“I’m sure the ME will send me her report. Maybe I’ll even read it.” Then Dr. Garza turned away and walked to a black Mercedes parked at the curb.
He opened the car door and stooped to get in, but then he stopped. He looked back at Yuki. “Hey, why don’t you sue me, bitch? What an original idea. Join the crowd.”
Chapter 53
IT WAS 6:15 ON WEDNESDAY NIGHT, and Claire and I were in our favorite booth at Susie’s. The calypso band was tuning up with the Jimmy Buffett national anthem, and we’d ordered a pitcher of draft while we waited for Yuki and Cindy to show.
Claire and I clinked glasses, then continued unloading the small complaints that are like fleas on a dog—not life-threatening, but annoying as hell.
“You know Bob Watson?” Claire said.
“Your assistant, Bob?”
“Yes. My dear, strong, willing, smart, workaholic assistant, Bob. He’s moving to Boston, and now I have to promote the mayor’s twenty-two-year-old niece.”
“What? She’s a courtesy hire?”
“Shoved right down my larynx. Child’s called Bunny.” Claire moaned. “Bunny can hardly lift her coffee cup, let alone a two-hundred-fifty-pound body.
“Keeps changing the CDs from Shostakovich to hip-hop. ‘Dr. Washburn, we need the right music.’ Sure thing, Bunny. No rush. Mr. Doe here is resting comfortably.”
I laughed, snorting beer up my schnoz just about the time Cindy blew in and plopped into our booth.
“Greetings, girlfriends.”
“Back at you, girl reporter,” said Claire. “Where’s Yuki?”
“I just left her in front of the courthouse. She sends her regrets.”
“She’s still really hurting?”
“Terribly,” Cindy said. “But she’s focused on the trial. She’s even more obsessed than I am.”
Loretta dropped off the menus and a basket of plantain chips as Cindy told us about her past few days in court.
“Dr. Dennis Garza’s name came up again today. A ten-year-old girl lost her mother because of an overdose of her prescribed medication. Garza checked her in through the ER. Jamison Funeral Home checked her out.
“You listen to the stories in court, and you really want to nail someone for this shit,” Cindy continued, blowing the wrapper off a drinking straw. “Don’t ever go to a hospital if you can help it. More people die of accidents in the hospital than die from breast cancer, AIDS, or in car accidents.”
“Come on!”
“Lindsay, medical errors are among the top ten causes of death in America. And I’ve done some research on Garza. Statistically, he’s holding up his end.”
“Do tell,” said Claire.
“Every place Garza worked,” Cindy said. “Cleveland, Raleigh, Albany, and here. The body count climbs when he shows up at a new hospital.”
“What you’re talking about, it’s a national scandal,” Claire said, setting her glass down hard on the table. “Dirty medical practitioners moving around the country, and the hospitals don’t turn them in ’cause they don’t want to get sued.”
Cindy nodded her agreement. “It’s how so-called angels of death rack up dozens and sometimes hundreds of victims before they’re caught—if they ever are.”
“It’s no wonder Yuki’s obsessed with Garza,” I said. “She’s sure he’s responsible for killing her mother.”
“I can tell you this for a fact,” said Cindy. “Someone at that hospital is responsible for what happened to Keiko. She should be at home right now. Drinking tea. Telling Yuki what to wear and how to get married.”
Chapter 54
SAN FRANCISCO’S MORNING rush-hour snarl had eaten up fifteen precious minutes of drive time, and now Cindy was late. She pushed open the courtroom door, waved at Yuki, who was sitting behind the rail, then bumped everyone in the press row down a seat as she squeezed in.
A sidebar was in progress, a fairly heated one, Cindy thought. O’Mara and Kramer were arguing in lowered voices at the base of the judge’s bench.
Judge Bevins had listened long enough. “I don’t see the problem, Mr. Kramer.” Bevins flicked his ponytail, adjusted his bifocals. “Both of you, step back. Let’s get going.”
Kramer spun away from the bench, and Maureen O’Mara took the lectern. She tossed her mane of titian hair. A sign of victory? Then she called a witness to the stand.
There was a buzz in the courtroom as a striking fortyish woman with short platinum-blond hair was sworn in. Her slim European designer suit in shades of olive green combined with her crisp, white man-tailored shirt spoke of uncommon style and confidence.
“What’s going on?” Cindy whispered to the reporter beside her. This dude was like Clark Kent in the flesh—early thirties, dark-haired, bespectacled, remarkably cute in a nebbishy sort of way.
“Hello. I’m Whit Ewing. Chicago Tribune,” he said.
“Sorry. I’m Cindy Thomas.”
“Of the Chronicle?”
“That’s me.”
“I’ve been reading your reports. Not too bad.”
“Thanks, Whit. So, what’s the beef?”
“O’Mara is calling a defense witness as part of her case-in-chief. It’s a pretty clever tactic. Kramer can’t cross-examine his own witness —”
“So she gets over on him until he puts the witness on himself.”
“Very good.”
“Thanks, bud. I owe you one.”
“I just may hold you to that,” he said, grinning.
The sharp crack of Judge Bevins’s gavel brought the court to order.
“Please state your name,” said O’Mara.
“Dr. Sonja Engstrom.”
“Dr. Engstrom, what is your position at Municipal?”
“I’m director of pharmacy.”
“Here we go,” Whit Ewing said to Cindy. “The windup for the pitch.”
Chapter 55
SONJA ENGSTROM LISTED her credentials succinctly, said that she’d been at Municipal for seven years and was responsible for the systems and people who dispense medication. She seemed suitably impressed with herself, too.
O’Mara asked, “Could you tell the jury about those systems that you’ve put in place, Doctor?”
“Sure. We have an automated computer system linked to a dispensing mechanism.”
“What can you say about the accuracy of this system?”
“I’d say it’s ninety-nine point nine percent bulletproof.”
“Could you please explain?”
Cindy got it all down on her laptop. A physician would take a patient’s lab results and enter the diagnosis into the computer. The computer program would offer a menu of appropriate drugs, and the doctor would pick one. Then a nurse would pull up the patient’s name on the computer and enter her code.
“It’s a password, right? Everyone has their own code?” O’Mara asked.
“Exactly.”
“Please go on.”
“At the same moment the nurse enters her code, one of our pharmacists reviews and enters the order for that patient. This releases the brake on the machine that dispenses the drugs.”
“So it’s a kind of digital vending machine.”
“Correct,” said the witness, seemingly pleased with herself and with O’Mara for getting it right. “The nurse takes the patient’s drug out of a pocket in the machine and administers it to the patient.”
“A ‘bulletproof’ system?”
“Very close. The program can’t be altered, and the security codes leave an auditory trail.”
“I see,” said O’Mara. She walked back to her table, consulted her notes, turned back to the witness.
“Could a technician load the wrong drugs into the machine’s ‘pockets’?”
“I suppose it’s possible. . . .”
“Please answer yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“Could someone withhold a drug after removing it from the machine? Divert it, say, for personal use.”
“Yes.”
; “If a physician makes a wrong diagnosis, wouldn’t the wrong medication be dispensed to the patient?”
The witness was blinking her eyes rapidly. Flustered maybe, Cindy thought, but more than that, she looked pained. So much for 99.9 percent reliability.
“Yes, but —”
“Thank you,” O’Mara cut in. “Now, isn’t it true that the number of pharmaceutical-based fatalities has increased threefold since Municipal was privatized three years ago?”
“Don’t you think this worries me? I’ve turned over every stone,” Engstrom said, her voice rising, wavering for the first time since she’d taken the stand.
“Come on, Dr. Engstrom. Just answer the question. You’re head of this department. You’re on the hospital board. Have the number of pharmaceutical-based fatalities more than tripled in the last three years?”
“Yes, but . . . Well, yes.”
“Do you dispute that my clients’ loved ones died because they received the wrong medication?”
“No, I can’t dispute that,” Engstrom said in a barely audible voice.
“So whether these fatalities are the fault of your bulletproof vending machine or human error is irrelevant, right? I mean, either way,” O’Mara pushed on, “isn’t it true that these deaths are the result of negligence on your part and the part of the hospital?”
“Objection! Argumentative.” Kramer was up on his feet.
Cindy felt the little hairs on her arms lift. Beside her, Whit Ewing whistled softly.
“Sustained,” Bevins said.
“Withdrawn,” said Maureen O’Mara. Her eyes went to the jury and stayed there. “Your Honor, the plaintiffs rest.”
Chapter 56
I’D BEEN TOLD that it was a beautiful fall day, but I sure couldn’t swear to it. I was having ham and Swiss on a roll in my office, with its dark-alley view, when Inspector Conklin knocked on the door.
“Come on in,” I told him.
Conklin was in his shirtsleeves, his brown eyes lit up with something. Whatever it was, I really wanted to know.
“Lou, we’ve got someone in the lunchroom you should meet. Like, right now if you can.”
“What’s going on?”
Conklin started out of my office, saying, “C’mon, Lieutenant,” taking long strides away from me and down the hall.
“Conklin?”
I tossed down the report I’d been editing and followed him to the small, cluttered room that was home to our microwave and yellowing Kenmore fridge.
Jacobi was sitting at the battered table across from a pretty young woman in her early twenties wearing a blue Polarfleece shirt and stretch pants. Her long dark hair was in a braid down her back. She looked up at me with reddened, mascara-smudged eyes.
Clearly, she’d been crying.
Jacobi had his “Uncle Warren” face on. It was short of a smile, but I could read happiness in his eyes.
“Lieutenant,” Jacobi said, “this is Barbara Jane Ross. She was throwing out newspapers when she found this.”
He pushed the newsprint picture of Jag Girl into the center of the table, the pretty blond girl we’d found displayed like a mannequin in the Jaguar convertible on Chestnut Street.
Innumerable dead-end tips had flooded our phone lines since Jag Girl’s picture had run in the Chronicle. From the look on Jacobi’s face, I knew this young woman had something valuable to say.
Barbara Jane Ross and I shook hands. Hers were cold as ice. “May I see that?” I asked of the photo she clutched in her left hand.
“Sure,” she said, handing me a snapshot of herself and Jag Girl on the beach. Both girls were wearing wide-brimmed hats and small bikinis; they had identical braids, and both were grinning broadly.
“She was my college roommate,” said Barbara Jane, her eyes scrunching up with tears. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe that Sandy is dead.”
Chapter 57
I HANDED BARBARA JANE a box of tissues, stared over her head, first at Jacobi then at Conklin, as she blew her nose. Holy shit. We’d finally gotten a break on Jag Girl.
“Barbara, what’s your friend’s last name?”
“It’s Wegner. But Sandy goes by other names. I don’t know them all.”
“She’s an actress?”
“No, an escort.”
I was stunned. Sandy Wegner had been a party girl. So how had she kept her prints out of the system?
“Are you an escort, too?” Conklin asked.
“No way. I teach. Special ed, right here in the city.”
Jacobi loaded up the Mr. Coffee as Barbara Jane Ross told us how she and Sandy had been roommates at the University of California, Santa Barbara.
“When we were in school, Sandy needed some extra cash, so she went on a few ‘dates’ for an escort service. A lot of girls do it,” Barbara said. “You never, ever have enough money in school.
“She didn’t do it often, but when she did, she thought it was exciting and fun,” Barbara continued. “Sandy loved having a secret life. She wasn’t the only coed doing it, either.”
“Did she ever mention that one of her dates was giving her a hard time?” I asked. “Maybe someone got possessive? Or violent?”
“Nothing like that,” Barbara said. “She would have told me. We talked about everything, even her work.”
“Did Sandy have a boyfriend? Maybe someone who could have found out that she was doing this kind of thing on the side?”
“There was no one special in her life or she would have quit her night job,” Barbara told us. “She wasn’t a slut. I know how that sounds, but honest to God, she wasn’t—oh, God! Her parents don’t know. They live in Portland.”
“Do you know their names? Maybe you have their phone number?”
Barbara Jane dug into her Coach bag; she pulled out her PDA.
“Listen,” she said, “I just remembered who she worked for. The escort service. I think it was called Top Hat.”
“Thanks. You’ve been a big help. Hang around, won’t you, Barbara Jane? Inspector Conklin has some more questions for you.”
As I walked out of the door, Conklin took my chair. I saw Barbara Jane Ross look into his face and smile.
Chapter 58
THE THREE-STORY beige-stucco apartment building was on California Street at the edge of the Financial District.
I badged the doorman, and he called up on the intercom.
“SFPD is here to see you, Ms. Selzer.”
A female voice crackled over the speaker. “I’m not home. I didn’t see anything, don’t know anyone. I’m a shut-in. And I mind my own business.”
“A comedienne,” Jacobi said to the doorman. “We’re going up.”
A tiny, small-boned woman was standing at her apartment door when we got there. She was definitely under five feet, glossy hair pinned up with a tortoiseshell comb, pale lipstick, wearing a black silk V-neck sweater and satin pants.
I put her at thirty-five, but the crow’s-feet told me she was either older than she appeared or she’d had a rough-and-tumble life. Probably both.
“Officers, I run an introduction service. My license is totally in order,” she said by way of a greeting.
“You mind inviting us in?” Jacobi said, flashing his shield. “There’s a nasty draft out here in the hallway.”
The small woman sighed her exasperation, but she stepped back and let us in. A mirrored foyer led to a living room painted and upholstered in every shade of gray. Helmut Newton’s black-and-white photos lined the walls.
We followed her to a red swivel chair and a black enameled worktable up against the front window.
“I’m Lieutenant Boxer. This is Inspector Jacobi. Homicide.”
I snapped the pictures of Sandy Wegner and Caddy Girl down on the table. Two pallid faces. Sheets drawn up to the ligature marks around their necks.
“Do you recognize these women?”
Selzer sucked in her breath, then put her finger on Wegner’s image.
“This is San
dra Wegner. Calls herself Tanya. I don’t know the other girl. You’re saying she’s dead?”
“What can you tell us about Sandy?”
“I only met her once. Talked to her on the phone after that. Great sense of humor, really nice body. I could’ve kept her busy every night, but she was strictly part-time. Look, you’re not thinking I had anything to do with this?” she said, directing her question to me.
“Was Sandy working on the night of September fifteenth?” I asked.
Selzer dropped into the swivel chair and worked the computer keys, resting her chin in her cupped hands as squiggles of data scrolled up.
“Her date that night was a Mr. Alex Logan. I remember now. He called from the Hotel Triton. Said he was in town for the evening and wanted a petite blonde to go with him to a show. Henry the Fifth. I don’t know why I remembered that.”
“Is Logan a regular?”
“Nuh-uh. A first-timer.”
“You sent this girl out on a date with someone you didn’t know?” Jacobi’s voice was hard, the way it should have been. Selzer instantly shrunk away from him.
“I ran his credit card. No problem. Checked his name and address on AnyWho.com. Called the hotel and he was registered. It was all kosher.”
“Have you heard from him since?” I asked.
“Nope. Nothing. But you don’t usually get feedback from out-of-towners.”
“How much did Mr. Logan pay for his date with Sandy?” I asked.
“Her usual. A thousand for the night. I took my cut, made a direct deposit into Sandy’s account. Any tips, she got to keep.”
“Was anyone hassling her? Stalking her? Did she mention having any trouble from anyone?” Jacobi asked. “Give us some help here.”
“No, and Sandy wasn’t shy. She would’ve told me. What?” she said defensively. “I called her the next day, and when I didn’t hear back, I figured she quit. Ticked me off, believe me. I had to cancel her bookings. Look, I’m not a den mother for Christ’s sake! She was a free agent.”
Women's Murder Club [05] The 5th Horseman Page 10