by Don Potter
“Feel better?” Lew asked.
“It’s all a blur right now.”
“Over the years you’ll get to relive every moment of it. Again, and again, and again. Won’t that be fun?”
“What are you talking about?” George looked over to where Lew was sitting. “Hey, what happened to the suitcase with the money?”
“Didn’t you wish for it to all to go away? The bodies, the money, the car; they are all part of it. Soon this apartment will be gone as well.”
“I didn’t mean everything when I said ‘everything.’”
“Who knows, maybe next time? But for now you’re back to where you started. Guess what happens this time around?”
George’s head began to spin. He wondered if Lew put something in his drink. Efforts to get up failed as George slipped into unconsciousness.
“Pour me another,” George said.
“What are you havin’ ?”
“Whatever vodka you have in the well.” The bartender’s response upset George. “God,” he muttered under his breath. “This is my third one and he can’t even remember what I’m drinking. Guess I’m a nobody to everybody.”
“Want to change that?” the man asked as he positioned himself on a stool next to George.
Turning to look at the man, George replied, “Haven’t we met before?”
SCHEME
Waves crashed over the boat as it ploughed through heavy seas off the coast of Southern New Jersey. There was no sky, no horizon, only darkness. The man wished this work could have been postponed until later in the week when the forecast called for more cooperative weather, but timing was critical. He looked forward to completing this dangerous task and returning to the harbor before sunrise, with no one aware of his activities.
Upon reaching his destination, one where the currents were favorable to his plan, the man set the twin diesel motors on idle. He edged his way across the deck of the thirty-eight foot craft, one that was obviously used for pleasure rather than for fishing. As the boat rocked perilously in the open sea, he tried to plant his feet on the wet deck and pick up a six-foot long, thickly rolled tarpaulin. The violent pitch of the waves threw him off balance, and he crashed against the starboard side of the vessel with the full force of his large frame. He fell to one knee and lost control of his heavy bundle as it flew from his arms and over the rail into the cold, black, Atlantic Ocean.
He picked himself up from the slippery deck in time to see his package disappear beneath the surface of the hungry sea, which seemed anxious to gobble up whatever it was fed.
Undaunted by his near disaster, the man worked his way back to the controls of the floundering craft, engaged the engines, and headed for Hereford Inlet and the safety of the slip he left several hours earlier.
The rain subsided as the man secured the boat in the Stone Harbor marina, which was deserted at this time of year. After changing clothes and scanning the deck a final time, he dropped the side covers and zipped them up, then rushed off the dock and into the comfort of his car. As fingers of sunlight pierced holes in the heavy sky, his vehicle turned onto the empty highway and headed south.
Roger Griffin arrived at the parking garage in center-city Philadelphia and took the elevator to the ninth floor. At precisely 9 AM a receptionist opened the sliding glass window and said, “Mr. Griffin, we’re ready for you.”
He opened the door when the buzzer sounded. A nurse, holding a clip board, greeted him as he walked through the portal. “Good morning,” she said with a smile. “Ready for our little procedure?”
“Didn’t know you were having one too,” he quipped.
“Did you follow the pre-op instructions?” She was oblivious to such nervous attempts at humor.
“Yes. My intestines are squeaky clean, but I don’t know why an industrial-strength laxative was prescribed when you’re simply removing a bothersome mole from under my arm.”
“Until you’re in surgery, there’s no way of knowing what to expect. If the doctor doesn’t like what he sees, it might be necessary to remove a bit more than originally called for. So we can’t be too careful”
“That’s comforting.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be under throughout the procedure. It’s a precautionary thing. That’s the reason for emptying you out. Look at it this way, when you wake up you’ll be more than ready for lunch. Are you still planning to stay with us overnight, or did you arrange to have someone pick you up? If so, you can have some real food rather than what we serve here.”
“No, I’ll be here. My wife’s out-of-town visiting her sick mother. She couldn’t get back in time to save me from having a couple of meals with you.”
As she put the hospital ID bracelet on his wrist, the nurse said, “The good news is, the biopsy report will be back in the morning. So Dr. Martin will have the lab report before releasing you. Enjoy your stay. Now go into the dressing room, place your clothes in the basket, and slip on the robe we provided. Don’t forget to put your valuables in the envelope and seal it. It will be in the safe until you leave.”
Roger changed into the backless robe, sat on a cold chair, and read a three-month-old Better Homes & Gardens until they came for him. Minutes later he was flat on his back beneath the glare of lights. A needle, attached to a drip-tube, was inserted into his arm; and he was instructed to count backwards from ten. Roger made it to nine.
“The mole had roots,” the doctor said. “We had to carve you up a little, but you have nothing to worry about. The biopsy is clean. But there are quite a few stitches and the wound is deep. So be careful with that right arm. Too much movement on your part could lead to lots of bleeding. Otherwise, everything should be fine.”
“Does that mean I can go now?”
“Sure. What’s the matter, don’t want to stay around for more of our fine cuisine?”
“I must say, Richard, the vanilla pudding was the best I ever had. My compliments to the chef,” Roger joked.
“Just be sure you drive with your left hand. Or I should say to a sailor like you, heave to the port side.” The men had become friends in recent years. Their boats were berthed at the same yacht club in Stone Harbor. Each lived on Philadelphia’s Main Line. They had much in common.
The Schuylkill Expressway was not busy at eleven in the morning. When he was almost home, Roger pulled to the side of the road. He fidgeted with the bandage. Soon blood ran from under his arm and onto his clothing. He then called his wife on her cell phone.
“Estelle, I’m bleeding to death.”
“What happened? Where are you? I’m still at mothers.”
“I need help,” Roger pleaded.
“Call Richard. There’s nothing I can do.”
Roger hit the speed dial again.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Griffin, Dr. Martin’s in surgery. Try 911. But I’ll tell him you called.”
After talking to the emergency operator, Roger put his head on the steering wheel and waited for help as blood continued to accumulate on the front seat.
Roger was taken to a trauma center close to where the paramedics found him. Dr. Martin as well as his wife stood by his bed when he came to after the emergency room sewed him up.
“You gave us a scare, Rog ‘ole boy,” the doctor said.
“I left mothers and came home right after you called,” his wife claimed.
“What happened?”
“Your stitches broke. I told you to keep that right arm immobile. Did stop and bowl a few frames on the way home?”
“I did exactly what you said to do, Richard. Driving with only my left hand was more difficult that I thought it would be. Glad I don’t have a stick shift. But I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You must have done something,” his wife said.
“Well maybe my good friend and renowned cancer specialist, Dr. Richard Martin, made a mistake. Did you use inferior thread or try to save money by not making enough stitches?” Roger forced a laugh.
Come on, Rog. Don’t get paranoid. T
hings happen, but I’ll review all aspects of the procedure to be certain everything was done by the book. The point is, the tests were good. And you came through this mishap with flying colors. A couple days of rest and you’ll be going home. And if you follow instructions, you’ll be back on the water in a few weeks, provided we get some descent weather.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
“That tone of voice, tells me you’re feeling better.” Dr. Martin flashed a smile.
“Estelle, please have the car cleaned right away. Have them do whatever it takes, as long as it doesn’t harm the leather. You can’t believe how much blood there was. It was all over the front seats. What a mess.”
“It’s being done at this very minute. So you’re Beamer will look brand new.”
“Thanks. Wouldn’t want to be driving around in a bloody BMW,” Roger said, showing his relief.
“Estelle and I ought to be going.”
“Here are some yachting magazines to read. I’ll stop by tomorrow.” She blew him a kiss. Richard gave a casual wave as they left.
At ten the next morning, Detective John Andrews, from the Lower Merion Township Police, walked into Roger’s room.
“You the partner of Howard Bergen?”
“Yes, is something wrong?”
“Seems he hasn’t been heard from since Sunday morning. When’s the last time you saw or spoke to him?”
“Friday. About three. Left a little early that day. I expected to be back to work on Wednesday after what was to be minor surgery but ended up here instead.”
“So you had the procedure on Monday, stayed at the clinic over night, and were released Tuesday. Correct?”
“How did you know?
“We checked with Dr. Martin’s office.”
“Did they tell you I had to spend most of Sunday doing a pre-op cleanse?”
“As a matter-of-fact, they did.”
“Can anyone confirm you were home all day?”
“I called my wife at her mother’s. And the doctor’s office called to make sure I was doing okay with my cleansing program.”
“Did anyone actually see you at home?”
“No but my car was in the driveway. Are you suggesting I might be involved in Howie’s disappearance?”
“Those closest -- family, friends and business associates -- are always at the top of the list.”
“Are you sure he’s missing? Howie sometimes takes off when things aren’t going his way or to think through problems bugging him. Did you consider that? He’s not married, so there’s nothing to hold him back from running away when he pleases –- up to the Pocono’s, over to the Jersey Shore, sometimes New York City.”
“We’re playing this as if your partner is MIA. If he is on one of those sabbaticals then all’s well that ends well,” the detective said.
“Who came up with the notion he was missing in the first place?”
“He didn’t show up for a dinner date on Sunday, missed a client meeting on Monday, and all attempts to reach him after that have failed. So your office manager finally called us yesterday. After this long with no word from him, I’d say Howard Bergen is definitely a missing person,” the officer concluded.
“Do you think he’s still alive?” Roger asked.
“Now that would be good to know, wouldn’t it?”
“Could he have driven off the road in some desolate area? Maybe someone kidnapped him? This is terrible.”
“There’s no reason to get all riled up, Mr. Griffin. You’ve been through quite an ordeal yourself. I’m just trying to get enough information to piece things together. It’s best if we get on a case within forty-eight hours. As to your questions: his car is in the garage, there are no unknowns in any of the area hospitals, and without a ransom request kidnapping is not a likely motive. Do you feel well enough to continue?”
“Sure. I’d do anything to help find Howie.”
“Does he have any enemies?”
“Nah, everybody loves him.”
“Are there any irate husbands lurking around out there? I understand he is quite the ladies’ man.”
“None that I know of. Howie is a straight-shooter. Not pure but honest and a bit naive.”
“How about in business?” Andrews abruptly moved the conversation to the area he wanted to investigate.
“What I said applies to business as well. He’s earned the reputation of being trustworthy.”
“You’ve been partners for how long?”
“We started Griffin & Bergen nearly fifteen years ago. Since then, we’ve grown to become one of the city’s leading architectural firms with more than a hundred employees and dozens of clients worldwide.”
“Sounds like a real success story. Any financial problems or disagreements between you two?”
“We have a simple business relationship. I do the selling and manage the overall operation, and Howie’s free to be as creative as the clients will let him.”
“So you control the purse strings, so-to-speak.”
“Yes, that’s my bailiwick.” Roger did not like the direction this interview was taking, so he slumped down in his bed and said, “I’m getting rather tired, could we continue this later?”
“No problem,” Andrews replied. “How about the same time tomorrow. Thanks for your time. You’ve been a bigger help than you think.”
After the visitor left, Roger sat up in bed and reviewed the conversation, particularly the cop’s closing remark, and knew he stood at the top of the suspect list. He was certain of one thing; the Lower Merion Township Police were on their game, at least Detective John Andrews was.
“How are you this morning, Mr. Griffin?”
“Feeling better than I did yesterday, thanks detective. Any word on Howie’s whereabouts?”
Nothing yet, but we’re gathering lots of information. I expect the pieces will come together soon. If you don’t mind, I have a few more questions for you.”
“Fire away.”
“Does Mr. Bergen have any personal problems that you know of?”
“As I told you before, everyone loves him.”
“Yes, yes, I understand that. I mean does he have financial problems? Is he a gambler? That sort of thing.”
“None I can think of.”
“And you would be aware of them because of your long and close relationship with him?”
“Exactly.” Roger knew he was playing defense and must not volunteer more information than necessary.
“Are you a gambler, Mr. Griffin?”
“What’s the point of this?”
“Is your company experiencing financial difficulties?”
“I don’t see what this has to do with Howie.”
“Quite the contrary, sir. Your answers can help lead us to Mr. Bergen.”
“Go on.”
“Is your wife having an affair?”
“With Howie? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“With anyone?” The detective pushed the envelope as far as he could.
“That’s it! This conversation is over.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Griffin. Just trying to get to the truth.”
“Well, you’re not going to interrogate me anymore without my lawyer present.” Roger turned his body away from the detective to demonstrate his indignation. After Andrews left, he wondered what other information the detective might have uncovered. This put Roger in a foul mood.
When his wife popped into the room later in the afternoon with Dr. Martin in tow, he surprised them with an accusation. “What is it with you two? You come see me as if you’re a couple. Are you having an affair or what?”
Their reactions said it all. They looked at each other and stammered as they responded to his question.
“Rog, we’ve got to change your meds,” the doctor said.
“How did you ever come up with such a silly idea?” Estelle asked. “Richard is ready to release you, and I’m going to take you home.”
“Take me home. Now!”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the doctor said. He started for the door. Estelle was right behind him.
“Wait Estelle; stay with me. Our friend Richard doesn’t need your help.” She sat down in the chair next to the bed, while the doctor attended to the patient’s release. Roger used his remote control to surf through the television channels, while his wife sat in silence. Soon, Dr. Martin returned with a nurse pushing a wheelchair. Minutes later, the Griffins were headed home.
Montgomery County wraps around the north and western edges of Philadelphia. Included in its geographic territory are parts of the wealthy Main Line, industrial areas along the Schuylkill River and endless suburban communities sprawling over this historic land. Lower Merion Township is a pricey area in the southeastern tip of the county, with police headquarters located on Lancaster Avenue in Ardmore.
John Andrews was born, raised and still lives in Conshohocken -- a working-class part of Montgomery County on the other side of the Schuylkill River. He’s known as a Conshy and not ashamed of it. His grandfather worked at Lee Tires when the company merged with Goodyear in 1966 and stayed with them until the plant closed in 1978. John’s dad was about to retire from the specialty tool and die shop in Norristown where he worked for the past thirty years. John Andrews was the first in his family to break the factory worker mold. He was proud of his roots but even prouder of his accomplishments on the force.
In five years with the department, the detective worked hard to be the best cop he could be. He put in long hours and took seminars and extra courses to improve his skills.
Andrews was at his desk contemplating how to move the investigation forward when the phone rang and jarred the detective out of his near meditative state.
“This is Tom Scully from the Wildwood, New Jersey Police. I understand you guys are looking for a fellow named Howard Bergen.”
“Did you find him?”
“Well, you could say he found us. His body was scooped out of the water by a local fishing crew this morning. We just made a positive ID.”
“Any idea about the Cause or Time of Death?”