As it turned out, Dan had in fact been favorably impressed with the counselor, Myra Loftun, a middle-aged, rather motherly appearing woman. Afterwards he even admitted the interview had actually helped to clear up a few matters in his own mind.
Myra smiled, shook hands and sat back down in one of the office chairs. No desk was between them, only his one page petition which she was holding in her hand.
“I must say your request is rather unusual, Mr. Specks.”
“Dan, please. I know, but I’ve given the matter a lot of serious thought.”
“Well, since you aren’t seeking immediate euthanasia, we will have more time to evaluate your case—unlike many where people ask for a quick decision. On the other hand, the fact you’re asking for euthanasia at some indefinite time in the future poses a series of problems. First, let me explore the reasons for your decision to come to us.”
Dan nodded, ready for the questions.
“You are not in fact in serious pain or suffering from a terminal illness at the present time.”
“That’s correct.”
“You most definitely are not asking for immediate euthenization. Am I correct?”
“Most definitely not. Life since my retirement, and despite my wife’s death two years ago, has been very rewarding. I’m a voluminous reader, and for the first time in my life I’ve been able to delve into the reading I’ve wanted to do for years but haven’t had the time for. And, as a retired systems analyst, I still dabble in programming and occasionally act as a consultant. However, I will have to curtail some of my activities because of my condition.”
“You are asking to be euthanized because of progressive Alzheimers.”
It was evident to Dan she had read his petition with some care. He nodded.
“Have you explored the possibilities of genetic modification to cure the disease?”
“Of course. Some milder forms of Alzheimers are amenable to such treatment. Mine isn’t. According to my personal physician, and of course he has done extensive consulting on my case, there are several interacting genetic locations—along with so far unknown environmental factors—involved in my particular illness. There is no cure envisioned for the foreseeable future.”
“Are there any symptoms now?”
“Minor ones. Some confusion with short term memory.”
“Now, why couldn’t you simply come back to the EC when you feel the illness has reached an intolerable state?”
Dan smiled at the lack of understanding. “That’s exactly the problem. The intolerable state I will have reached when I’m a burden to others will also be when I no longer realize the impact of the disease. In other words, I know now I wish to be euthanized when I need the procedure, but I won’t have the capacity to ask for euthanazing when I do need the procedure. And, of course, I don’t have to tell you of the problems the EC has in granting euthanization to a patient without the patient’s sound-mind consent prior to the action.”
Myra shook her head. “What you are proposing may be even more of a problem. I’m afraid the EC’s mandate does not include allowing someone to sign up ahead of time, so to speak.”
The interview ended on a friendly enough note, though Dan knew his petition would move along to the EC with no stamp of approval from Myra. But, by now, he felt he had come up with an independent solution to the problem. A visit back to his physician confirmed his judgment.
Dr. Philip Philips had been Dan’s caregiver for some twenty years and they had established a comfortable rapport over that time.
“It’s a lot easier for us, in this day and age,” Philips told him on his return visit, “since we don’t have to be concerned about the patient administering his own medication.” He paused and checked Dan’s medical records, which were scrolling up the screen. “I should have remembered,” he continued, “you already have a bedroom automatic atomizer as part of your house control unit.”
Dan nodded, and smiled. “When Rachel was alive, she insisted on having one installed. She was always feeding new aromas into it, then adding air fresheners. I haven’t much bothered with it since she passed away. Are you saying you will be using it for medication purposes?”
“Yes. It should work out especially well in your case, since the drugs can be administered during nighttime exposure. I’ll give you the program to plug into your house control unit, the drugs you’ll insert into the atomizer, and the rest will be taken care of automatically by the unit responding to the sensors we’ve already implanted under your skin.”
“So when I go to bed at night, the house control unit will determine my current condition and the atomizer will release the medication during the night. Am I right?”
“Exactly. As I already explained to you, your mental condition has already shown some minor signs of deterioration, and we will try to slow down the process as much as possible. To do so, we’ll have to change drugs on a more or less regular basis as well as increase the dosage. It will all be taken care of automatically. You do sleep alone, I take it?”
Dan laughed. “As a matter of fact, yes. Why? Would the drugs be harmful to someone else?”
“Conceivably, yes. There’s always the possibility of side effects, which you’ll receive full information on, so it would be imprudent to expose anyone unnecessarily to the drugs—especially if they aren’t being regularly monitored.”
The prescription was surprisingly simple—a dime sized disc with the programmed information to insert into the house control unit and a three-inch vial containing the medicine to put into the bedroom atomizer.
As Dan left the pharmacy, he lifted the white plastic package, looked at it and smiled, as he now knew for sure he really had no need for the EC.
***
The house controller had alerted them to the cessation of brain activity, so neither Sergeant Charwood nor Patrolman Louder were especially surprised at what they found. After all, this was a retirement neighborhood. Death calls were just to be expected.
Charwood inspected the bedroom. It seemed like a classic, natural death. “Name’s Dan Specks,” the Sergeant said, “according to dispatch. Heart failure according to the scan. A routine report should be all we’ll need to fill out.”
It was the patrolman who first became aware of the odor. “Strange smell, Sarge. I could swear it’s cyanide. They let us have a small whiff of it back in training.”
The Sergeant shook his head, “I don’t smell a thing.”
Louder grinned. “You’re one of those non-smellers, Sarge. We had a couple of them in our training class.”
Charwood sighed. “I guess it’s not going to be a simple report, after all. Better get the crime scene boys and girls out. Maybe it will just be a simple suicide instead. Let’s hope so.”
Three days later, when the sergeant dropped by the DA’s office with the latest report on the Specks death, he felt some satisfaction in knowing he could report the case as ready for closure.
Cole Larsky, the District Attorney, emptied the evidence envelope on his desk as he listened to Charwood’s description of what happened to Specks.
“It’s a clear case of suicide. The clinic accurately programmed the medical treatment there on the disc.” He pointed to the dime-sized wafer Larsky happened to have picked up from the desk. “Specks had more than enough programming background to change the protocol—and, from what our lab boys say, it would have taken an expert to do it. At a certain point, when his memory was just about gone, the computer followed the new instructions on the disc and released the cyanide gas Specks had placed in the atomizer in place of the proper medicine for the particular stage of the illness. We scanned the disk, and it’s completely programmed for that purpose—by him, of course.
“Amazing.”
“Yeah. It was the nearest thing you could get to a natural death without being one. Once he set it up, he had no way of knowing when it would trigger in.” Charwood paused then grinned. “So, unless we want to charge the house controller with murder, we’ll
have to accept the fact Specks committed delayed suicide.”
“Too bad he didn’t leave a note.”
“We have something better than that. He petitioned the EC when he first found out he had Alzheimers, and they turned him down. His counselor says it didn’t seem to bother him a bit. You can see why. He decided to take care of it all himself.”
Larsky nodded. “I’ll still have to go through the evidence, but it does look like you’re right. I’ll take this stuff to security after I’m done.”
As soon as Charwood left, Larsky began to stuff the evidence back into the envelope—all except the disc. That, he slipped into his pocket.
***
Yvette Larsky had been concerned about her husband and had finally convinced him to go to a doctor. “At your age, you have to start taking your health more seriously.”
Reporting back to her after the visit, he explained how the problems were minor, but the doctor had recommended a regime of medical treatment, which would be easiest to do with the bedroom atomizer.
Yvette was relieved.
“There’s bad news, though.”
“What is it?”
“There are some possible side effects from the drugs for people who don’t have my condition. You’re going to have to sleep in the other bedroom.”
CONTROLLING THE BOARD
Alfred Kuhn looked back on the day as an unqualifiedly successful one, and the phone call he was making would mark the end of a perfect day.
But now there was this sudden glitch. “What do you mean she’s not available? I told her specifically I wanted her back tonight at my hotel room, and she said all I had to do was call the agency.”
…
“Don’t give me that. I’m one of your best customers.”
…
“I don’t care what kind of commitment you’ve made. Not even if the President of the United States has dibs on her. Get her here by nine-thirty.”
…
“No, I won’t accept a substitute. If you want my business in the future—and you know how often I come to New York—you better get hopping. I want her and no one else.”
…
“That’s better. Nine-thirty at the latest.”
The momentary annoyance vanished within seconds of his hanging up. Money talks, and the agency listened when it did. The manager, or director, or whoever he was had finally assured him the girl would be there with bells on—or off if he preferred them that way.
There would be no problem with the next phone call; he was certain of that. Sniveling, cringing Otis Martel, Treasurer of National Land Resources Management, Inc. would crawl on his hands and knees the length of an L. A. freeway, licking the concrete the whole way, if Alfred Kuhn just pointed him in the right direction. As far as Otis was concerned, any expressed wish of NLRM’s CEO was tantamount to a ukase.
The familiar, high-pitched, nervous voice came through with a tremulous “Otis Martel, here.”
“We did it!” Kuhn couldn’t resist sounding gleeful.
Recognizing his master’s voice, Otis immediately became apologetic for not fully knowing what had been done. “Do you mean we have a majority on the Association Board, Mr. Kuhn?”
“Six to three. The troublemakers about choked when I pulled an armful of proxies out of my briefcase. You should have seen the old battleaxe—Her Honor, retired Judge Arlene Mankovitz. She was frothing at the mouth when the votes were counted and six NLRM officers, including me, were elected.”
He paused to once more relive the satisfying scene, though Otis didn’t seem to be sharing Kuhn’s enthusiasm. The slow reaction was what made the CEO aware the bottom dollar was again bothering the Treasurer.
“Did we really have to go all out, sir? Wouldn’t it have been sufficient to p…ah work for a five to four majority. We could have gotten five with…”
Kuhn snarled into the phone. “Your problem, Otis, is you’re penny wise and pound foolish. With a five to four board we would be courting disaster. If one of our guys had a heart attack, then poof, there would go our majority. We’d be hung up for a year before the next Association election, and you know as well as I we won’t be able to last a month without the Board’s approval of the development. We couldn’t take any chances. You should know better than anyone.”
Giving Otis a moment for the information and reprimand to sink in, he went on, “We’ll hold the first meeting of the Board and vote approval of the development on the tenth. In the meantime, I have some important matters to take care of here, so I may not be back to L. A. much before then.”
The response was a nervous cough, and Kuhn knew what Otis would have liked to ask but didn’t dare to—what about the independent audit? Kuhn, with Otis’ connivance, had pulled enough cash out of NLRM to buy off the commissioners of Custoyega County—which hadn’t cost much—and another chunk to grease the palms of several members of the state legislature’s Environmental Committee which had cost an arm and a leg. Then he had had to buy proxies, which cost even more. But the only possible way Kuhn could pay back to cover his and Otis’ long time cooking of NLRM’s books was if the Custoyega development went through. And now it was clear sailing.
The State was going to allow the multi-billion dollar development to proceed, the County Commissioners had okayed the outlandish commercial rezoning in the midst of exclusive homes, and the last hurdle had been cleared today. A group of rebellious property owners, led by Arlene Mankovitz, had tried to gain a majority of the nine-member board of the Custoyega Retirement Ranch Association—and failed.
A majority control of the board by the homeowners, even a majority of one, would have completely blocked plans for the proposed development—Arcadia Unlimited. Kuhn laughed aloud as he remembered Mankovitz’s puny efforts to rally the owners behind her.
“So we can go ahead with the plans immediately?” Otis’ voice had begun to carry hints of relief, if not confidence.
“Right. We have a fantastic offer for the commercial buildings—the warehouses and light industries—and a sucker who’s panting to buy what’s left of the residential land. There’s a Saudi Arabian company already bugging me for the golf courses. Get the final plans ready for NLRM’s approval as soon as possible, so we can have them for the Association Board meeting. Then tell the accounting outfit we’ll be ready for the audit by the first of the month. And, oh yes, since the development needs a large sewer plant, be sure the designers put it as close to Mankovitz’s property as possible.”
“When are the others coming back, sir?”
Kuhn, who had been having a pleasant daydream about the plant’s location, only half-heard Otis’ question. “Who?”
“The NRLM officers you got elected to the board, Mr. Kuhn. We need them back here as soon as possible if we’re going to finalize the plans for Arcadia by the tenth.”
Kuhn reached over to the suit jacket he’d tossed on the bed and began searching through the pockets. “Just a minute, one of them scribbled the schedule here.” A pause. “Just the departure time. Plane left here already. The five of them decided to go back a day early. You’ll have to find out what time they’re due to arrive, and be sure to have the limo there waiting.”
A long pause. Kuhn wondered if the connection was broken when a strained voice at the other end asked, “Do you have a flight number?”
“Yeah. He did write it down. I’ve got it somewhere. Yeah. Here it is. West American 128”
“Oh, my God! You haven’t heard the news? Flight 128 crashed just west of St. Louis. There were no survivors.”
DOG DAYS
There’s no question about it. This past summer pushed our marriage to the brink. It wasn’t money, or in-laws threatening our marriage, it was a dog! A neighbor’s dog. The heat would have been bad enough, but Muffy really did the damage all by himself.
Walt and I had done a lot of shopping around before we decided to buy our home. It seemed perfect—a corner lot in a quiet neighborhood; with our back yard abutting a ravine w
hich would never be suitable for building; just five minutes from my part time job as an accountant; and even less from the L&I which took Walt into town to his engineer’s job in under a half hour. The price had been steep and, of course, we managed to buy when the market was high. But we considered the house and location well worth it.
Yes, we’d even checked out the neighbors. The only ones nearby were the Stanners and they turned out to be friendly, helpful and just about everything anyone could ask for in neighbors. Best of all was Jeannie, a twelve-year old, who became a favorite playmate for our ten-year old Leticia.
Then, this summer, the dream began to fall apart. Bill Stanner’s company moved to Texas. He had no choice but to pick up stakes and go along. He tried to sell, but couldn’t get half of what he had paid for the house, so he rented it out instead. The Morrisons who moved in had a cocker spaniel named Muffy, whose sole interest in life seemed to be barking. I’m sure he never slept. I doubt he even took time out to eat.
Maybe, just maybe, I could have put up with it. Walt couldn’t. A light sleeper at best, barking dogs just drove him up the wall. And he badly needed his rest. He didn’t have to tell me how walking girders, as he did in his job of structural engineer, required maximum alertness.
We tried everything. I approached Mrs. Morrison, which turned out to be the deadest of dead ends. Essentially, what I got for my trouble was, “If you don’t like it here, Sweetie, move!”
It was one of the alternatives we’d actually considered, but after the Stanners’ experience with the real estate market, we knew we would be fortunate to merely lose our equity. Bill even suggested renting out, the way the Stanners’ had, but the rent wouldn’t have come close to meeting our mortgage payments. We came up with other solutions, which were also financially out of the question, such as buying the Stanner house and choosing our own renters.
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