by Alton Gansky
Alderman turned up the volume.
“Cindy Sellers died this morning at the county coroner’s office. Ms. Sellers, twenty-five, had just completed her first year as a medical examiner’s assistant. As yet, no cause of death has been given. Prior to her death, fellow workers said she seemed confused and complained of nausea and headache. Results of the medical examiner’s report are pending.”
The young woman’s symptoms were too familiar to Alderman. They were also further proof that he was in the right city. Alderman had tracked Edwin Quain across the country and narrowed his search to San Diego, but that wasn’t narrow enough. Quain was a biotechnician with skills that laboratories and pharmaceutical companies demanded. The problem rested in the size of the biotech community in San Diego. Over eighty companies had set up shop in the county, making it the largest repository of such businesses in the state and one of the largest in the country. Alderman had, using techniques he refused to reveal to his MedSys bosses, found a firm that had hired Quain under a different name. He worked only three days and disappeared — a day before Alderman arrived.
The camera switched to the woman’s coanchor, a middle-aged man with just the right amount of gray and a square jaw. “Another tragedy struck on our city’s freeway when a car lost control and collided with a big rig.” The video image of emergency workers at the site of the accident filled the television screen. “CHP said Ronald Mason, a bartender, swerved into the semi on Interstate 8. He and his passenger died instantly. One witness said the car and driver seemed fine one moment, then became erratic. Officers at the scene said the strong smell of alcohol has made them suspect the driver of drinking and driving, but couldn’t confirm the suspicion until after the autopsy.”
“We have video taken by an onlooker shortly after the accident.” A grainy image appeared on the television. Alderman studied it.
The reporter continued. “Here you can see several people gathered around the car to help — ”
“Quain!”
The video ended and the newscasters moved on to the next story.
Alderman switched off the television and started his computer. Within minutes he was searching the Net. First, he found the website for the local paper. Fortunately, the San Diego Register maintained an active Web presence, and he located the story of the accident. His eyes vacuumed the facts from the screen, his mind com mitting every detail to memory, including the names of the dead men in the car and the truck driver.
Alderman Googled the names of all involved. He found a citation for the ME tech at the county website, then something struck him. Could the dead bartender and his buddy be related to the tech’s demise? Wouldn’t the authorities transport the accident victims to the county ME? He did a search for the bartender’s name but found nothing. He discovered the truck driver’s name listed on his company’s website, but it offered very little information beyond his experience and training. He spent the next twenty minutes scouring the Net for more details, and then tracked down the address and phone numbers of the men. Fortunately, they had not taken precautions to maintain their privacy. He used several sources for the address, knowing that online white pages information could be, and often was, out of date.
Alderman left his hotel room.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Hammond. I know you’ve had a difficult time.”
Dick Hammond’s thick, barrel-shaped body filled the doorway of his small post-war house in Linda Vista. Despite his fireplug build, he looked fragile, like a huge egg in a vise.
“How can you know what it’s like?” The trucker forced the words.
“Like I said, I’m an insurance investigator. I see tragedies like this every week.”
“How do I know you are who you say you are? Maybe you’re another reporter.”
Alderman shook his head. “This is old news to reporters.” He reached into the pocket of his dark blue sport coat and removed a business card. “As I said, my name is Oscar Tillman. I’m with the National Insurance Consortium for Highway Safety.”
“Never heard of it.”
“That’s good to hear,” Alderman said. “We like to work beneath the surface.”
“So what? You here to put the blame on me? Those guys were drunk and caused the accident. There are witnesses and the Chippers said so too.”
“I’ve read the CHP report, Mr. Hammond. They hold you blameless. Besides, we’re not an insurance company in the usual sense. I’m not here to assign blame. My organization gathers information on deaths that occur on freeways in an effort to influence the various governments to make improvements.”
“Someone needs to tell them what to do. I pay a boatload of money in taxes and I don’t see much return on it.”
“Exactly our point, Mr. Hammond. Guys like you fork over lots of money then get blamed for accidents that are really the fault of Cal Trans, local and state governments, and even the federal government. Our nonprofit organization is trying to hold the right people accountable.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“May I come in and ask a few questions? I promise not to take too much of your time.”
“I guess. I gotta tell ya, I don’t much like talking about it.”
“No one does, Mr. Hammond. May I call you Dick?”
“Sure, if I can call you” — he looked at the card —“Oscar.”
“That’ll be fine.” Alderman stepped across the threshold and entered a living room dark as a cave. To be expected. The man is trying to shut out the world. The room was tidy and well organized. The furniture looked to be less than two or three years old. A tall glass of beer rested on an end table next to a leather recliner. The clock had yet to pass early afternoon. Hammond was trying to take the edge off the shock of having been involved in something that snuffed out two lives.
“Is your wife around?” Alderman asked.
“Died two years ago. Just me now. The kids all moved away. They call now and then. Sit there.” He pointed at a padded rocking chair. His wife’s? Alderman did and Hammond returned to his chair and reached for the beer, then, as if he realized how it must appear, replaced it on the coaster.
“How are you holding up?”
“Didn’t sleep last night. I doubt I’ll sleep tonight.”
Alderman nodded. “Not unusual. Just remember, you did nothing wrong.”
“Maybe so, but two men are dead.”
“Can you tell me in your own words what happened? Take your time.”
Hammond sighed and tears filled his eyes. He started slowly, then gained steam as the telling went on. Alderman listened to every word, sifting through the emotional tale for any helpful clues. He waited patiently. Hammond would have little to offer, but Alderman needed to play the game. Thirty minutes later, Hammond finished.
“You’ve been very kind to give me your time. I just have one last thing and it’s going to seem a little odd.” Again, Alderman pulled something from his coat pocket. “I want to show you a photo of a man and ask if you recognize him.” He handed the small photo to Hammond.
“I know this guy. I recognize his face. And who could forget that ear. That moron ran off after the accident. Told me he was going to his car to get his ID, and then drove off. Left me standing there to explain everything and that after he told me he had witnessed the whole thing. Good thing for me there were other witnesses who stayed around. Who is this guy?”
“I wish I could tell you. We think he might be part of a truck piracy ring. He may have been following you.”
“You said you are with some insurance company, but now you’re talking like a cop.”
Alderman shook his head. “I’m not a cop. We’re not even sure this guy is involved in anything nefarious. It’s just that he was at another accident and left. My people thought it might be a good idea to ask around. Looks like we’ll be turning this guy’s activity over to the police.”
“You really think he was tailing me?”
“Maybe. Or he may just be a very shy Good Samaritan. We
don’t know. It will be up to the police to find out. In the meantime, I’ll file my report. I appreciate you taking the time to help us.”
“No problem.”
“Sure it was. To tell the story is to relive it. You’re a brave man, Dick. Stay brave. Don’t let this alter your life. Remember, you’re one of the victims, not the perpetrator.”
More tears filled the man’s eyes. “Thanks. I . . . just thanks.”
Alderman rose and shook the man’s hand. “Guys like you don’t get enough credit. Stay strong. I’ll see myself out.”
As he closed the door, he thought of Quain. “I’m coming for you, chum. I’m coming hard and fast.”
FOURTEEN
For the second time that day Alderman pulled a card from his coat pocket and handed it to the man in front of him.
“Private investigator, huh?” The medical examiner was unusually tall, but too thin to have ever played basketball. “You’re not expecting me to be impressed, are you, Mr. Scofield?”
Alderman laughed. “Not at all. I gave up expecting that the first year I opened up shop.”
The ME wore a white lab coat with the words Dr.Kenneth Short, ME, stitched over his left breast pocket. Life was ironic. “Your card says you’re based in San Francisco. I did my med school up there. Where do you live? In the city?”
Alderman was glad he developed backstory for his “professional personas.”
“No. Too ritzy for my tastes, not to mention my wallet. I live in Daly City and have an office on Market Street. The rent is killing me.”
“And here I thought all you PIs were rich.”
“The broke PIs made famous in dime novels and old movies might be cliché, but it is also accurate. I do all right, and so far I haven’t had to resort to following wayward spouses.”
“Good for you. Too bad I’m not going to be able to help you. The autopsies are still pending.”
“I’m not looking for an autopsy report, just a few answers to some simple questions.”
“Who are you working for, Mr. Scofield?”
“Call me Julian, Doctor. I’m working on a class-action suit for a well-known San Fran attorney. Of course, I can’t give you his name just yet or the details of the case. The guy would skin me alive and hang my carcass in the sun to dry. You know lawyers.”
“Believe me, I know lawyers. So what can you tell me about the case?”
“Only that a half-dozen people are suing a pharmaceutical firm for wrongful death. One of the men who died in last night’s auto accident appears on the list of prescription recipients. Ronald Mason is his name. His sudden death may be related to the other wrongful deaths. If so, there might be substantial money due his widow — not that that will lessen her sorrow.”
“But the money would be good for her. It’s hard to lose someone.” Kenneth Short looked sad.
“I guess seeing death every day doesn’t make you immune to personal tragedy.” Alderman hesitated. “I’m assuming you’ve lost someone dear?”
He nodded. “A son. Motorcycle accident sixteen months ago. He was being stupid. Speeding in and out of freeway traffic. A car merged into him.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like.”
“I hope you never find out.”
Alderman said nothing. He had been a loner all his life. No family. Few friends. He liked it that way. A man couldn’t grieve the loss of something he never had.
“How’s your stomach?”
The question caught Alderman off guard.
“Your stomach. You’re not queasy, are you? Some people find this place unsettling.”
Just because there are stacks of dead people around here? “I’m pretty stable.”
“Follow me, please.”
Short led Alderman from the lobby into a pale hall that smelled like an ill-kept hospital. Metal tables pop ulated the room, each one butted to a sink. Alderman tried not to think about what swirled down those drains every day. At three of the tables stood an ME, each hard at work on various body parts.
Short moved to the nearest table. The body of a naked male lay before them, unblinking eyes staring at the bright lights overhead. He looked to be in his midforties; the battle with middle-age belly bulge was well under way, and he had been losing. The side of his head was concave, and blood matted his hair.
“This is Mr. Mason. I was getting ready to crack him open before you arrived.”
Alderman studied the dead man then looked at the tools of Short’s trade: scalpels, scissors of various types, and a host of items that looked like they belonged in the garden section of Home Depot.
“I won’t stand in your way then. All I need to know is if he showed any symptoms before dying.”
Short picked up a clipboard. “Ronald Mason, forty-four, six-foot-one, two-hundred-twenty-five pounds, average musculature for a man his age; no signs of recent wounds; described by family and friends as being in decent health; last medical examination was four months ago. His last exam revealed his blood pressure was slightly elevated, but his blood chemistry came back normal.”
“So he hadn’t complained of recent illness?”
“I asked his wife when she came by earlier and she said he seemed fine. I asked about medications and she said he took vitamins and the occasional aspirin. Come to think of it, she didn’t mention any special meds like you suggest.”
“Not unusual. I’m sure if you visit the house, you’ll find a bottle in the medicine cabinet.”
“You know everything we discuss here is off the record. You’ll have to petition for an official report.”
“I understand. I just want to see if I’m on the right track here. I appreciate your cooperation. You may be saving more lives or at the very least helping families get some recompense for their losses.”
“What do you want to know? I can’t let you observe the autopsy.”
“No problem there. I’d just as soon skip that.” He paused. “The news said he might have been driving drunk.”
Short shrugged. “I doubt it. He owned a bar, but his wife said he had been sober for several years. Of course, I drew blood for chemistry and that will tell us if he had been sipping on the sly.”
“But you doubt he was drunk?”
“I’ve cut open a lot of dead drunk drivers. They usually reek of the stuff when they arrive. My best guess is — and it’s an educated guess — that Mr. Mason was sober. His friend, on the other hand, smelled like the inside of a whiskey barrel. I’m pretty sure his blood test will show significant alcohol content.”
Short read from the clipboard again. “Paramedics pronounced both men DOA. The fire department removed the bodies after the cops documented the scene.”
“This is going to come out of the blue, Doctor, but I heard on the news that one of your staff died last night.”
“Early this morning. About five o’clock. We’re not certain because she was working alone.”
“Doing what?”
“She’s one of our techs. Part of her job is prepping bodies for autopsy.”
“She would be the one logging in personal effects?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Was she working on Mason’s body?”
Short didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Alderman saw the answer in the man’s face. “Are you implying there’s a connection?”
“So you still have whatever he had on him at the time of the accident?”
“Yes. After the autopsy we release personal effects to the family unless it’s been tagged as evidence.”
Alderman shifted his weight and thought. He had worked himself into a bind. Short was no dummy. If given more information, the ME would begin to put pieces together. Alderman didn’t want that. On the other hand, he didn’t want others to become ill, maybe die because Quain had somehow contaminated the driver’s possessions.
“I think you had better talk to me.” Short narrowed his eyes. “This has to do with more than medication-induced wrongful death, doesn’t i
t?”
“Not to me. So far there’s been no one death connected to another, just to the medication.”
Short frowned. “And what medication did you say this was?”
“I didn’t and I’m not allowed to disclose it, the manufacturer, or the names of other victims. I’m afraid I need this job.”
“If a contagion is involved — ”
“I know of no contagion. I just find it interesting that Ronald Mason and your tech died the same day. If there is some connection, then it’s news to me. Only your autopsy can make a link if there is one.”
“How am I supposed to check for the presence of a new drug if I don’t know what it is?”
“Well, you got me there. I tell you what. I’ll call my client and see what I can do, but before I do, where does your tech prep the bodies?”
“In here. The bodies come into a receiving room. We tag them and place them in the cooler. Before we do, we remove their clothing and bag it. We inventory all personal items including money, jewelry, and the like. Then the deceased is put in the rotation for examination unless there is some pressing reason to move them to the front of the line.”
Alderman knew he was going to have to be careful. Short was acting like a man with newfound suspicions. “One of the things I have to do is verify the identity of Mason.”
“I can affirm that the man on this table is Ronald Mason.”
“Thank you, but . . . Look, the attorney I work for is a real bear. His firm makes millions of dollars because he sues and sues big, if you know what I mean. That means he has to face off against a whole squad of lawyers bought by the pharmaceutical companies. He likes to have every t crossed and every i dotted.”
“I deal with lawyers all the time. Your man can’t be any more aggressive than some I’ve dealt with.”
Alderman shook his head. “I imagine you handle them very well, Dr. Short, but I’m telling you, my guy asks nicely but only once, then he bulldozes his way through until he gets exactly what he wants. I’ve seen him go after county supervisors, city council members, coroners, police chiefs, anyone. If he had to, he’d drop a case of law books on a little old lady who had the misfortune of walking her dog past the front door of this building.”