White Collar Girl

by Renée Rosen

  I walked away that morning with nothing and returned to the paper with more questions than answers. While Mrs. Angelo and Mr. Pearson were in a meeting, I went to the morgue and pulled anything I could find on robberies, shoot-outs, anything in the District 35 neighborhoods that mentioned those police officers. And when I was done with that, I called Dr. Zucker’s office.

  “I’m afraid Dr. Zucker’s in with a patient at the moment.” When I said I was with the Tribune, his nurse sighed into the telephone and covered the receiver, muttering to someone in the background. “I’ll have him call you back when he’s free.”

  I gave her my number, and rather than waiting on a call that I knew probably wouldn’t be returned, I focused on the files I’d pulled from the morgue. They were filled with articles about vehicle thefts, aggravated assaults, armed robberies and larceny, but there were no reported injuries involving any of the officers on Ahern’s list. There was, however, one document that was particularly helpful: the Chicago Municipal Code

  According to sections 3-8-190 and 3-8-200 of the document, the city council finance committee, chaired by Sean McCarty, was in charge of appropriating moneys for treatment, rehabilitation, even the hospitalization of officers injured while on duty. Furthermore, it was up to Sean McCarty to provide a report on the costs of this care and the specifics of each officer’s condition. I realized that was the document that Ahern had shown me. The municipal code also stated that before any moneys could be released, the Chicago Police Department’s chief physician, Dr. Edgar MacAleese, had to verify McCarty’s reports and confirm that the medical treatments and costs were appropriate given their doctors’ diagnoses.

  It was complicated. There were a lot of parties involved, but at least I now understood who the main players were and how the city handled reimbursements for medical treatment when they were footing the bill.

  I was blurry-eyed from reading through everything. I needed a break, but I also had to finish up a piece I was doing for White Collar Girl on Gloria Harper, the secretary to the president of Morton Salt. I had eight column inches devoted to Miss Harper answering Sterling Morton Jr.’s phone, making his lunch and dinner reservations, reminding him of important anniversaries and birthdays. I’d met her only once, during our interview, but I felt sorry for her.

  Mrs. Angelo was still in her meeting when I finished my story, so I went back to the police reports and the city council municipal code. I stared at the pages, hoping something new would leap out at me. It didn’t.

  That night I hardly slept. It was like I had a bee buzzing inside my brain. It circled over and over again, coming back to the same spot. Something wasn’t right. Ahern knew it and he was making a believer out of me, too. But first I had to figure out what it was and then I’d have to prove it.

  Chapter 7

  • • •

  The next morning I telephoned Zucker’s office again, and when the doctor still wouldn’t take my call, I went down to his office in the Pittsfield Building at 55 E. Washington Street.

  The thirty-eight-story building was ornate, a combination of gothic and art deco with a gold-coffered ceiling and giant spangling chandeliers. It looked more like a dance hall than an office building. I was in a daze as I checked the building directory, anticipating what I was going to say to Dr. Zucker. I knew better now than to tell him I was from the Tribune. That approach had gotten me nowhere. I was running all this through my head when one of the cleaning women in a blue uniform started mopping the floor near me, swishing the thick gray strings over the marble. “You mind stepping aside?” She shook her head as I moved toward the elevators, clearly annoyed with me as she went back to her mopping.

  I rode up to the seventeenth floor and entered a modest-looking office with a few plants here and there and various diplomas on the wall. A plastic runner stretched from the doorway to the waiting room comprised of three upholstered chairs. Dr. Zucker’s receptionist was an older woman, in her mid-forties, early fifties. She had brown teased-up hair and a big, toothy smile. The nameplate on her desk read MRS. CARSON. She was the woman I’d talked to over the phone the day before. She greeted me, and I felt a twinge of unease when I introduced myself as Gloria—the first name that popped into my head. I was no saint. I’d told my share of little white lies and not so little lies, but this was the first time I could recall ever looking into someone’s eyes and blatantly deceiving them.

  “And how can I help you, Gloria?” Her smile seemed so genuine. It made this moment all the more difficult for me.

  “I have an appointment with the doctor,” I said.

  “Well, let’s see now . . .” Mrs. Carson consulted the scheduling book, her lacquered nail tracing the columns. “Gloria, what’s your last name?”

  “Smith.” Again I went with the first name that popped into my head.

  “Well, let’s see now.” Mrs. Carson furrowed her brow. “I’m not seeing you in the book here. Are you sure your appointment is for today? With Dr. Zucker?”

  The telephone rang, and I waited while she took the call, looking all around the office, thinking how I was going to play this.

  “Yes . . . Uh-huh . . .” Mrs. Carson jotted something down on a pad of paper. “Let me just check our files for you. Would you mind if I put you on hold?” She pushed a button on the phone and turned back to me. “I’m sorry, Miss Smith. This will just be another minute.”

  “Take your time. I’ll wait.”

  While thinking of a way to get some information out of her, I watched Mrs. Carson turn to the wooden file cabinet behind her desk. Five drawers, the top one packed with manila folders, presumably filled with patient information. It struck me that everything I needed was probably inside that cabinet. It was right there, just three feet away, but I had no idea how I was going to get to it.

  After she finished her call, she examined the scheduling book again and clucked her tongue. “Now, you’re sure your appointment was for today? With Dr. Zucker? When did you set it up?”

  “Oh, dear, maybe it’s not with Dr. Zucker. . . .” I went into a scatterbrained act, looking frantically inside my handbag before I launched into a string of apologies. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I could have been so confused. . . .”

  I thanked Mrs. Carson for her time and went back to the city room, where I began working on my assignment for that day, a story about a kitten rescue. The only reason I’d gotten that story was because one of the Neighborhood News reporters was out sick and they needed someone to cover it. I should have been more grateful that they’d given it to me at all—even if out of desperation on their part—but I was too preoccupied with the insurance fraud. After I turned in the rescued-kitten story to the copy desk, I went down to City Hall to see the finance committee chair and the chairman of the city council. Sean McCarty was conveniently unavailable, but Frank O’Connor was willing to meet with me.

  In addition to being the council chairman, Frank O’Connor was the 42nd Ward alderman, overseeing the Gold Coast, the Loop, Streeterville and River North. The first thing he did was ask why he was talking to me and not Walter. Just as I’d explained to Commander Graves yesterday, I told him I was covering this story. Not Walter.

  He smiled, offered me coffee, tea, a glass of water, a dish of pralines. I thanked him and got to the point. “At a recent city council meeting you had an agenda item about medical reimbursement for policemen injured in the line of duty.”

  “That’s routine procedure. The sort of thing that goes through the council for approval.”

  “And were all the medical expenses approved?”

  “I assume they were.” He pressed the pads of his fingertips together before bouncing them off one another. “I couldn’t say for certain. That sort of thing gets approved by the finance committee, so I’d have to go back and check.”

  “And would it be Sean McCarty who approves payment?”

  “Yes. That would fall under the finance chair’s discretion. Of course, that’s after he’s reviewed each case.�
��

  “And would that be after Dr. Edgar MacAleese reviews the report from the physician who treated the injured officer?”

  “Well, I see you’ve already been looking into this.” He smiled and made a notation on his calendar that I sensed had nothing to do with our conversation.

  “Were you aware that the majority of injuries filed came from District 35?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss—Miss . . .”

  “Walsh. Jordan Walsh.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Walsh, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this short.”

  “I just have a few more questions.”

  “Oh, and I do wish I could stay and answer them.” He smiled again, even wider, with the teeth of a Doberman. “I have an appointment that I’m running late for, but I’d be happy to speak with you again. You just call my secretary. And tell Walter he owes me a drink.” He laughed as he held his office door open.

  Moments later I found myself standing outside on the sidewalk wondering what just happened to me. I’d never been more abruptly or politely dismissed in all my life. I glanced at my watch. I still had some time before I needed to get back to the paper, so from there I went down to police headquarters at 11th and State. The building had thirteen floors, an unlucky number. Danny Finn worked on the sixth floor.

  “Well, well, well,” he said when he looked up from his desk. “To what do I owe this nice surprise?”

  Ever since we’d met at the D’Arco wedding, I’d been keeping in touch with him. Every few weeks or so I’d drop by and grab a drink with him, see if he had some scoop for me. So far he hadn’t offered me anything other than invitations for dinner.

  That afternoon we went down the street to a bar on Plymouth Court. Danny smoothed his hands down the front of his uniform and placed his hat on the edge of the table. I reached for it and put it on my head.

  “How do I look? Think I could cut it as a police officer?”

  He smiled. “You’d definitely be the best-looking one on the force.”

  I smiled back and removed his hat, setting it back on the edge of the table. I took a sip from my drink and I told him what I was up to.

  “And here I thought you came to see me because you missed me.”

  “Oh, but it goes without saying that I missed you,” I said teasingly. “But c’mon, tell me if you know anything about this.”

  “Wish I could help you.” He picked at his beer label. “One of these days I’m bound to have something for you. Something big.” He winked and took a pull from his beer.

  Over the next few days I met with one of McCarty’s aides and with Dr. MacAleese. The aide was polite but guarded and shed no new light on the documents produced by the finance committee, and all Dr. MacAleese did was confirm that McCarty’s reports were accurate.

  I tried to focus on my regular assignments from Mrs. Angelo, but each time I took a break, my mind went back to the insurance fraud, going over and over the facts. It was like a tangled chain I was trying to work through.

  One morning at breakfast I asked my father for advice. “What did you used to do when you were investigating something and you hit a dead end?” I immediately regretted my choice of words, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  Without looking up from his newspaper, he said, “Depends on the story.” He reached for a slice of toast, his eyes still on his paper.

  “I’m looking into a possible fraud case.”

  “Uh-huh.” For the first time he set the paper aside.

  I sat up straighter, wide open and eager to receive his wisdom.

  “CeeCee,” he said, “where’s the jam? There’s no jam on the table.” He reached for his paper again and began reading. “Another burglary on the North Side . . .”

  I couldn’t hide my disappointment. Yes, I had sincerely wanted his help. But I had also hoped he’d be interested in what I was working on. Once again I was on my own to figure this out.

  My gut told me I needed to back up and try a different angle. So when I arrived at the city room, I reviewed the list of names I’d copied down from Ahern and took a chance. Starting with the first name, I went through the telephone book and called the officers’ homes. Aside from a housekeeper who didn’t speak English, a party line and a couple busy signals, all I got were brush-offs, a few hang-ups. It was clear to me that no one was interested in talking to a reporter. Going legit wasn’t working, so I called upon the help of my new alias, Gloria Smith. It was awkward and I fumbled on the first few calls, so aware that my coworkers, who probably weren’t paying any attention, could hear my every word.

  Eventually I got an Officer Geck on the line.

  “This is Gloria Smith from Illinois Mutual Insurance?” I paused, holding my breath.

  “Yes.”

  “I just wanted to review your claim from your recent visit to Dr. Zucker.”

  “Dr. Zucker?” He paused for such a long time I almost thought he’d hung up. “I don’t know any Dr. Zucker.”

  A ping of light shot through my head and I nearly gasped. “Is this Officer Ralph Geck?”

  “Yes, that’s me. Who did you say you’re with?”

  Shit! Who was I with? I consulted my notepad. “Illinois Mutual Insurance.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t know any Dr. Zucker.”

  I’d been nervously doodling on my notepad, and now I wrote out Geck doesn’t know Zucker. I underlined it three times and put a question mark. He could have been lying. “So you didn’t have an appointment with Dr. Zucker last October?”

  “Not me. You must have the wrong person.”

  I kept my hand on the receiver after we’d hung up. My fingers were shaking. My entire body was pulsating. I was sure that everyone could see it. It was like I had an electrical current running through my veins. Now I knew beyond a doubt that I was really onto something.

  I made a few more calls posing as Gloria from Illinois Mutual Insurance, expecting to find another Officer Geck. But I was back to hang-ups, wrong numbers and brick walls. I dialed the next number, and just as I was about to hang up, a woman answered.

  “Messner residence.”

  “Is this Mrs. Messner?”

  “Yes. Who’s calling?”

  “Gloria. Gloria Smith.” I was amazed at how much easier it was to say that now. “May I speak with Officer Messner?”

  “He’s not home right now. . . .” There were children screeching in the background, and she seemed distracted.

  “I’m calling from Illinois Mutual Insurance and—”

  “The insurance company?” She hushed the children and cleared her throat. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  I gave her the same preamble I’d used with everyone else Gloria had spoken to and followed it up with, “I understand your husband, Officer Messner, is a patient of Dr. Zucker’s.”

  “Well, he was. But he hasn’t seen Dr. Zucker in at least a good year or so.”

  “And was that for his ruptured disc?”

  “Ruptured disc? No, no. He had an upper respiratory infection. You remember when that bad flu was going around? He was in bed for more than a week. . . .”

  I’d been doodling on my notepad again and pressed so hard, the lead tip on my pencil broke off. A rush of heat shot through my body. “Was your husband ever injured in the line of duty?” I asked.

  “Thank heavens, no. But don’t think I don’t say a prayer each time he walks out that door.”

  The air was trapped in my chest. “Mrs. Messner, has your husband ever been treated for a ruptured disc?” I cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder, reaching for another pencil and writing so fast I nearly tore the paper in half.

  “No, like I said, it was just that upper respiratory infection. Turned out to be bronchitis.”

  “And was Dr. Zucker his regular physician?”

  “No, no. Dr. Louie is our family doctor. But my husband didn’t want him to come to the house and I couldn’t get him to go see Dr. Louie. My husband hates going to the doctor, but he w
as so sick—like I said, he was in bed for more than a week—they finally made him go. They were the ones who sent him to Dr. Zucker.”

  They? Who’s they? Another flash of heat coursed through my body. “Do you remember who referred your husband to Dr. Zucker?”

  “I believe it was his boss down at the station.”

  “Commander . . .”

  “That’s it. Yes, it was Commander Graves.”

  I continued to shake long after I hung up the phone. I felt like I’d guzzled a gallon of coffee. Everything inside me was alert, wide-awake, buzzing. I looked over my notes again and knew I couldn’t work the rest of this from my desk. I had to get closer, as close as I could to the heart of this story.

  • • •

  The next morning, armed with a list of names and addresses, I went one by one to the officers’ homes and rang their doorbells and spoke to anyone who would talk to me. And by me, I mean Jordan Walsh. I was coming face-to-face with police officers who were used to doing the interrogating, and posing as a secretary from an insurance company wasn’t going to cut it. Neither was the truth. Or at least not the whole truth. It was something I’d have to play with, and it made me nervous as hell.

  When I arrived at Officer Pratt’s home in Rogers Park, I found him lying on the ground in his driveway, his legs sticking out from under the body of his Buick. His wife stood on the front porch, calling to him. “Will? Willie, someone’s here for you.”

  Officer Will Pratt scooted out from under his car on a creeper. I introduced myself while he stood up and pulled a rag from his back pocket, wiping motor oil from his fingers.

  “So what does a woman from the Tribune want with me?”

  “Well, first off, I’m a reporter,” I said. “And I’m doing a piece on police officers injured in the line of duty. I understand you were injured while on the job.”

  “Yeah, so . . .” He looked back at his wife, who was now standing on the bottom porch step.