“I truly was not looking to find fault,” Gross said. “But the state had blinders on, and if you follow a straight path and never deviate, those needles in a haystack are a lot harder to find.”
“We felt like we were in search of the truth,” Randall Todd told me one September morning at his Reno office. Todd, 60, is an earnest, balding man, with the manner of one accustomed but not hardened to criticism. He left the Nevada State Health Division in 2005 and is now director of epidemiology and public health preparedness for Washoe County. “But we’re the government,” he said. “We’re always going to be under some suspicion that we’re trying to protect industry or the military.”
Throughout the investigation, Todd reminded Fallon residents that the odds of finding a cause were low. “That said,” he explained, “we had a terrible time managing the expectations of this community.” Critics read officials’ caution as lack of resolve. The director of the health division resigned after an administrator chided her for “not moving quickly enough.” Todd was instructed to speak frequently to the press. He was not treated kindly. When a reporter asked why he didn’t “think outside the box,” he replied, “You’re right. I haven’t consulted psychics or ouija boards. There’s a box outside of which I won’t go, and that box is science.” On the Phil Donohue Show, a father called him “mister” instead of “doctor,” saying Todd was a bureaucrat, “not a real doctor.” NBC’s Ann Curry asked, “Isn’t it true that some children have died?” “Yes,” he replied. “Dr. Todd,” Curry said, “how can you live with yourself?”
Todd rarely strayed from his script. “I tried to reassure people that good science is seldom fast,” he told me. “I don’t think they liked that message, and there were others coming around with messages more likeable than ours.”
One was Alan Levin, April Brune’s attorney, who called Todd in the fall of 2000. He introduced himself as “Doctor Lawyer Levin” and a Woburn investigator. According to Todd, “He said, ‘I think this could be the cluster where we find the viral trigger of childhood leukemia.’ ” Todd agreed but soon grew wary of Levin and his motives. “He indicated that if he saw some deep pockets responsible for this, he’d go after them,” recalled Todd. “He thought law was one of the greatest forces for social good in this country. You’ll never hear a physician say that.” Levin also claimed there was a test that could tell if a child was genetically predisposed to leukemia. Todd consulted several experts who assured him that such a test did not exist. He skimmed A Civil Action: “There’s a point in it where a judge accuses him of ‘screwball science.’ ” By then, Todd had stopped talking with Levin.
Levin continued to attend public meetings, often with Gary Ridenour, the local physician and Ryan Brune’s hospice doctor. They made an odd pair. Levin, who once held research appointments at the University of California-San Francisco, a top-ranked medical school, is gaunt, well-dressed, and frequently mentions his friendship with the late Mafia boss, Joseph Bonanno. Ridenour, who styles himself “the last country doctor,” earned his degree from the Universidad Autónoma de Guadalajara, in Mexico, and, for a period in the 1990s, lost his license after illegally dispensing painkillers. (He now runs a bustling practice and has been voted “best doctor” in the local paper seven years in a row.) Todd believed both men were purveyors of false information. At one meeting, when an attendee asked if there really was a test for susceptibility to leukemia, and Todd said no, Levin yelled, “You know that’s not true!” At another, Levin referred to the cluster as “a simple, simple problem.” This criticism still haunted Todd. Once a legislator told him, “Maybe I’ve watched Erin Brockovich too many times, but I just feel that if we all go out there and dig, we’ll find the answer.”