Bada-BOOM!

by Wally Duff

  “We need to know what Warren discovered, and then you can write the story about Fertig killing Warren to keep it from coming out,” Linda said.

  “That sounds good in theory, but we have a problem,” I said. “Do you guys remember Detective Janet Corritore?”

  “Tony’s partner,” Molly said. “She’s the one who questioned us after he was shot, right?”

  “Yep,” I said. “Janet and Tony are positive Warren killed himself. According to them, even if we find out what he knew about Fertig, Warren drove himself into the bridge. Fertig didn’t kill him, and there’s no story.”

  We sat in silence again and thought about that.

  “We may never know what made Warren kill himself, but at least we might be able help him leave a legacy,” Linda said.

  “A legacy?” Molly asked. “What’s that mean?”

  “Cas said Peter figured out what Fertig is doing,” Linda said. “What if the committee never finds that out? If we can discover what it is, you can write the story about Fertig being a fraud, and Dr. Peter Warren will have left something positive for people to remember about him.”

  “Do you guys still want to work on this?” I asked.

  “I think we owe it to Cas,” Linda said. “I haven’t started on comparing all those charts you photographed, but I’ll get on it this weekend. Something in those charts might be how Warren figured it out.”

  “And I’ll begin tomorrow too. Molly, you will help me break into Warren’s office?”

  Lawyer Linda put her hands over her ears. “I didn’t hear that.”

  “Why do we need to do that?” Molly asked.

  “On Tuesday afternoon, Peter goes to the doctor,” I said. “Presumably he finds out he has AIDS and, for whatever reason, he decides to kill himself. Sometime either late Monday night or early Tuesday morning, he figures out what Fertig is doing. He hasn’t told the committee. He needs to tell Cas what it is so she can help us write the story and expose Fertig, but he kills himself before he does it.”

  Linda pulled her hands away from her ears. “Do you think he left a clue or message for Cas in his office?”

  “If he didn’t, and you don’t find the answer in the charts, I don’t know if we can unravel this story,” I said.

  “I have a question,” Molly said.

  We waited.

  “What should I wear?”

  47

  On Saturday afternoon, Kerry and I went to Hamlin Park, which is about seven blocks from our home. The area is about eight acres, with enough room for baseball, softball, soccer, lacrosse, and football fields, a swimming pool, tennis courts, gym, fitness center, and a fully equipped playground. It’s where I first met Cas, Molly, and Linda.

  When we arrived, Shanda Baker was already at the playground with her kids. She wore green sweat pants and a stretched-out green top. Her white ASICS running shoes hadn’t been washed since she bought them online. She and her husband, Jeff, live in Roscoe Village with their two children — Nick, age five, and Isabella, three.

  Standing next to Shanda was Alexis Jakkobsen. She pushed Isabella on a swing while Shanda played with Nick on one of the gym sets. With her two kids in college and no husband or significant other, Alexis enjoys hanging out on weekends with us and our young children.

  “Hi, guys,” I said, as I put Kerry on the smaller slide and helped her go down, the first of many rides. My toddler loves the slides.

  “Hey, Teenz,” Alexis said. “Have you recovered enough to hit the ball around with me?”

  She had her sunglasses pushed up on her head, even though it was cloudy, and her long blond hair was in a ponytail and didn’t need to be kept off her face. Her outfit was the opposite of Shanda’s. Alexis wore a clean white Nike tennis warm-up and white Nike tennis shoes.

  “My surgeon said no tennis or golf for a while longer,” I said.

  She poked my shoulder. “Come on. We gotta do this before the Chicago weather kicks our butts.”

  “Okay. After we get Cas through her crisis we can play again, but if it’s golf, you’ll have to give me a stroke a hole.”

  “No way.”

  I pulled up my sweater and pointed at the fresh scars on my abdomen. “’Lex, this should be good for something.”

  “Two a side, but that’s all.”

  “Three a side, and we play the men’s tees.”

  I played golf in college until my journalism major took over my life. I was a lot longer off the tee with my driver than she was, but she had a good enough short game to make our games competitive.

  “Done, but don’t expect any gifts from me on the tennis court,” she countered.

  She played tournament level tennis in high school until she became pregnant and quit, sacrificing a tennis scholarship at UCLA to raise her first child and finish high school. I have to play my best to even stay close with her in singles, but she always wins. We’re an ultra-competitive doubles team because we both hate to lose, especially to men.

  “What’s this crisis stuff with Cas you’re talking about?” Shanda asked.

  “Did you hear about Dr. Peter Warren?” I asked.

  “The rumor is he got sick and suddenly died, but as far as I know, there’s never been anything in the newspaper,” Shanda said.

  “What happened to him?” Alexis asked.

  “He apparently committed suicide,” I said.

  “Suicide?” Shanda asked. “No kidding.”

  “From what I heard about his wife from the nurses, she probably drove him to it,” Alexis said.

  “No, he drove himself into a bridge.”

  “Sounds messy,” Shanda said.

  “More like headless and crispy,” I said.

  48

  “What does this have to do with Cas having a crisis?” Shanda asked.

  Alexis turned to her. “When Dr. Beautiful was a resident, he used to do more in the on-call room than read medical journals.”

  “That was before my time,” Shanda said.

  “It was when I first started,” Alexis said. “Warren was engaged to his now-wife Diane, but everyone knew he and Cas had something going.”

  “I never would have suspected anything like that,” Shanda said.

  “I don’t know what Cas saw in him,” Alexis said. “When I called on him, he sure didn’t do it for me. Too austere. No edge.” She paused. “But with two ex-husbands and a bunch of worthless boyfriends, my choice in men hasn’t been the best. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything.”

  “But was he a good guy?” I asked.

  “Always a perfect gentleman to me,” Alexis said.

  “Unlike most of the doctors we call on,” Shanda said.

  “Doctors can be real assholes,” Alexis added.

  “Huh?” I asked. “My doctors have been nice to me.”

  “Because you’re a patient,” Alexis said. “We have to work with them, and most of them, especially the men, are total jerks.”

  “Yesterday, when I was making a pitch about one of my drugs, the doctor told me I didn’t provide any information of value to him and not to come back,” Shanda said. “Another one called me a ‘managed care whore’ and told me to leave.”

  “But what’s worse is that these men constantly hit on us,” Alexis said. “And that sucks.”

  “Do you mean sexually?” I asked.

  Shanda nodded. “Happens all the time.”

  “Most male doctors are book smart, but they’re also socially inept with women. They view us as targets for their sexual fantasies.” Alexis paused. “They do it with female nurses, too, and at the same time call them stupid.”

  I made a mental note to ask Eddie about this.

  “What about Fertig?” I asked.

  “Among the female reps, he’s known as the fastest zipper in the Midwest,” Alexis said. “The other reps warn us to never be alone with him when we go into his office.”

  “He’s that bad?”

  “I don’t call on him, but the stories about him are scary,” Shan
da said. “He doesn’t like to take no for an answer.”

  “How can he get away with that?” I asked. “Hasn’t a rep turned him in?”

  “And lose her job?” Alexis asked. “He has way too much power to risk reporting him.”

  “Power?” I asked.

  “He has an enormous practice,” Alexis said. “If he writes scripts for one of your drugs, he can make your career.”

  “Why do you guys put up with doctors who act like that?” I asked.

  “Right now I have to, but my husband’s computer software business is picking up, and I’ll be able to quit to stay home with the kids,” Shanda said.

  “You’re the lucky one,” Alexis said. “I don’t have a choice. I have to put up with their crap to survive financially to put my kids through college.”

  “Tina, one more thing,” Shanda said. “What are you and Kerry doing for Halloween?”

  Yikes!

  I totally forgot about it. Now I had another task to do, and it didn’t have anything to do with this story. My plans to rest on Sunday would now be taken up with the “Great Halloween Costume” hunt.

  49

  It was midmorning Monday. Molly and I stood in front of the elevators that went up to Warren’s office. Many patients surrounded us, also waiting for a ride up to see their doctors, so we didn’t have to worry about attracting the attention of security.

  Earlier that morning, Alexis received an email from his staff informing her that his practice was permanently closed. Molly and I were about to take advantage of that and break into his office.

  Linda was at home with her computers. I texted her.

  Me: going up.

  Linda: done.

  She shut down the cameras on the third floor below Warren’s floor and on his floor. We got off on the third floor and walked up the stairs to the fourth. Once we arrived there, we stopped at the front door into Warren’s office.

  “Molly, stand right here,” I said. “Speed dial me if anyone gets off the elevator.”

  “Done.” She assumed a model pose. “I am the master distractor.”

  She wore an outfit to achieve that goal: a low-cut light green sweater with dark green sparkles on the front, a tight, dark green, short skirt, and black pumps with a five-inch heel.

  If we had to run for it, she wouldn’t get three feet before she toppled over, but she looked fabulous and that was what we needed in case there was trouble. I wore the same style of clothes I did when I broke into Fertig’s office.

  After slipping on latex gloves, I inserted my tools into the lock. It took less than twenty seconds and I was in.

  I stopped and surveyed the outer office. The original paintings had been removed from the walls of the reception area. I sniffed. There was a faint aroma of Lemon Pledge but no perfumes or aftershave lotions.

  Warren had talked to me in his private office, and I knew where it was. I went directly to it. The pair of distressed brown leather chairs were gone, as were the Dale Chihuly pink and blue seaform and Steuben crystal coffee table.

  The room had smelled of leather and Warren’s aftershave when I’d been there before. The leather aroma was still present, but the aftershave had been replaced by the odor of cleaning products.

  Also missing were the oil paintings, including the Renoir I had admired. The framed pictures of the doctor and his grim wife with various dignitaries were still present, as were his diplomas from Choate, Harvard, and Yale. His loving wife apparently didn’t see the need to take them down and keep them as a memento of their life together.

  I pulled out the drawers of his mahogany desk. They were empty. The landline phone was still there, but there was no dial tone. The computer that had been on his desk was gone. A single four-drawer filing cabinet sat in the corner behind his desk, but it was empty.

  I looked behind the pictures and diplomas but found nothing.

  The books?

  He could have hidden a message for Cas in one of the leather-bound books. I pulled out a volume from the bookcase on my right and flipped through the pages of a history text on the Civil War but didn’t find anything.

  As I put it back, I noticed a slight film of dust in front of the book next to it. The particles had been swept away in a linear fashion.

  Huh?

  I flashed the beam of light from my cell phone along the edge of the case and saw the same straight tracks in front of each book in the row and all the other rows.

  I took pictures and a video of several of the rows, which seemed to show that someone, probably Fertig or one of his people, had removed and replaced each volume while searching for clues.

  And did they find what I suspected Warren left for Cas, or was it still here?

  50

  I walked the perimeter of the room. I knocked on the oak wood panels and listened for a hollow sound, which might indicate a hidden compartment. I didn’t find one.

  Secret latches? There weren’t any.

  I crawled around on the carpet searching for a secret hideaway in the floor, but I came up empty. After pulling out my cell phone, I made another circuit of the room, this time snapping pictures and shooting another video.

  I’m missing something.

  While sitting down behind Warren’s desk in his black leather chair, I swiveled back and forth. I thought about what Janet had told me Warren did before he killed himself:

  Tuesday afternoon, he has a doctor’s appointment and finds out he has incurable AIDS. His world collapses. He sits in a bar on Rush Street for four hours and drinks expensive scotch. He decides his only option is suicide. He buys gas and loads up his car, preparing to kill himself, but first he goes back to his office.

  Why?

  He wants to prove Fertig is a fraud before he dies. His only hope is to scrutinize the copies of the charts Cas delivered to his office and find the answer.

  And he does.

  But he doesn’t want to die without telling Cas how Fertig did it. He has to assume Fertig or one of his people will take his computer and the contents from his desk and filing cabinet, and he hides a clue for Cas.

  But where the heck is it?

  I pictured Warren leaning back, maybe with his feet on his desk, pondering that same question. I put my feet up on the desk and my hands behind my head.

  Nothing.

  While sitting in his chair, I snapped pictures of the room and made another video, as if from his perspective. I couldn’t think of anything else I could do.

  I heard a low-pitched voice in the waiting room. My heart rate accelerated.

  Uh-oh!

  I stood up and tiptoed to the door. I put my ear against the wood, but it was hard to hear because the bounding pulse in my ears masked the conversation.

  “What are you doing in here?” a gravelly male voice demanded.

  I opened the door a crack and peeked out. The sound came from a security guard. He had his right hand close to a hand gun on his hip.

  Molly sat in front of him.

  We’re so busted!

  51

  The guard was slightly over five feet tall and about that wide. His round shape made him look like a human bowling ball wearing a light gray security uniform complete with a badge and name tag.

  Molly sat in the black leather chair I used when I had been there for my eye exam. Her long legs were crossed, and she bounced her left foot up and down as she flipped through the pages of a magazine.

  “Ma’am, I want to know what you’re doing in here,” the guard said.

  “I’m here to see Dr. Warren,” Molly said.

  “His office is permanently closed.”

  “Really? I had him down for our usual Sunday appointment.”

  “Lady, it’s Monday.”

  “Whoops. My bad.”

  “And what appointment are you talking about?”

  She towered over the guard when she stood up. The guard put his hand firmly on the gun. She thrust her chest out at him.

  “Do you get it now, sweetie? Dr. Wa
rren is one of my regular clients.” She reached in her purse. “Here’s his card with his cell phone number on the back. Read what it says about him needing to talk to me. Believe me, he wanted to do more than talk.”