by Jeff Siebold
The drugs listed in the police file as evidence were oxycodone, hydrocodone, morphine, cocaine and codeine. The quantities were substantial, and the quality of the drugs confiscated was very good, well above street grade.
“These don’t appear to have been stepped on too much,” said Zeke, thinking. “Some mixed with fentanyl, but not what you’d expect for college kids.”
He paused a moment.
“I’m surprised we don’t see MDMA or Ecstasy on the list,” said Zeke. “Or heroin. They’re some of the most popular drugs.”
“You’re right,” said Kimmy.
“Maybe the source is controlling the available product,” said Zeke. “Maybe they can’t get some drugs.”
“Like they’re out of stock?” asked Kimmy. She was leaning over his shoulder, making a note on a yellow pad.
“Possible. Or maybe the source can only provide certain drugs,” said Zeke.
“Were there markings on the pills?” she asked.
“No, they were capsules, it says. Probably a quantity of free product that the source loaded into capsules for easy sale.”
They looked over the police record.
“What did the boys say, the ones that were arrested?” asked Kimmy.
Zeke flipped the pages.
“Harry Anderson said that they received shipments via UPS and sold them, then used PayPal to transfer the money back. They never met their source,” said Zeke.
He paused.
“Darrell Lamb had an attorney representing him,” Zeke read. “He said that he’d only been involved once and he didn’t get any money. Just took some drugs for himself.”
“That’s not what Harry said,” said Kimmy. “Somebody’s lying.”
“Right,” said Zeke. “They also interviewed Nathan Frost before he left town. Evidently, he is the one who initially set up the distribution chain at the school, but it doesn’t look like the police knew that back then. He disappeared shortly after the arrest, while he was out on bond.”
“He went to California?” asked Kimmy.
“Yes. Seth and Carrie confirmed it when I talked to them out there.”
“Did you find out anything about him? Where he is now?” asked Kimmy.
“No. They weren’t very forthcoming. Seth was intentionally vague about it, said Zeke.
Kimmy’s silver bracelets jangled as she reached across the table for her tea. It was a light, tinny sound. “So basically, no one knows anything,” she said.
* * *
“I’ve been thinking,” Zeke said.
Clive had joined them on a secure phone line. They were brainstorming about the source of the drugs and the distribution chain, and trying to determine how the murders fit into the puzzle.
“I’ve read that drug manufacturers put specific signatures in their chemical mix,” said Zeke. “They add a neutral compound to the volatile chemicals as an identifier. Like, ‘This batch is 15% sodium, so we know it was made in the Dayton, New Jersey plant.’”
“Is that a common practice?” asked Kimmy.
“It is,” said Zeke. “It’s a small part of the Drug Supply Chain Security Act that went into effect in 2013.”
“What identifier was in the drugs they took from the UPenn boys?” asked Clive.
“The identifier was a 30% lactose composition,” said Zeke. “Forty percent of the pharmaceuticals sold in the United States come from overseas, most from China and India. But Sally checked. Based on that identifier, these pills were manufactured at the Johnson-Matthey Pharmaceutical plant in West Conshohocken...just up the road.”
* * *
“So there’s a leak,” said Kimmy. “Somebody’s diverting prescription drugs from the source.”
“Well, it could be in logistics or in warehousing. We don’t know that it’s in the manufacturing plant for sure, yet,” said Zeke. “But it’s a good place to start.”
They were driving the short distance from their hotel to the Johnson-Matthey plant to meet with David Strong, the plant manager. The FBI had called ahead, and when Zeke called, Strong agreed to meet with Zeke immediately, based on the significance of their suspicions.
“Security is a top priority here,” Strong had said. “If we’re losing product, we need to know about it.”
The facility was an impressive industrial plant located on several acres along the Schuylkill River. It spanned the space between the river and Schuylkill River Road in an industrial part of the city.
Security at the gate entrance seemed effective. Zeke and Kimmy checked in and parked in a spot labeled “Visitors” and walked into the front office portion of the plant.
“May I help you?” asked a woman behind a glass panel in the entry area. She looked to be about fifty years old and acted indifferent to their presence.
Zeke smiled. “We’re here to see David Strong,” he said.
“You have an appointment?” asked the woman. Her large, flabby biceps were visible in her sleeveless dress.
“Sure do,” said Zeke.
“Hold on,” she said. She slid the glass closed and picked up a black phone from the counter and dialed three digits.
A short time later an interior door opened and Zeke and Kimmy were led by a guard through a rabbit’s warren of hallways surrounded by many small, identical offices. After a short walk, they were ushered into a room with a functional desk in the middle of the office and file cabinets along one wall. A tall, thin man with thinning brown hair sat behind the desk.
“I’m David Strong,” said the man, getting up and walking around his desk to shake hands with Zeke and Kimmy. “How can I help?” Their guide had disappeared.
“Did you get a call about us from the Philadelphia FBI office?” asked Zeke.
“I did. They said you’re working in concert with them on a prescription drug theft case. Please, sit.” Strong had a heavy English accent.
Sounds like a Londoner, Zeke thought as they eased themselves into two Steelcase office guest chairs.
“Can I see your identification, please?”
They passed their ID’s across the desk. Strong looked at each and made a note on the pad in front of him before passing them back.
Clive had solicited the FBI’s help in gaining access to the Johnson-Matthey facility. Due to the nature of their business, access to the plant was generally very limited.
“We’ve found a number of prescription drugs that may have come from this plant,” said Zeke.
“You’re certain they’re ours?” asked Strong.
“Pretty certain. These are capsules, oxy, hydrocodone, morphine, and they contain a 30% mixture of lactose. Does that match your processes?” asked Zeke.
“Well, sort of,” said Strong. “The thing is, as you can imagine, we have very comprehensive controls on all of our products, from the raw materials we receive all the way through the finished product. What type of quantity are you talking about?” he asked.
“We think they’re substantial quantities,” said Zeke, “with new orders and distribution every week or ten days.”
“I don’t think that can be so,” said Strong, shaking his head slowly. “We inventory everything and compare the expected quantities for consistency throughout the manufacturing process. If we lost a significant amount of product, it would show up immediately. We have several computer programs that make the comparisons and alert us of changes. You know, changes in weight, pill count, number of barrels...”
“Barrels?” asked Kimmy.
“Yes, the raw material, say opium, is washed with a calcium solution and hot water. Then it’s stored in barrels for transport.”
“So you’d know immediately if your quantities were wrong,” said Zeke.
“We would. Particularly for as large a quantity as you’ve mentioned,” said Strong.
“Have you been here long?” asked Zeke. “At Johnson-Matthey, I mean.”
“I have. The company sent me over to run this operation six years ago. Before that, I worked in the Belgium pla
nt and at the headquarters in London,” he added.
“Have you had any theft or significant product loss since you arrived?” asked Zeke.
“No, and the FDA monitors us very closely, as you can imagine. We’d know if there was a problem.”
“No doubt,” said Zeke.
“But the 30% filler solution, the lactose, is worrisome,” said Strong. “That’s the exact result of this plant’s processes.”
“How many employees do you have on site?” asked Zeke.
“Well, we do a number of processes here,” said Strong. “The high security is applicable in many disciplines. The company was founded in 1851 as a gold assayer and refiner for the Bank of England. They had high security measures, and along the way they diversified into a number of areas, including controlled substances.”
“Was it the security measures in place that led them to diversify into controlled substances?” asked Zeke.
“Quite so,” said Strong. “This plant is highly automated. We have thirty-four people who work in our controlled substance division.”
“How many of them actually come in contact with the materials?” asked Zeke.
Strong thought for a moment. “Maybe twenty,” he said. “The rest are administrative.”
“Could you get us a list of those employees?” asked Zeke. “It’s a place to start.”
Chapter 48
It took another fifteen minutes for David Strong to get the list together. He made a quick call, and then led Zeke and Kimmy down the hall, turning corners twice in a seemingly random fashion, ending up at an office door marked “Human Resources.” He pushed into the office.
“We’re here for the employee list,” he said to a young girl who was standing at the laser printer.
“Here you go, sir.” She handed him two sheets of paper.
Strong scanned the pages quickly and handed one of them to Zeke. “Treat it as confidential, as much as you can, please,” said Strong.
Zeke looked over the names quickly, nodded and folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “Will do. Thanks,” he said.
“No worries,” said Strong with what looked like an ironic smile. “We’ll poke around here and see what we can uncover. Let me know what you find out.”
“We will,” said Zeke.
“Follow me, then,” he said. “I’ll get you back to the front of the building.”
* * *
“Frank Lamb, Eric Burns, and Luc Jones. Those are family names we’ve come across already,” said Zeke, once they were clear of the Johnson-Matthey parking lot. “And any others that might be a friend or related to Dylan Jones in some fashion.”
“This is a small community. It could be someone who went to school with Dylan Jones, or even a close friend,” said Kimmy. “It doesn’t have to be someone with the same name.”
“Right, it could be any one of these, but there are only twenty-two names,” said Zeke. “Let’s give the list to Sally and ask her to whittle it down for us.”
“Will do,” said Kimmy.
Zeke handed her the still folded paper.
“Do you remember all the names?” she asked.
“Well, yes, I guess I do,” he said with a smile.
Kimmy, shaking her head, took her smartphone out of her purse and dialed Sally’s number.
* * *
“Of course I called him,” said Bruce Coffey. He was standing a full nine inches taller than Zeke. His face maintained an incredulous, arrogant sneer. “We’re teammates. We practice together, play together. So what?”
Sally had checked Brandon Hart’s cell phone records and found many calls to and from Coffey. Zeke decided to stop by to meet the man. He’d introduced himself as an FBI consultant.
They were standing on the front porch of Coffey’s stately home in Great Falls.
“Is Brandon involved in anything illegal?” Zeke asked.
“What’re you talking about, man? Illegal? Are you kidding? I should knock you down for saying that.” Coffey stepped forward aggressively, crowding into Zeke’s personal space.
Zeke shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, and then, to defuse the tension he said, “What’s the team paying you, Bruce, between one and three million?”
Bruce stepped back unconsciously. “What? How do you know that?”
“About 70% of the NFL players are in that pay range,” said Zeke. “Particularly guys in their twenties like you are. And living out here takes a chunk of it.” Coffey’s house was not far from the Harts’. It was a tudor-style house that sat on an unwooded acre and a half of land.
“And you pay over half of that money in income taxes, state and federal,” he continued. “Plus the cars and the country club.” He looked toward the driveway. “That Maserati Quattroporte was over a hundred grand. And you paid, what, $85,000 to join the country club, and about $600 a month dues? Not the smartest money management, Bruce.”
Coffey shook his head, his financial weakness laid out in front of him like a roadmap. He obviously wasn’t used to being spoken to this way.
“You have two girls, right? I saw that they’re in private school in Falls Church at, what, $22,000 a year each?”
Bruce Coffey was recovering. “Yeah, so that’s my business, not yours,” he mumbled. His voice cleared Zeke’s head by almost a foot.
Zeke looked up at him. “Let’s sit down so I can hear what you’re saying.” He knew that a little distance and some furniture between them would probably help defuse the situation.
“FBI,” said Coffey, visibly getting control of himself. “Sure, I’ve got nothing to hide.” He led Zeke through the house to a patio and entertainment area by a pool.
They walked to the mahogany patio table on the back porch and sat in opposing chairs. Bruce Coffey was wearing a red golf shirt and white slacks. He had a solid gold chain hanging around his neck and a single diamond stud in his left ear. His hands looked as large as a dinner plate.
“So you can see why we’re asking about Brandon Hart,” said Zeke. “We need to know what he’s involved in, if anything, so we can protect Angela.”
Coffey looked at Zeke for a long time without expression. Then he said, “Protect Angela? From what?”
“From whom, you mean,” said Zeke.
“OK, that,” said Coffey dismissively.
“Not sure yet,” said Zeke. “Any ideas?”
“Me?” asked Coffey. “No.”
“You went to Notre Dame,” said Zeke.
“Yeah.”
“Got a rep as a bad attitude, a thug,” Zeke continued.
“That was the media,” said Coffey. “Game day we fed on that stuff. But there was nothing to it.”
“How about the allegations that you were taking money from boosters?” said Zeke. “Any truth there?”
“No more than anyone else took,” said Coffey. “Lots less than some. But I’ll deny it.”
“OK, back to the Harts. Why would someone threaten Angela?”
“Don’t know. Maybe they were jealous of her lifestyle? Or maybe they were trying to get to Brandon.”
As he said it, Coffey looked away, toward the pool, his large hand touching his chin.
“And kill their dog,” said Zeke.
“I know,” said Coffey.
“How long have you lived here?” asked Zeke.
Coffey relaxed visibly and looked back at Zeke. “Couple years,” he said. “We moved here to be closer to the schools. It’s great out here.”
Now he’s almost chatty, Zeke thought. He was very ready to change the subject.
“You’re in a rough spot in your marriage, aren’t you, Bruce?” asked Zeke.
“What’d ya mean?” asked Coffey, suddenly motionless, focusing his considerable personality totally on Zeke. It was palpable.
This is what it’s like just before the ball’s snapped, thought Zeke. He said, “No wedding ring, but you have an indentation on that finger. No sign of your daughters or your wife in the house. The plants in the kitchen
are dead, probably from not being watered. Dishes in the sink look like they’ve been there a few days. Only one car in the driveway, yours, and you parked it in the middle, down near the street. No one could get a second car past it. Should I go on?”
“Not your business, man,” said Coffey, again.
“I know,” said Zeke, again. “I’m here about the Harts.”
“Look, Brandon is a good guy,” said Coffey. “I play ball with him. Sometimes we golf. But that’s about it. We both live in the same neighborhood, and we work together.”
“Who else does Brandon spend time with, besides you, I mean?” asked Zeke.
“Some of the guys come by every once in a while. You know, to party or watch a game. A couple of the other players are club members, too,” said Coffey. “We all golf.”
“Has Brandon even mentioned anything to you, anything illegal?” asked Zeke.
“No, nothing like that, man,” said Coffey.
“How about Angela. Anything odd you might have noticed?”
“No, she’s solid. I think she gets bored easily, though. They don’t have any kids, and her family lives in California, I think she said,” said Coffey. He looked away.
“Have the Harts been together long?” asked Zeke.
“Yeah, all through college,” said Coffey. “And then they got married in their Junior year, a few years ago. He was red-shirted, so he’s a year older than Angela,” said Coffey.
“Were your wife and Angela close?”
“They spent some time together, you know, shopping and at parties and stuff,” said Coffey.
Zeke shifted direction.
“You were drafted a couple years before Brandon, right?” asked Zeke.
“Yeah, I was,” said Coffey. “Why?”
“How was the team chemistry? Was anyone upset when Brandon was drafted?”
“No, it’s nothing like that,” said Coffey. “I mean, they moved Moe- Moe Bradley- to second string, but everyone was glad to have the Heisman kid on the team.”
“Moe was a running back,” stated Zeke.
“Third year player with a thousand and some yard season the year before Brandon Hart was drafted,” said Coffey.