Made for Murder

by Julie Hyzy

  Her chin came up as she squared her shoulders. Her answer was lost as the wind gusted, causing a whistling sound as it shot between the buildings, but the man nodded, taking a long drag of his cigarette.

  “You overestimate your importance,” he said.

  “I don’t think so.” She tucked an errant hair behind her ear, twice. The overhead light emphasized the shadows of his face when he smiled at her.

  “Empty threats will not gain you any favor,” he said, taking another long drag and blowing the smoke out just over her head. “As a matter of fact, threats make me jumpy. I don’t like that.”

  He took a last drag of his cigarette, then flicked it to his far right, his eyes following the butt’s movement. Glancing up, he scanned the area, his eyes coming to rest on my position. I guessed that the white of my Escort was somehow visible between the shrubs, but I knew my face was in enough shadow to remain unseen. That is, as long as I didn’t move. That’s what got people in trouble—movement. I held my breath and sat still. It wouldn’t do to be caught eavesdropping.

  She took a step backward, her rear end colliding with her trunk, drawing the man’s attention back to their conversation. “Calypso owes me,” she said.

  Calypso? The distributor that supplied Patel’s drugs.

  His right hand shot out, grabbing her upper arm, and she let out a yelp. Almost at that same moment, another car came around from the far end of the alley, its lights illuminating the pair. The swarthy man let go, then patted Cindy’s arm. The car didn’t slow down, but made a turn at the end of the alley and veered off toward the next set of buildings.

  Whether a lost motorist, or a late worker, the car’s presence had been enough to defuse the situation.

  The man opened the door to his SUV saying something that I couldn’t make out. He took another long glance around, then got into his vehicle and sped off.

  Cindy dropped back to lean against her car again. She had her head down and I watched a big whoosh of air pour out of her. She seemed to be in no hurry; I gave her a moment before opening my car door to head her direction.

  Her head snapped up as my car door slammed. There was panic in her eyes as I came around the evergreen’s berm. “Cindy?”

  Her eyes flicked all directions. “What are you doing here?” she asked. As I narrowed the distance between us, she moved toward the driver’s side of her car.

  “Don’t worry; I waited till he was gone.”

  “You heard us?” Her eyes flashed panic again.

  She looked ready to bolt. “No,” I lied. “I wanted to talk with you about your message.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t say a word.

  “The one you left on the Midwest Focus hotline?” I prompted.

  Cindy fumbled for her keys. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, glancing up at me long enough to see the lie in her eyes.

  I pulled out my business card, and came around to her side, just as she fitted the key into the lock. “Call me,” I said, pressing it into her hand and taking a chance, “when you want to talk about Calypso drugs.”

  I hadn’t thought she could look more terrified, but at my words, she blanched. She tried to hand the card back.

  “Just keep it, okay? You might change your mind.”

  With a look my direction that was part anger, part fear, she shoved the card into her purse, got into her Camaro and took off without saying a word.

  I stood there a while, watching her red taillights till they were out of my line of vision, before starting back toward the Escort. I had no idea what was going on, or why Cindy would have called our station about Dr. Patel in the first place. At the time I’d been so sure the voice had been one of Jimmy Slattery’s sisters, that this new wrinkle took me entirely by surprise.

  I started up the Escort and pushed the heat controls to high before pulling away. As I turned away from Dr. Patel’s building, I glanced in my rear view mirror and thought I saw the gold SUV drive off the same direction Cindy had taken.

  Cindy didn’t call me the next day, not that I’d expected her to. And while I didn’t know what she’d hoped to accomplish by leaving that hotline voicemail, I wanted to find out. There was one C. Schultheiss in the phone book, but the answering machine was one of those automated ones with an inflection-less voice that left me questioning whether I’d gotten her or not.

  Bass had a nurse friend who promised to do what he could to find contact information for us. In the meantime, we discussed the fact that Cindy was the key to all this. If there were secrets, I thought, she was the one keeping them.

  The following morning, I asked my assistant, Jordan, to call Patel’s office and ask for her. I knew that Jordan’s African-American drawl would never be confused with my flat Midwestern accent. We both brought our ears close to the receiver. Here it was, the information age, and we were forced to snoop like they did back in the forties.

  He answered the phone himself. “I am sorry; Ms. Schultheiss is not in the office today.”

  “Do you know when Cindy will be in?” she asked.

  “She…” Patel paused. “She gave her notice. She no longer works here.”

  Jordan and I looked at each other. I know my eyebrows had shot up in surprise. Jordan mumbled, “Oh, okay then. Thank you.”

  I pointed to the phone and mouthed a frantic request.

  “One more thing,” she said quickly. “You wouldn’t happen to have her home phone number, would you?”

  Patel hung up without answering.

  Bass caught me on my way into my office. He waved a piece of paper close to my hands. “Got it.”

  “Cindy’s phone number?” I reached, but he pulled the sheet away.

  “Better.”

  “Better?” I asked. “Her phone and address?”

  He handed it to me and I scanned his scribble. Cindy’s address and phone were the same I’d found listed, but it was the additional information his friend had provided that caught my eye.

  “She’s not a registered nurse?”

  Bass shook his head. “Not any more. Her license was revoked four years ago. The hospital where she worked noticed ‘discrepancies’ in its pharmaceutical inventory whenever Ms. Schultheiss was on duty.”

  “Oh, really?” I said.

  “They didn’t file charges, but they had conditions. One, she had to give up her license, and two, she had to check herself into rehab.”

  “Oh,” I said, stringing the word out to two syllables. “The plot thickens, huh?”

  I told him about Patel’s claim that Cindy had given her notice the day before and how coincidental I thought that was, considering the timing. “I’ll bet he fired her,” I said. “But now I have to wonder why he hired her in the first place with this,” I snapped at the paper with my fingers, “on her record.” It was time to give her another call.

  I picked up the receiver and dialed from memory. “This is only about the fifteenth time I’m trying, you know,” I said as I waited for the connection.

  “She hasn’t called you back?”

  I was about to say that I hadn’t left any messages when the ringing on the other end was interrupted.

  “Hello?”

  I hadn’t expected a man to answer. “Hi,” I stammered. “Is Cindy there?”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Alex?”

  “Yeah,” I answered automatically, realizing that the station’s number must’ve shown up on her Caller ID. Then I recognized the voice. “Tommy?” I said. I glanced up at Bass who looked as stunned as I felt. “Why are you there?” And even as the words escaped my mouth, I knew. Tommy was a homicide detective. There was only one reason he would be there.

  “My God,” I said. “Cindy’s dead?”

  Friday afternoon, I headed to Calypso Drug Distributors. A local company, they operated out of a far west suburb right off the toll road. The trip gave me time to think. Maria told me that it appeared Cindy had died late that same night I’d spoken with her. Killed in
her apartment, by a single shot to the head. She’d been angry as she’d driven off, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d handled it better, that she’d still be alive.

  After exiting the expressway, I drove past a dozen bare trees along a curved driveway, until it opened to a spacious lot, ten times the size of Patel’s.

  I walked up to the front door of the two-story structure that was as long and as wide as a football field. Of newer construction, there were high, tiny windows lining the perimeter near the roof, and four overhead doors, above docking ramps at the back. The glass front doors led to the miniature reception area.

  The maroon-haired young girl behind the desk called the plant manager at my request and he hurried out from a side door about ten minutes later. He tucked his striped dress shirt into his pants as he hustled toward me, with a big grin on his shiny, round face. Pale blond hair stuck to his head like it’d been glued there. He tugged his chins upward as he buttoned his collar and snugged his tie.

  His voice boomed in the small area. “Ben Bridgeman,” he said, extending his hand. It was flabby and damp, but he had a firm grip and maintained eye contact as we shook. His light brown eyes were buggy and bloodshot, like he’d been reading too closely, too long. “What brings Midwest Focus to our humble operation?” he asked.

  “We’ve got a feature we’re planning on the high costs of chemotherapy drugs.” I flashed him a smile. “We’re going to explore what it takes to get a drug from the manufacturer to the patient, and why all those steps are necessary.” It sounded lame, even to me. But Ben’s bottom lip wrapped over his top one and he nodded.

  “Makes sense. Most folks don’t have the first idea about what’s involved.”

  Surprised that he bought it, I let out the breath I’d been holding. “Exactly,” I said. “I know it’s rather short notice, but could I impose on someone here to give me a tour?”

  His face pinkened and he grinned again. “I’ve got some time. I’ll show you around.” He glanced out the glass front doors. “You got cameras here or anything?”

  “I’m just the researcher,” I said, handing him my card. “If I think we have a story here, the camera crew comes later.”

  Over the next forty-five minutes I got what should have been a ten-minute tour. White boxes bearing the company logo lined shelving units on one side of the room where we ended up. We’d come in through the warehouse door, and another exit ahead led to the offices of the executive staff. Pointing through the glass door, Ben puffed with pride as he indicated his office, far down the corridor on the right.

  “Is Calypso publicly owned?” I asked.

  He shook his head, causing his jowls to wobble. “Nope. Guy by the name of Rath Chander owns the place. Great guy. Tough, you know, but fair.”

  I tucked that nugget away. I hadn’t come up with much else. “So,” I said, “you mostly distribute to clinics?”

  “And hospitals,” he said. “We have fourteen major accounts and twenty-two smaller ones.”

  “Dr. Bipin Patel,” I said, “he’d be one of your major clients, right?”

  Ben’s pale eyebrows came together. “Name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Family Hope Clinic,” I said.

  He shook his head. “Nope.”

  “But I saw your truck there, just a few days ago.”

  Ben scratched his head. “I know every account we have. That’s not one of them.” He thought about it for a moment and gave me a quizzical look. “What does this have to do with the feature?”

  “Nothing,” I said, averting my face so he wouldn’t see my confusion. “I just happened to see the logo while I was there, and the name stuck with me.” I ran a hand along the shelving units.

  “If you saw one of our trucks there, I can’t tell you why. Maybe one of our guys has a sweetheart there, and stopped for a visit.”

  I debated pushing it, then jumped in. “Actually, I think he was making a delivery. Well, not exactly. He was picking up boxes. Boxes like these,” I said, touching the shelves again.

  Ben grinned and shook his head again. “No, now I know you’re mistaken. We don’t do pickups. We deliver.”

  “But I’m sure I saw the kid—”

  He patted my hand and grinned wider. “All these logos nowadays start looking alike, I think.” He pointed to a flow chart on the near wall. “See this? This is how the system works, how it all goes down.” A pudgy pink finger traced the path as he described it. “This is the drug pipeline, and they always move from manufacturer…” he tapped a big rectangle. “To the patient.” He tapped a cluster of circles. “Never goes the other way.”

  “What about returns?” I asked.

  “Rare.” He started to move into the business office, asking if I wanted a cup of coffee, when I grabbed his arm.

  “Who’s that?”

  Ben looked at one of the many pictures on the wall. This one held the place of honor near the executive offices. Black and white, I could tell it was an enlargement by the graininess of the print. A group of about twenty men and women wearing identical Calypso Drug-logoed polo shirts, stood on the front steps of a white building. I pointed to the dark fellow who stood in the very center, his face slightly turned away from the camera.

  “That’s Mr. Chander. The guy who owns the place,” he said. “At last year’s golf outing. He isn’t here today, but I’m sure he’d be willing to talk to you.”

  When I recognized Rath Chander as the man who’d accosted Cindy outside Patel’s office, I’d made up an immediate and flustered excuse about a forgotten appointment. Even though the picture wasn’t the clearest, I was certain enough to put in a call to Tommy. Ben’s disappointment that I didn’t express interest in meeting his boss was mitigated when I told him I’d be back for a follow-up.

  I dialed the number from Calypso’s parking lot. Tommy had me repeat my story twice. I could tell by his conversation that he was taking copious notes.

  “Okay, I’ll look into this,” he said. “Watch yourself.”

  I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “I think I need to talk with Dr. Patel again.”

  Tommy made a disapproving noise deep in his throat.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You have a history of getting into trouble,” he said. “I don’t want to have to come save your butt again.”

  I grinned. “Why not?” I asked, affecting a petulant tone. “I’d save yours.”

  I heard him chuckle. “I ain’t touching that one.”

  Bass met me at my office before I had a chance to put my purse down. He held a thin manila folder in both hands. “Slattery family got the results back from Jimmy’s autopsy.”

  “And?” I asked, “What did we find out from the autopsy?”

  “Jimmy Slattery died from an allergic reaction to the chemo.”

  I felt my face frown in disbelief. “He’d been on it for over six months. Wouldn’t they have known he was allergic before this? Although,” I continued, arguing with myself, “sometimes the body can develop an allergy after being exposed to a substance. I’ve heard of that.”

  Bass gave a smug smile and shook his head. “The independent examiner says that his findings are not consistent with what he’d expect to find in a person who’d undergone treatments for six months.”

  “Jimmy wasn’t getting his chemo?” I said, my disbelief mounting.

  “According to the report, Jimmy was supposed to have been getting increasing doses of Gemzar. Over time, he would have built up a tolerance. But the fact that he was allergic meant that they should have chosen a different drug. They didn’t. Why not?”

  I waited.

  “Because, according to the report, he’d gotten such a minimal amount over the course of treatment that it hadn’t done the poor kid any good. All it did was trigger an autoimmune response. It caused his allergy. Which means…” Bass had a triumphant look on his face, “…six months of drugs were diluted.”

  “This is only speculation on the examiner’s part,” I
said slowly, but my mind was beginning to put it all together.

  Bass’s triumph didn’t fade. He slapped the folder onto my desk, leaving his hand on it an extra moment. His hazel eyes were bright with anticipation. “It’s all in here.”

  Following the dilution thread, we surmised that Cindy and Chander could have been working together, and that the drugs Chander sold Patel weren’t drugs at all, but some concoction made to look like genuine chemotherapy drugs. That explained how Patel’s office didn’t show up as one of Calypso Drug’s accounts.

  Cindy could have substituted the fake drugs when working patient I.V.s. Because of this, Jimmy Slattery would never have gotten the Gemzar prescribed for him. But that didn’t account for why the real Gemzar killed Jimmy. If Calypso was selling Patel fake drugs, how did the final, full-strength stuff get into his system? Could Patel have given Jimmy the prescribed dose, unaware that his patient hadn’t had the opportunity to build up a tolerance for the powerful drug?

  “Lots of ‘ifs,’ in this one,” Bass said.

  I picked up the phone, about to dial Patel’s office. “Yeah, but with a little pushing on our part, I’ll bet we find out just how close to the truth we are.”

  “What is it?” I turned the flower-shaped gadget over in my hand. It was decorated with rhinestones with a spring-loaded clip on its back side.

  Justin, a gangly red-haired fellow who hadn’t quite outgrown his acne, shook his head, a wide smile on his face. “Take a look,” he said, pointing to a small round indentation at the flower’s center. “The camera feeds to us.” He took several steps back, turned on a monitor to his left, then pointed the flower my direction. In about two seconds the signal morphed from a zigzag of color into my face, close up and clear enough to see the blue of my eyes.

  “Wow,” I said, waving and smiling. “That’s amazing resolution.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said, turning it off. The monitor switched to gray snow. “Just make sure you keep this pointed the right direction. You might want to wear it on your jacket.”