Moral Hazard (Southern Fraud Thriller)

by J W Becton

  “That’s not the interesting part,” he said. “Afterward, he inquired about the possibility of upping his life insurance coverage. Specifically, the accidental death and dismemberment rider attached to his existing policy.”

  “Now, that is interesting,” I said.

  I hadn’t expected this from Blissett. I thought he would claim that he had re-injured himself while shoveling his yard. But asking about additional life insurance, well, that was something else. Concern rose in my chest at Workman’s mention of the rider in particular.

  Accidental death and dismemberment riders can be added to regular life insurance policies and will pay the policyholder or his beneficiaries in the event that the holder is injured or killed in an accident and not due to medical causes. Reasons for payment could include accidental death, physical maiming, or the loss of bodily functions such as sight and hearing.

  “How did the agent handle his question?” I asked.

  “She asked his reasons for increasing the coverage at this time. Blissett claimed that he had come into some extra money and wanted his son, his beneficiary, to be financially secure in the event of an accident.”

  Dread settled into the pit of my stomach. That sounded a bit fatalistic for my tastes.

  What was Randy up to?

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” I said.

  “Neither did the agent,” Workman agreed. “Blissett is flagged in the system as a suspected fraud, so she knew to be suspicious. They discussed the additional coverage, and the agent even went so far as to price it for him before putting him on hold in order to call our fraud department.”

  “How did your company decide to handle the situation?”

  “We had to deny him the additional coverage for reasons of moral hazard.”

  I nodded. Being turned down for moral hazard meant that the insurer believed the applicant concealed a malicious or even illegal motivation for requesting coverage. This wasn’t as simple as thinking, “Gee, I’ll get insurance. Then I won’t have to be as careful about locking my front door.” This was more like, “Gee, I’ll get insurance. Then I’ll take all the valuables out of my house, burn it down, and claim that everything was destroyed in the fire.”

  “There was no way we were going to give Blissett additional coverage given the extenuating circumstances and our suspicion of fraud. If there were a way for us to cancel his existing life insurance, not to mention the workers’ comp policy, we’d have done it already. But until you get me proof of fraud,” he said pointedly, lifting his eyebrows suggestively, “we can’t legally do that.”

  No insurance company could cancel an existing policy without a valid reason, but they were under no obligation to write a new policy if they believed the applicant was planning to profit from it through fraud, and that seemed to be Blissett’s intention in asking for additional coverage on his AD&D rider.

  “How did Blissett react when the agent told him his additional coverage was denied?”

  “The agent said he sounded anxious, but he requested a copy of his current policy and asked what was covered and what wasn’t, real specific stuff. He wanted to know about blindness in one eye or injured limbs or partial hearing loss. Then he hung up.”

  Disturbing, I thought with a shudder.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  Workman leaned forward and winked at me.

  Before he could utter a suggestive word, I held up my hand and amended, “Anything useful?”

  “You know everything I know,” Workman said. Then, cocking his head, he added, “This doesn’t change our bet, Special Agent Jackson. If my tip lands Blissett in jail, you still have to go out with me.”

  I scowled, deciding that was my cue to leave.

  I didn’t have time to worry about Workman and his disgusting propositions. I was far too busy contemplating what Blissett might be up to. Automatically, my mind turned to the possibility of violence. In my recent cases as a DOI investigator, it was par for the course. But so far, Blissett had shown little propensity toward harming others.

  In addition, the policy in question had not been taken out on someone else—not a wife or a child or girlfriend—whom he might harm in order to receive benefits.

  He wanted to up the coverage on himself.

  Was he going to attempt suicide?

  Sadly, that idea held possibilities.

  Blissett had seemed fidgety when I saw him Saturday night, but I didn’t get the impression that he was suicidal. He was nervous, but not morose.

  And surely, the agent had explained that accidental death and dismemberment policies don’t pay on suicide. Suicide, by definition, is not accidental.

  But Blissett’s circumstances had changed in the last few days, at least from his perspective. He obviously believed that we had proof of his capability to work. Perhaps he was panicking, and panic can cause otherwise intelligent people to behave in foolish ways.

  If he believed he was about to lose everything, including his freedom and a large chunk of money, then he might attempt something desperate, something he’d never considered before.

  I shook my head at the thought. I could relate to desperate thoughts. I’d had plenty of them in the last few weeks.

  “And here I was thinking Blissett would be coming after me,” I said to myself in the privacy of my Explorer. I sat in the parking structure and began to tick off possibilities.

  Blissett claimed that he wanted additional coverage to see that his son was cared for. That sounded awfully final. Perhaps he would attempt suicide and make it appear accidental.

  Even if Blissett didn’t quite make it look like an accident in order to trigger the rider, his life insurance would eventually—after several years—pay on suicide. His son would be cared for.

  But was Blissett that desperate? Would he take his own life?

  Perhaps not. He had asked quite a few questions specifically about dismemberment. If he believed he had lost his workers’ comp money, then maybe he was pondering a method for getting insurance money legitimately…more or less.

  To do that, he might maim himself and make it look like an accident.

  I stared blankly ahead, wondering if anyone hated their job so much that they would gouge out an eye in order to avoid it.

  Or maybe Blissett was planning suicide but wasn’t sure he could go through with it. Maybe he just wanted to cover all his bases in case he wound up injuring himself and yet surviving.

  I bit my lip. Every possibility I considered seemed incredibly far-fetched and unbelievably terrible.

  This was all speculation. What did I know for sure?

  Blissett believed he was running out of options.

  He showed interest in acquiring additional life insurance and/or accidental death and dismemberment coverage, which indicated that he probably hadn’t given up the idea of scamming as a lifestyle choice.

  At least those facts didn’t seem to point to an impending homicide, and while I was glad that innocent lives weren’t in danger, I was still concerned that Blissett might be planning to kill or injure himself.

  I shivered at the thought. I’d heard stranger stories of fraud in my time, tales of people willing to sacrifice their bodies for a payout, but somehow those accounts never seemed quite real to me.

  But perhaps that’s what Blissett was considering. Maybe he was willing to sacrifice himself for a cause he believed in, whatever that might be.

  Still, I couldn’t forget the fear I’d seen in Blissett’s eyes after the incident with Mrs. Twilley and Sydney. He was truly afraid of something. What was it? And how did it factor into the equation?

  Twenty-eight

  As the question lingered, my cell phone rang.

  “You’d better get over here,” Mrs. Twilley said, her voice muffled as it came through my phone’s speaker.

  Oh, God. My heart rate increased a dozen or so beats per minute at the sound of her voice. What had she and Sydney gotten into now? Had Blissett somehow figured out who they wer
e and come to get his illicit photographs back?

  “Where are you? What’s going on?” I demanded, sounding harsher than I intended.

  “At the Heights. We came back so Sydney could pick up some supplies. Old man forgot darn near everything.”

  The phone crackled in my ear, and I heard Sydney in the background. “Get to the point, woman. We haven’t got all day.”

  “Mrs. Twilley!” I shouted into the phone, trying to get her to focus.

  “You don’t have to yell,” she said, returning to our conversation. “Now, where was I?”

  “You came back to the Heights for Sydney’s things…. Is Vincent there? What’s going on?”

  “No, your boyfriend isn’t here. But that’s not the point. While I was waiting on Sydney to get packed, I just happened to look out the window. Can’t help what I saw.”

  I sucked in a breath, trying to control my frustration. What could possibly have happened?

  Based on previous experience, I knew a lot could have happened.

  “What did you see?” I asked with deliberate calm.

  “The man was setting up a big ol’ saw. The thing looks like it weighs fifty pounds, and he put it right in plain view. We had no choice but to act.”

  Oh, dear Lord.

  I cranked up my SUV and steered toward the Heights.

  “Tell me you didn’t—”

  “Sydney and I got out the Polaroid and hopped into the elevator to get your picture. Finish this once and for all.”

  I heard some muffled sounds during which the phone switched hands.

  Sydney’s voice came loud in my ear, and I had to pull the phone away to preserve my hearing.

  “Give me that phone, old woman!”

  “Sydney?” I asked when the din from the speakers had died down.

  “Sorry, but she was taking too long to explain that we’re stuck in this darn elevator. Didn’t even make it a whole floor down, I’d say. Now we’re trapped and the manager won’t answer his phone. So we called you. Can you please get us out of here?”

  Relief and horror washed over me in equal measure. I couldn’t help feeling glad that they never made it to Blissett’s, but I cringed at the idea of them being trapped in that rickety old elevator. Even so, I felt a tiny bit vindicated for my elevator phobia—at least when it came to that particular death trap.

  Thankfully, though, it was now a blessing in disguise. At least I knew for certain that Sydney and Mrs. Twilley wouldn’t make the situation with Blissett worse.

  “Are you both okay?”

  “Yes, we’re fine, but there’s no fresh air, and it’s getting awfully hot in here. Plus, I’m trapped in here with this old bag.”

  I grinned and shook my head. I knew Mrs. Twilley wouldn’t wait long before taking matters into her own hands. God forbid she decide to try crawling out a ceiling panel or something.

  “I’ll call Mr. Peters,” I said. “I’m on the way.”

  “She says she’s calling the landlord,” Sydney repeated to Mrs. Twilley. “But she’s on the way.”

  “Tell her to go catch that creep across the street first,” Mrs. Twilley said in the background. “We’re fine in here.”

  “Just hang on,” I said. “I’ll make sure you get out as soon as possible.”

  After disconnecting, I dialed Vincent.

  “They’re trapped in the elevator?” Vincent asked in disbelief. “I can’t believe even a stuck elevator is cage enough to contain that old woman.”

  I laughed despite myself.

  “I’m on my way,” Vincent said before hanging up. I tried not to be happy that I’d get to see him. There were so many other things to worry about.

  Once we disconnected, I dialed—and then redialed—Mr. Peters’s number. He refused to answer. With each redial, my irritation rose. What if this were a true emergency (which, honestly, it might become)? Any resident could be suffering a health crisis and be unable to get to the lobby.

  I kept dialing, and by the time Peters picked up—somewhere around the tenth cycle—I could barely prevent the irritation from leaking into my voice.

  “Mr. Peters.” I paused to take a quick breath and rein in my temper. “This is Special Agent Julia Jackson from the DOI. I’m calling to inform you that two octogenarians are trapped in the elevator at the Heights.”

  “Someone’s trapped in the elevator?” Peters repeated, his nasal voice rising ever higher in surprise.

  “Yes, Sydney and Mrs. Twilley.”

  “Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” Peters said in a bewildered tone. “I thought Sydney was just calling to complain about the smell from the apartment next door. I can’t help it if the residents like cooked cabbage! I didn’t know this was a real emergency.”

  “For God’s sake….”

  “Um,” he said, his voice trailing off in thought. “What should I do?”

  “Get them out of there!”

  “Yes, yes, obviously, but an emergency call to the elevator maintenance company is expensive. I don’t know if we can afford it.”

  “Rearrange your budget later, Mr. Peters, because if you don’t have those two out of that elevator by the time my partner and I arrive”—I tried to think of a legitimate threat—“then I’ll be sure to find them the best pro bono attorneys in the city and help them sue your ass for neglecting the maintenance of that elevator for the past eighteen months.”

  “Okay, okay. Calm down. They’re trapped in an elevator, not in a flash freezer. They aren’t in imminent danger. I’ll call maintenance to jimmy open the doors.”

  “I don’t care who you call. Just get them out ASAP.”

  “Already on it,” he said before the line went dead in my ear.

  I hit every red light between Southeastern and the Heights. By the time I arrived, a city maintenance truck already partially blocked the main entrance to the building, and I had to jump a curb to enter the parking lot. Vincent was standing beside the maintenance truck, and I hurried over to assess the situation.

  “Maintenance should have the door open in a few minutes,” he told me. “If you go up to intercept the Aged Wonders, I’ll get the camera running on the top floor.”

  “On it,” I said and then watched as Vincent disappeared into the stairwell.

  The repair crew preceded me up the stairs, but before I followed, I took a moment to phone Mrs. Twilley.

  “You get a picture of that guy and his saw?” she demanded when the call connected.

  “Vincent’s taking care of it. I’m waiting with the maintenance crew. I wanted to make sure you and Sydney are okay.”

  “Oh, pooh! We’re fine. The maintenance men just showed up. They’re talking to us through the door. They say it’ll only be a few minutes.” Mrs. Twilley took the phone from her mouth—thank God—and shouted something, probably at the maintenance worker on her floor, and then she came back to me. “But if they don’t hurry we’ll miss all the action.”

  Peters appeared beside me, and despite the phone I held to my ear, he said, “The situation is under control. I even have a nurse coming with fluids just in case.”

  “There’s a nurse here,” I repeated to Mrs. Twilley.

  “See! There’s even a nurse waiting for us.” Mrs. Twilley repeated in a tone thick with exasperation. “We’re fine. We’re fine.”

  Then I heard a click, and Mrs. Twilley was gone.

  “But what I don’t understand is why they called you in the first place,” Peters said, his eyes wide.

  “Sydney agreed to let us set up in his apartment,” I explained.

  “I should have expected that from an employee of Ted Insley,” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair. “This is why I didn’t want you guys in my building.”

  I blinked at him. So his refusal to rent a space to the DOI had not originated from overcrowding or any other legitimate excuse. This had to do with Ted. Our fearless leader himself might end up being the reason we’d had trouble setting up surveillance, resulting in the endangerment of two eld
erly citizens and Blissett’s discovery of our investigation.

  The resentful part of me sat up and grinned.

  But the curious part of me had more questions.

  “What have you got against Ted Insley?” I asked.

  Peters remained quiet for a beat as he shifted his weight.

  “He’s putting my residents in danger,” he replied hesitantly. “Your presence here is putting them at risk.”

  Technically, that was true, but I couldn’t help pointing out the obvious.

  “We’re putting them in danger?” I said, laughing. “Because that’s not Ted’s elevator that Sydney and Mrs. Twilley are trapped in.”

  “Point taken,” Peters said, his nasal voice contrite.

  “You never answered me,” I prompted. “What do you have against Ted?”

  Peters seemed like he was about to respond, but before he could muster the words, my phone rang. I checked the caller ID, fearing that Sydney and Mrs. Twilley might need me upstairs.

  But it was Vincent.

  Dammit, I had to take the call.

  “Blissett is definitely up to something,” Vincent said. “I think you need to get closer.”

  “What?” I asked, unwillingly turning away from Peters.

  “The old woman was right. He’s got a large miter saw set up.”

  “So he’s doing some kind of construction. That’s what we want to catch on film, right?”

  “Problem is,” Vincent said, “there’s no lumber in sight. No other woodworking implements nearby either. Not a hammer or level or tape measure to be seen. That’s not what I’d call ordinary construction.”

  “Maybe he’s still setting up,” I suggested.

  “Maybe, but other than a pair of work gloves, a neon yellow extension cord, and a hank of rope, the yard is empty. He looks agitated. Been pacing for the last few minutes. I think he’s psyching himself up for something. Someone needs to be close by.”

  “Okay,” I said, remembering Blissett’s call to the insurance agent earlier that morning. Perhaps he was preparing to enact whatever scheme he had in mind. “I’m going there now.”

  Bypassing the Explorer, I hurried toward Blissett’s house on foot. My phone rang again before I even got halfway there.