everywhere.” Berger clasped his hands together. “I worked over eight years on Curedon. There was extra pay for me through the grants, but the money hardly made up for the excessive time I had put into the drug. And I should remind you that I was doing this while maintaining a full-time cardiosurgical practice.”

Marge said, “He needs to remind us, Pete.”

Decker said, “He’s pissed.”

“Doesn’t justify what he did.” She paused. “But it explains his motivation. MIGHTY EGO strikes again. Must be hard to be number two, standing in the shadows of the top dog.” She smiled. “I should know about that.”

Decker jerked his head. “Beg your pardon?”

“Oh, nothing…” Marge returned her attention to the interview. “Nothing at all.”